I was searching for pictures of the my father's library reminiscing about the books that made the black intellectual part of me what it was, and shaped it growing up. A thoughtful reader who doesn't post here at Cobb but on Facebook sent me back thinking about Wright, Goins, Baraka and that cast of outcast writers I grew up on and then got fed up with en masse.
This photo of me is four years old. For some reason I am drawn to certain pictures of myself that portend the blackity black ghetto philosopher, or the black redneck. It was about that time I started wearing wife beaters and a crucifix and yet at the same time, as looking back to my writings here would show, I was deeply committed to more Republicanish themes. The contrast and synergy is interesting. It just so happens that I just finished three pieces of Golden Bird chicken and theres a Heineken out of frame in my right hand. This is about the most alert I looked that entire evening. My brothers and I were talking about the issues of the day.
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