BlackListed! Magazine

I reserved much of my feelings on last week’s catastrophe largely out of respect for those that continue to perish and grieve. The arbiter of morality, Pat Robertson, aptly exhibited the stupidity that comes with politicizing tragedy – I needed not join the asshole. My few Haitian friends, frat brothers and romantic indiscretions know my heart aches as if it was my own family lying beneath the rubble. My deepest apologies for the lack of facebook status changes.

I used to be in love with Amy Smith. I mean, she was perfect. Perfect eyes. Perfect smile. Perfect laugh. In retrospect – everything was perfect. Our relationship didn’t last (3rd grade affairs typically don’t), but I’ll never forget her. She was the last White girl I ever dated and subsequently, ever found perfect.

Everybody loves Raymond, sure. But far more love Jesus. Especially among black folk, who, in spite of a somewhat sordid history with Christianity, remain among the most fervent of supporters. It’s a uniquely strong relationship, indeed, and for those that dare to venture beyond its holy boundaries, the repercussions can prove devastating.