![]() ![]() The clever name drew me in, but I was arrested by the intended lesson plan for the year. It was called How to Lose Your Mother, taking its inspiration from a similarly named book by Saidiya Hartman. ![]() I was young, confused, and angry, remember? My delusions were my own.īut somehow, accidentally, I found myself in one of those dreaded Africana classes. Why rehash an ancestral history that lived deep within my bones? Why suffer through another shameful lesson on black suffering in front of my peers? Why be reminded of a distant traumatizing past, when I was trying to steer myself into a brighter future? I was committed to a blank state of being, where merit and intelligence ruled over this country’s whole messy racial business. By the time I found it, I had spent two years stubbornly avoiding the accursed Africana trap I had imagined in my head. Of course, on my predominantly white, liberal-ass college campus, at the dawn of Obama’s second presidency, this class was not an outlier by any means. ![]() During a particularly tumultuous phase of my early undergraduate career, marred by angry confusion at the unfamiliar metamorphosis of my identities, I stumbled upon a class about slavery. ![]()
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