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Showing posts from January, 2015

The Highest Form of Flattery

My love of The Cure cost me. As a black kid in a predominately white school, I was expected to maintain certain standards. These blackrequistes were an intricate set of rules covering everything from speech (including—but not limited to—the selective and artful dropping of various forms of the verb to be), to reading habits (Dragon Magazine was to be enjoyed at home—not on the school-bus), to dating (okay to do so outside your race, just not too consistently or enthusiastically).
The blackrequiestes were the bane of my Junior High existence. I was—as my peers were wont to remind me in pained, drawn out tones—just wrong. The only sport I was interested in was skateboarding. My pride when Storm became leader of the X-Men was akin to what I felt many years later during Barrack Obama’s first inauguration. Worst of all, Siouxie & the Banshees, De La Soul and Love & Rockets were keeping The Cure company in my tape case. I was excused on the dating bit though. I inspired a type of int…