Eyebar, Washington, DC
Over the Christmas holidays, I headed to DC to see the folks. Boredom got the best of me and I headed to the club with some of my NYC friends that are also from the uh-re-ah. Christmas night I made my way to Eyebar for what promised to be a fabulous event. I walked in—skipped the line because my girl went to HU with the promoter—and headed upstairs to the party.
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I see white people. Usually this wouldn’t be so significant. I live in New York City. They’re not the majority here, but they exist in significant numbers — 47 percent, in fact. These white people that I’m seeing now have caught my attention because of where I see them and how many of them I see doing the unexpected, like getting off the A-train in Brooklyn at Nostrand Ave, cycling at midnight on Franklin, or carelessly walking down Albany and fumbling with their iPhones as they walk in the direction of the projects.
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For some time, I’ve had a policy of not commenting on the posts I write. As a writer, I choose my words carefully, so that each conveys what I intend. Readers may take my meaning from it, or they may not. Each person brings their perspective to the screen and that naturally effects how they receive the message. I learned many years ago that you can never really tell how a piece will go over with an audience. That said, I’m not at all that surprised that most of the comments on “Not African Enough in Africa” were, well… such a clusterf**k.
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