This is a story about being Black in a society that actively loathes that fact. About growing up in Brooklyn. The Old Brooklyn. Biggie shit. Notorious. Where cocaine flowed and niggas get clipped. The concrete jungle and all that other shit. The city I was born and raised in. Then the move down South. That shit tripped me out. An adjustment is an understatement. Never heard crickets in my goddamn life. Never seen all this open fucking space. All of these fucking trees. Really pretty but, what the fuck are these.
Welcome to Bat Country, Countess. Oh wait, it gets better. See that big granite mountain in the middle of the neighborhood? There are a few guys who are carved into the side. Their names are not relevant, we do not celebrate losers. They do around these parts. Like, everywhere around these parts. The flag waves proud, the street names reminisce about a simpler time from where them folks are concerned. Life with no labor costs, must be nice. What a farce. Imagine celebrating something that you did not even win a fucking century after the defeat occurred. This is a dissonance I cannot understand.