John W. Fountain
Free at last to forgive the man who had deserted me — whether I understood his absence, or not.
The diagnosis was Alzheimer’s for his mother, the prognosis eventual death twice over.
To me, Killmonger is T’Challa. They both have the same blood, the same potential as men to become part of the solution, or part of the problem.
I write — over the last 30 years — guarding against ever losing sight of the forest for the trees.
That racially profiling black men is as American as Starbucks and apple pie. And that America is largely deaf to our cries.
Whatever the dilemma, the play’s message: “Jesus can work it out.”
Clear to me still, even after all these years, is the greatness of a man who chose to stay and fight for children too often discarded.
I understood that my reporter’s I.D. could not protect me from the perceptions and hate triggered by my black face.
A grand man who taught me by example to stand. Without fanfare. Without pretension. Without raucous bravado.
The recent brouhaha at Loyola University, where a “Black History Month” dining hall meal was served, has left me scratching my head.