Shopping while black brings about more anxiety for me than being behind the wheel of a car. Yes, I don’t drive – that’s a story for another day. The other day, I went into the local beauty supply store and walked around the aisles until I saw what I was looking for. A minute too long in the aisle, I was greeted by one of the workers asking if I needed help. I did not because, as I mentioned, I found what I needed but, something else caught my eye and I was reading the label when I was rudely interrupted.
In the past two weeks, my mom reacted to her medication resulting in her being admitted to the hospital, discharged, and admitted again. It was surely an ordeal, mainly since this pandemic, I’ve intentionally stayed away from her. I have yet to get tested to see if I am a-systematic
Now, let’s be honest here, did I believe every story? Not quite. Do I believe something happened in their interaction with R. Kelly, yes. Do I believe that they were offered fame and was preyed upon by their desire for that fame? Yes. Do I believe that he had a team of players that helped him do the most unimaginable to young girls? Yes. Were their families offered sums of money with a promise that their daughter would be taken care of? Yes. Each woman that had a personal interaction with R. Kelly, had a story to tell. Who am I, or should I ask, who are we as a black culture to not believe in their experience? Within the black culture, we tend to be very suspicious of stories we hear and I don’t know why or when this started.
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