When The Cookout Becomes A Potluck

I’m glad I’m not the only one who shares this sentiment. Isis Miller raised excellent points. Most notably being the recently televised clap back aka cypher aka spoken word soliloquy by none other than hip-hop’s lord and savior, Eminem.

His underwhelming lambast of President Trump hosted by BET at their annual hip-hop awards show, prompted seemingly everybody and their momma to proverbially enshrine him on the wall next to Jesus, MLK, and JFK.

Not me, though. And not because I was casting shade on Slim Shady, but more importantly, I don’t have any pictures of Jesus, MLK, and JFK on my stark naked walls. No, seriously, the real reason is that nothing Eminem did or said was consequential enough to warrant such a thing, especially not to be given an all-access pass to, not A cookout, but THEE cookout.

To his credit, he did create a trending moment, but bars alone don’t swing the pendulum towards justice. His rhymes lacked equitable reason and were nothing more than a failed attempt to deliver poetic justice. 

Going forward---facetiously hear me out on this---I am suggesting an official cookout registry that consists of background checks, internet search histories since the days of AOL dial-up collated by date and keywords, curated tweets to include the deleted ones, archived pictures of costumes worn on Halloween, and political leanings, just to name a few.

Because you just can’t be too careful. Nope. Not in this sociopolitical climate. There are potential ramifications to vouching for impostors. Case and point, see Rachel Dolezal and the Spokane chapter of the NAACP. That said, I’m even suggesting random background checks for black people, too, lest they be deemed to personify the word that starts with the letter "c" and rhymes with "moons".

Once approved for entry and participation (they are not mutually inclusive), invitees would be provided credentials to be worn at all times that displays their photo AND also clearly identifies their very black---in word and in deed---sponsor, so that in the event said invitee forgets where they are and decides to unmask themselves in the spirit of MAGA, we immediately know whose asses (plural) to whup.

Now, obviously, what I said in the previous three paragraphs was said in jest, but I can't say it wasn't heavily peppered with the truth.

I’m all for allies, but I’m not quick to whimsically give them the keys to the Jeep and especially not first dibs on the Popeye's chicken and potato salad. (Who made it, by the way?) 

The author is right, if we don’t get our sh*t together, “We are about to become a minority at our own events.”