Most days I’m blithefully unaware of race – mine or anyone else’s.
I blame my parents–it’s just now how I was raised. Some days I feel blacker than others, as if the weight of the melanin in my skin had its own gravitational field. On those days, I return to the music of my childhood: Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, Roy Ayers.
And I wonder: if art really is an accurate representation of the culture of the times, how is it that the sound of struggle from 40 years ago is somehow just as relevant, as poignant as today?
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