What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Blacker

by Damon Young

whether immediate fellatio or eager anal sex was a better indicator of a woman’s credit score and willingness to cosign a car loan (don’t ask),

my general philosophy about white people, which exists as a repetitious vacillation between bemusement, annoyance, fury, and pity,

By my thirties, Did I get this promotion because I’m black? became Shit, I hope I got this promotion because I’m black, and I don’t give a fuck if you care because these white niggas got a four-hundred-year head start.

This song, by the way, also includes an extensive yodel. And all the Everclear in State College wouldn’t convince me to do that too.

I think about how she just gave gave gave gave gave gave gave because life took took took took took took took. I think about how I took took took took took from her. And I can’t discern if this parasitic relationship was typical—if sons take from their mothers because that’s just what we do—or if our relationship was unnaturally pathogenic.

I’ve never been a postracial Pollyanna, even in the years directly following Obama’s election, when postracial Pollyannaism was in vogue and marketed as a soothing, restorative, and pumpkin spice–scented balm for America’s unseemly cold sores.