A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance

by Hanif Abdurraqib

The thing I find myself explaining most vigorously to people these days is that consumption and love are not equal parts of the same machine. To consume is not to love, and ideally love is not rooted solely in consumption.

My father, who would return home after work and sit in our driveway with the windows up on our old van, letting loud jazz fill the car’s interior for a few moments before exiting. Like it was a bridge bringing him back to a more familiar self.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Power, when threatened, pulls an invisible narrative from the clouds that only others in power and afraid can see.

I have had many jobs and none of them can stop a bullet.