There is this joke among black people —
remember first that humor about cultural diminishment ain’t funny and
not all blacks know one another — that says Black History Month is in
February because it’s the shortest month of the year.
I would not trade the liberation of
working for myself — of coming up with ideas and translating them into
paid words, or teaching at the University of Cincinnati or working with
Northside teenagers — for stacks of cash at a more reliable, albeit
mind-numbing, soul-sucking job.
The holidays aren’t complete without the
macabre sight of our neediest brothers and sisters lined up all over
town in inclement weather waiting for handouts — boxes of food, a
turkey, clothing, maybe a voucher or two for free furniture.