On July 11, my high school classmate, Randy Wolf, dropped dead unexpectedly of a heart attack.
This is not about the shock of a 49-year-old man dying unexpectedly; we are born to die.
This is not about my own mortality; I feel my body’s anarchy everyday. My time may also be nigh.
I have long held that black women in
America are under attack. We get harsher criminal prosecution than our
white counterparts; we are murdered by intimate partners at higher rates
than any other groups.
I wasn’t so sure about this, this coming back to CityBeat
when Editor Danny Cross first sent me an email in 2012 explaining his
plan to overhaul the paper I’d freelanced for from its first issue in
1994, then joined first as a part-time writer in 1999 (just enough hours
to qualify for health insurance to buy insulin and needles) then as a
full-time staffer with a column.
I thought I was done with pitbulls, with thinking about little Zanaibou Drame and all the Internet postulating about the two. But the Cincinnati police shooting last Friday of a stray pitbull in Bond Hill brought it all back to me.
I run into my oldest brother going into
the new bookstore across from Fountain Square and he’s coming in off
Vine Street and we hug a good, long time; it’s one of those double hugs,
where you hug and, just before the release, you squeeze again.
Irresponsible pitbull owners fit a profile.
There is something inherently ominous,
mysterious, latently vicious and even irresponsibly deadly about
pitbulls and their owners that most people are either afraid of or
unable to name.
I’d naturally thought all along that he
had wanted to disappear, that he was not “taken” by anyone else and as
the days wore on and there was no sign of him I secretly thought maybe
he’d killed himself, troubled by some gut-deep darkness only he could