I am not clapping for Moonlight just because I am Black.

25 years from now, a new generation will still have no clue who August Wilson or Katharine Johnson are. However, they will have a “classic” Best Picture still popping up. It will use pretty arthouse shots and soaring classical music to show them Black women were crackheads who neglected and abused their sons to grow up into sexually-conflicted drug dealers who fight not to hate them for it. Continue reading