My Black Writers Challenge is on some major suckage this Black History Month because (one) I have not done a good job promoting it to my fellow writers; (two) I can’t write a damned thing that comes from the heart concerning Black History month because the writing side of my mind has been hard to reach for quite some time; and (three) revert back to number two.
I did tell a good friend about the challenge, inviting her to write something in honor of the 28 days Black people get to basque in the bitter sweet history of their blackness, and (unlike me), she accepted the challenge and is probably well on her way to writing an award-winning piece on de jury discrimination in Boston’s transportation system.
But the bottom line is this: I didn’t think up the #BlackWritersChallenge to win a medal or prize. I was thinking: What if I asked my fellow writers to dedicate a piece of writing to this year’s Black History Month? What would come of it?
Okay. I lied. I did invite another friend to participate in the challenge, but her writing focus is erotica, and even she asked: “What the hell am I going to write about?” I have no idea, but that’s the point of this challenge or the reason why I thunk it up in the first place.
Think about it: (one) you black, (or two) you care about black people; it’s either one or the other and regardless of which side of the equation you’re on, both sides have the same value although expressed differently.
My point is, you don’t have to be black to take this challenge. You could be a Dane with a passion for racial equality that manifests itself through the words you write. Your name could be M’PePe and you could be the son of a shephard, yet you’ve always admired the beautiful struggle of black people. No matter who you are, this challenge could very well be your comprehensive treatise on racial and cultural equity, so take it. Write it down. Send it to me. Share it with the world.
I’m no Pulitzer Prize-winning author, but I have the soul of a poet, and I’ve learned that more than anything, that is golden, just golden, and the best excuse for not having written anything of real meaning.