Home at #ATLast


I am on the plane, returning from the Outkast concert(s) held in Atlanta this past weekend. I was fortunate to attend the concert twice, for free, (the universe continues to provide me with extremely giving people in my life). I am replenished in ways I didn’t know I was lacking. There is literally nothing that warms m inner being more than seeing happy black people enjoying their time together. This usually happens when brought together by music. As a native ATlien, this whole weekend inflated me with pride. There’s something so gratifying about seeing the people of your town coming together for a shared experience. Outkast is the music of my childhood, growing up in S.W.AT.S., I succumbed to this unescapable fate. Andre & Big Boi permeated my youth and laced my West Side ridden dreams. They were familiar figure in my life, reminiscent of boys from around my neighborhood. Complex, sending out messages that sometimes seem conflicted, who want to do right while simultaneously maintaining the ever coveted “manhood.” This is a difficult to achieve, especially when your skin is browner than wild wood near the Nile.

There was so much passion this weekend, overflowing from the center of Centennial Park, into the streets of Atlanta. It was impossible to escape. This irresistible sense of belonging sucked me. This was my tribe, I was home.

This is important. Claiming some place as home, as people of the African diaspora, the idea of “home,” or where we come from, can be a murky one. Since it’s not clear for many of us, we get to decide, and that’s real freedom.

Short post, but OutKast are the definition of Bad Blacks & who would I be to not say a word about them and all their ATL glory?


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