Every black man in Chicago walks through the world differently, and I think what young black boys do is observe, and that's what gives them their road map.
Interpretation
The experiences of black men shape their perspectives, influencing how young black boys navigate their own lives.
Lena Waithe's quote emphasizes the unique journeys of black men in Chicago and how their observations of the world around them serve as a guide for young black boys. It highlights the importance of understanding one's environment and the experiences of those who came before in order to navigate the complexities of life.
In practice
Discussing personal growth in a community meeting.
As a black woman in the industry, you really do have to hold your head higher, stick your chest out, be kind and polite and generous even when you don't want to be sometimes. I learned that and, also, just to never take no for an answer.
Being a black lesbian myself, I roll my eyes a little bit when I see black lesbian characters on shows where it's purely there for decoration. You can just hear it in the writers room... 'What if we make her a lesbian?'
It's weird because I see black gay characters on television all the time, but do I relate to them? Not always, because they're set pieces.
The cool thing about dope black style becoming in style is that the industry has no choice but to try and reduplicate that.
For me, it's about making art that's not good but phenomenal. James Baldwin didn't want to just stay above the fray. Prince didn't think, 'I wonder what the industry is gonna think about 'Purple Rain.'' It's just, is this honest? Is this real? Does this move me? The rest is icing.
Being born gay, black, and female is not a revolutionary act. Being proud to be a gay black female is.
I have a pretty good memory, but memories are time beings, too, like cherry blossoms or ginkgo leaves; for a while they are beautiful, and then they fade and die.
They accepted the pleasures of morning, the bright sun, the whelming sea and sweet air, as a time when play was good and life so full that hope was not necessary and therefore forgotten.
She lost much of her appetite. At night, an invisible hand kept shaking her awake every few hours. Grief was physiological, a disturbance of the blood. Sometimes a whole minute would pass in nameless dread - the bedside clock ticking, the blue moonlight coating the window like glue - before she`d remember the brutal fact that had caused it.
I think everybody needs a passion. Whether it's one passion or a hundred, that's what keep life interesting.
We plan, we toil, we suffer - in the hope of what? A camel-load of idol's eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs.
Nobody’s going to save you. No one’s going to cut you down, cut the thorns thick around you. No one’s going to storm the castle walls nor kiss awake your birth, climb down your hair, nor mount you onto the white steed. There is no one who will feed the yearning. Face it. You will have to do, do it yourself.
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