A 92-year-old grandma dies in a hail of gunfire in Atlanta.
Coincidence.
No. Just unfortunate, isolated incidents.
Sadly, they're tragedies that will reoccur. Much like the stray bullet that, on the daily it seems like, hits one of our most innocent souls with fatal consequences.
And then, today, we see constant footage of three brotha catching a serious beat-down from 15 uniformed Philly cops.
Is there no end?
No. Not if we don't make some corrections.
Not if we don't repute, right now. the soundtrack to an unsalvageable generation or two of lyrical direction toward our collective downfall.
Yes, I'm talking about rap. All the tracks that delude boys into thinking that what they have is what they are.
That kind or rap distracts us from thinking about how much responsibility comes with impregnating a woman. Those tracks often make us forget that we're needed at home.
Old forgotten ladies huddle alone in the dark. Hopeful black women cling to picket-fenced dreams.
What's the best to teach boys how to switch on those lights, swing open those gates?
Our future prospects can't be so dim and slim, can they?
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