Hypocrite!: Black Authenticity in the Age of Social Media
I’ve been crafting my personal brand around the aesthetic that I’d like WSH to exude — clean, refined, much cooler and over everything than you’d believe — and while it can be fun to play that character on Twitter and Instagram, it’s a weird feeling to consider how detached our two personalities can be. Not entirely disparate, mind you; I’d never accuse anyone of faking for likes and retweets. But we’ve all now become curators of our personal running diaries, for better or worse. Can’t blame a curator for exercising creative control, can you? That's precisely why my Twitter drafts folder is pouring over at the moment. Creative control.
Rhy Speaks: On Coming to America
I often struggle with picking a definitive list of my favorite movies, but on today, here’s the shortlist: Silence of the Lambs, The Godfather, and Coming to America. I could easily write an argument for the greatness of Silence of the Lambs or The Godfather, but the clear underdog in my top-three is Coming to America. This is completely unfair, however, and thus why I want to discuss why Coming to America is an undeniable masterpiece that doesn’t get nearly enough credit.
The Migos Mélange, or You Should Be Able to Tell the Migos Apart By Now
Migos aren’t clones of anyone. They are three unique and versatile personalities capable both of producing cohesive projects and impressive individual efforts. And their differences — however minor they appear to be — are likely the key to their brilliance as a collective.
WSH's 2018 NBA All-Star Selections
Having watched an inordinate amount of hoop this year (shoutout to my Warriors-exclusive League Pass subscription), I think I’m around 77% qualified to tick off who I believe should make this year’s All-Star team. Plus, I needed to get my selections on the website before the official choices for the game's starters come out in like five minutes. Drumroll, please...
WSH's Songs of the Year 2017
No guests this year — just me. (Here’s your chance to tiptoe out the back door.) Per the title, this year’s piece will be far less “scientific” than the first two. I’m way too behind on music to pretend like I’m some sort of expert this year, so consider this a list of my personal favorites. I mean, I think I know a little bit about song construction and stuff, so I’d hope nobody sees this and finds me completely insane for some of these choices. As always, I take this project as seriously as I (think I) should, and I’d love to get your feedback on my picks and even see your “best songs” lists, as well.
Black Superstar Power: The Political Awakening of the Millennial Athlete
Sure, continue to ignore all the intentional system failures harming people of color in the name of pretending we don’t have a legitimate gripe. Let’s also pretend these wealthy, black athletes weren’t dead broke once-upon-a-time, because in this fantasy, they shouldn’t complain about anything! They don’t have it bad at all! Or — even better — let’s continue to pretend that America has this spotless history, that the many terrible things happening right now in the United States — white supremacist rallies, mass shootings by domestic terrorists, the election of an incompetent imbecile to run the country — are just aberrations and not the byproduct of backlash from the eight years prior, anger not only of a black man being President, but of him being damned good at it, too.
A Dose of Reality: Def Comedy Jam, 25 Years Later
Netflix was kind enough to give us 90 minutes of their reunion. I need that unreleased footage though, and sooner-than-later.
The WSH Black Love Movies of the New Millennium Tournament
Love Jones debuted in theaters on March 14, 1997, in the midst of what I’d argue is a peak in Black cinema. Although this renaissance arguably begins as far back as the late-1980s, the Black romance films of the mid-1990s introduce this extremely wild concept of young, successful, upwardly-mobile African-Americans having the same love issues as, you know, everybody else.
Homecoming
I always fancied one day owning that house, despite my dad’s disbelief I’d ever want to live there. I also thought I’d have him for at least another 20 years, so consider how my feelings for that place soon changed once he was no longer in it. Had I bought the house from my dad or had he gifted it to me, that would’ve been ideal. But it felt weird knowing that house could exist without him, if that makes sense. I hated walking in that door, I dreaded going into his basement, I’d go into the kitchen and start daydreaming about the fake wrestling matches we’d have, I’d look inside his bedroom and notice one side of the bed hasn’t been touched because, oh yeah, only one person sleeps in that bed now.