Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. It is a day on which a particular performance is expected of every Black American.

It is believed that we should join hands with everyone, including those who mean us harm. In this joining, we are supposed to close our eyes, sway, and sing sweet gospel songs in the name of Jesus—not Jesus of The Rock, but Jesus of The Plantation; though I believe that there is not much difference, if any difference at all, between the two, for neither of them are Jesus of The West Bank.

We—the Black Folk shipped, like cargo, from the Door of No Return to the Unnerving Schemes of Apathy, and forced into centuries of toil for centuries of death—are called upon to be respectable, conciliatory, and most importantly, civil representatives of the man shot down by the very nation that, with a flick of the proverbial wrist, transformed him from full human being to hollow holiday platitude. A man whose face they put on coffee mugs, postage stamps, t-shirts, and even underwear to sell back to us at a premium. (Quiet as it’s kept, Black people have long been required to scrounge up the money to buy our loved ones back from our masters.)

For us, today is supposed to be a day of forgiving, certainly; but most importantly: of forgetting.

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WITNESS