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Angelou’s piece in a different perspective:

The Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru 1949 was being passed around. In case you are not aware, that’s a hell of a wine. The dad’s sat at the bar in my house and passing around the wine glasses and prosciutto-wrapped pears. The mothers sat on the other side of the 4000 square foot home, sipping Chateau Lafite 1787 and gossiping about the rise of the new black fighter: Joe Lob. I think it’s Joe Lob anyways. Most people in my family called him by another name: charcoal. The kids and I sat in front of the television in wait for the boxing to fight.

I was ten at that time. I had absolutely no idea of what this fight meant.

As the fight started, the men strode across the hallway to the Onyx Sofa by Peugeot, while the ladies stuffed the sleeping children into strollers and gossiped further. We breathed. We hoped. We waited.

I heard one uncle start saying “That black boy is gonna cause some problems if he succeeds in-“

Before he could finish, my bearded uncle interrupted saying ‘Ain’t no black going to succeed. God don’t love um. If he did, he would’ve never bestowed them in chains at our feet. They are “stupid and ugly and lazy and dirty, and unlucky…” (Angelou)’

However, that uncle knew very little. As the game progressed, the wine bottles emptied and the food vanished, but the game didn’t end. As Lobs penetrated each part of our pride and soul, we sat in silence knowing that this was the end.

My dad muttered under his breath “I don’t think this is the end of something, but the start of something more. Something more important. Something imminent. Something we fear so very much.”