A short story by Lolita Files
They gathered at the intersection of a world made over, huddled in small groups in the parking lot of the Barclays Center at the corner of Flatbush and Atlantic. Gray exhaust from the idling black tour bus gently polluted the air.
The name AAAdventures (a meant-to-be-clever distillation of “African-American Adventures”) was painted in gold on both sides of the bus, sandwiched between two images. One image was of a black woman in jeans and a gold t-shirt adorned with a black fist, ankhs dangling from her ears, her hair in Bantu knots. Her hand was on her hip, her neck slightly crooked in a way often stereotyped by mainstream America. The other image was a black man in an oversized white t-shirt, jeans, and Timbs, his back facing outward, arms raised, torso curved, his hip jutted in the telltale move of a lively bit of get-down known as The Shmoney Dance. Continue reading