With so many young black men dead or in prison, those who make into old age tend to be exceedingly mild and pleasant. When I walked into Sit on It on January 2nd, several strangers shouted, “Happy new year!
”In North Charleston, South Carolina, I chanced upon a ghetto bar that was owned by a South Asian who wouldn’t allow anyone younger than 35 to enter his establishment, “They cause too many problems,” he smiled.
Even for those with white hair, it’s mostly rap, varied by a bit of rhythm and blues, soul and rock oldies. Like us, he’s eating two small pieces of fried chicken, free of charge. In Jackson, Mississippi, I wandered into a black bar in a frightful neighborhood littered with burnt out houses and, what do you know, they gave me a free plate of food, since it was a barbecue day.
Like Sit on It, it was filled with older folks, nattily dressed.
In the bay window of a well-kept middle-class home, there are two colorful banners with purple stars and red roses.