How the Gilmore Girls Reinforced My Black Identity
I grew up a straight, black, inner-city kid dreaming of living somewhere as safe and beautiful as Stars Hollow
“So where you from, man?” He asked. He wore a flat-bill hat that rested on his head at an impossible angle. It was not quite 45 degrees, and slanted to point upward, leaving the impression that it wasn’t adjusted purposefully, but it was, and any human who had ever worn a hat knew it. He was addressing a man with the same exact demeanor as himself. Slightly hunched to a point, to purposefully exude a carefree and relaxed nature. But, like the other guy’s hat, it was all show. Made to seem natural within its environment but decidedly not at the same time.
“You know, I’m from Cleveland and shit, man… you know. Around.”
“Word, word. Me too.” Said the first guy. He was all chin and all angles. They made geometry into a conversation and I had to admire that. All juxtaposed into cool stances like a Picasso piece. Protocubism in motion. It was at this point that they started to shuffle around each other awkwardly, hands stuffed in pockets, chin nods thrown at each other like rice at a wedding. Before long one asks the inevitable question: “So, like, where from around Cleveland?” The other guy reluctantly names a suburb much to the…
