Strange Fruit
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She burst into uncontrollable sobs. And he let her get it out, wanting to reach out and embrace her, hold her but daring to interrupt the flood of raw emotion now being released through so many tears. She cried like a little helpless baby until he had no choice but to hold her. And when he took her into his arms where he could feel her body close to his, he was falling backwards through the memories of their romance... His career was the perfect American tragedy, layered by those darker images reflected in the shadows of the invisible black man. He was that rare commodity and commercial powerh...
She burst into uncontrollable sobs. And he let her get it out, wanting to reach out and embrace her, hold her but daring to interrupt the flood of raw emotion now being released through so many tears. She cried like a little helpless baby until he had no choice but to hold her. And when he took her into his arms where he could feel her body close to his, he was falling backwards through the memories of their romance... His career was the perfect American tragedy, layered by those darker images reflected in the shadows of the invisible black man. He was that rare commodity and commercial powerhouse with artistic value and street credibility. His rapid ascent to fame came actually from the dark side of the American dream, which afforded him a chance to develop a reputation and image that made him one of Detroit's most infamous personalities. He was living the hustler's life through the poetry of his art. Outside the walls of the biggest walled prison in the world, he stood in the broken sunlight and took council with himself, a man consciously trying to decide what course to follow... Strange Fruit is that broken memoir that imagines a journey through the mind and madness of a starving artist trying to reconcile sins of a generational curse. Success would be the better revenge. He was well aware of the contradictions in his lifestyle. Society wouldn't let him forget. Determination couldn't be disenfranchised. Donavon Taylor was raised in the trashy back alleys of Detroit and the systematic racism of old, at a time police were killing unarmed black people on video and getting away with state sponsored murder. He was a diamond in the dirt. He had no real choice but to fight against his own character flaws and survive both the sacred and the profane. He was a native son of the city. He was Detroit everyday... He was an artist who hustled all his life through the poetry of being black in a day and time when being black meant you had to march and protest for Black Lives to Matter. He was forced to be humble and stand on the front lines fighting injustice and inequality. Trump republicans were losing the culture battle while unresolved grievances and bitterness revealed itself through America's painful politics: voter suppression, police violence, mass shootings and the rise of right wing militant hate groups. QAnon supporters were living their American dream in the cult of an alternate universe quarantined in a bubble of lies and conspiracy theories. Donny was forced to deal with the drama of being the black antagonist in a global pandemic while America stare into the abyss of insurrection, old Jim Crow antics and ghosts of the Confederacy.
