Rosetta knelt to look at the stump in the corner of her client’s bedroom. It had the likeness of a ten-year-old boy, four feet tall, dressed in an oversized shirt and suspenders, and its features were flawless, from the newsboy’s cap cocked on its tight curls, to its pupil-less eyes fringed with long eyelashes.
Today’s black artists have come to the realization that as long as they keep singing happy songs, the masses would be happy. To speak out against sexual harassment, police brutality, gun shootings, is too much out of line. “Entertain us,” the masses say. “You’re supposed to make us feel good. You’re supposed to make us happy. That’s what we pay you to do.”