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Black Panther premieres to the general public this week. And as we all already know, it will be the blackity, black, black, black, black, black, blackest thing that will ever happen in the history of black people, blackness and people. So black that instead of ticket stubs, the box office will give you a reparations check. So black that instead of popcorn, the concession stands will sell buckets of white tears—frozen, caramelized and sprinkled with Old Bay. So black that apparently the first 15 minutes of the movie is just an Ida B. Wells hologram playing spades with Danny Glover. So black that at each theater will be actual Black Panthers with actual black panthers on chains ready to sic on white people.
Naturally, all of this tremendous and transformative and transcendent blackness has made some of us self-conscious. Sure, you listened to Lemonade and you drink lemonade every day, which makes you sufficiently black. But are you black enough to even watch Black Panther without getting vertigo? Without being overcome with PTBD—post-traumatic blackness disorder?
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Measuring his life out one teaspoon at a time.