For two leagues that are predominantly Black and brown, and in a country that pays Black women 64 cents to every dollar paid a white male, the NBA is uniquely positioned to make one of the boldest statements regarding women’s and civil rights that this nation — this planet — has ever seen.

Since George Floyd’s murder caught national attention, discussions around issues of race and gender have suddenly become much more candid, and seemingly much less ephemeral. We may actually be our closest to finally getting that boulder over the hill than we’ve been in this nation’s history. Seriously.

I almost chose to sit this eulogy out. I mean, transparently, making fun of Kobe’s eccentricities has been a favorite pastime of mine for two decades. His scuffle with Chris Childs remains quality content, to this day. He semi-pursued a music career, and enlisted Tyra Banks for his only single. I used to make fun of his mini-fro just because I thought it looked dumb. (In hindsight, he started the era of the thot fro twenty years ago. A man truly ahead of his time.)

It sucks that Professor Morrison’s passing was the spark I needed to write for myself again, but I’d be a hypocrite considering her a role model and mentor while continuing to be so passive about my truest passion. I know I’m a damn good writer, because I wouldn’t have launched this project if I didn’t. I can’t be a writer if I, er, don’t write. The plainest truths are often redundant that way.

A co-worker and I were discussing the toxic traits that people often bring into a relationship and he gave an example of a person’s “fuckboy”-ness. Alarmed by his example, I felt compelled to a self-examination of my own.

Could I be a fuckboy?

Major shoutout to Blake Hall and Fresh Never Fades Clothing for the launch of their 2018 Collection 1!

I’ve been crafting my personal brand around the aesthetic that I’d like WSH to exude — clean, refined, much cooler and over everything than you’d believe — and while it can be fun to play that character on Twitter and Instagram, it’s a weird feeling to consider how detached our two personalities can be. Not entirely disparate, mind you; I’d never accuse anyone of faking for likes and retweets. But we’ve all now become curators of our personal running diaries, for better or worse. Can’t blame a curator for exercising creative control, can you? That's precisely why my Twitter drafts folder is pouring over at the moment. Creative control.

Sure, continue to ignore all the intentional system failures harming people of color in the name of pretending we don’t have a legitimate gripe. Let’s also pretend these wealthy, black athletes weren’t dead broke once-upon-a-time, because in this fantasy, they shouldn’t complain about anything! They don’t have it bad at all! Or — even better — let’s continue to pretend that America has this spotless history, that the many terrible things happening right now in the United States — white supremacist rallies, mass shootings by domestic terrorists, the election of an incompetent imbecile to run the country — are just aberrations and not the byproduct of backlash from the eight years prior, anger not only of a black man being President, but of him being damned good at it, too.

Netflix was kind enough to give us 90 minutes of their reunion. I need that unreleased footage though, and sooner-than-later.

I always fancied one day owning that house, despite my dad’s disbelief I’d ever want to live there. I also thought I’d have him for at least another 20 years, so consider how my feelings for that place soon changed once he was no longer in it. Had I bought the house from my dad or had he gifted it to me, that would’ve been ideal. But it felt weird knowing that house could exist without him, if that makes sense. I hated walking in that door, I dreaded going into his basement, I’d go into the kitchen and start daydreaming about the fake wrestling matches we’d have, I’d look inside his bedroom and notice one side of the bed hasn’t been touched because, oh yeah, only one person sleeps in that bed now.

About three months ago, I considered shuttering the website. In many ways, and for a number of reasons, my confidence was shot. I hadn't written a thing in months, and the whole project was starting to feel like an enormous and expensive waste of time. I’ve never been big on asking God for signs, but that day, I prayed during lunch that God reveal to me whether W S H was still worth the effort.

I give my grandma a hug and kiss before I leave the house. “Bye, Granny. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Don’t forget this address and this phone number, now.”

“I won’t, Granny. I promise.”

This is all to say, social media ... I don't know what social media is. I'm sitting here trying to articulate it perfectly, and nothing's coming. People can say pretty much whatever they want, and I'm forced to respect that because our country's constitution promises freedom of speech to us all. What I cannot and will not respect, however, are people whose political views are so dangerously incorrect. There is what looks to be a calculated and concerted effort to execute black people happening in front of me, and I'm supposed to care that two rich people don't want to live together any more? You cannot be serious.

Over the last five years, I've seen many young men purchase their outfits right off the mannequins or copy looks from Instagram or straight out of a magazine. They see a look they think is dope and run with it without taking the time to customize it to their own style.

The second semester of my senior year, I signed up for African-American Literature from 1940 to the Prresent, and the assigned final project was for each student to develop his or her own African-American literary canon - the works we believed were most indicative of whatever we individually thought a black literary canon set out to achieve. My thesis was that the African-American literary canon details a quest for authenticity and self-honesty in the face of a power structure demanding assimilation and acquiescence.

Over two years later, I stand behind that thesis and the works I selected for my canon, but the internet is the internet, so I expect some disagreements on my picks. If you feel so inclined to let me know you disagree, the comments section is open for your convenience. Enjoy.

My nephew likely can't remember a time when a black man wasn't running this country. All of my nieces were born in this midst of this presidency. As a kid, I'd always been told I could be whatever I wanted to be – even the president. They've got the last 8 years as proof.

Cursory acknowledgment somehow meets their -ism threshold. "I occasionally say nice things about these people; therefore, I can't be racist! I can't be sexist! I love gay people! They're the best!" There's a tolerance there, but not an acceptance. To accept would beget a willingness to share. And the closer we inch toward true equity actually bound to law, the angrier the cult seems to get.

Pretending Flint is some land far far away only makes me something of an accomplice to the crime. What am I doing to rectify the situation? How can I be of service? Is there something in my experience as a Detroiter that I can apply to what's happening there? I wasn't thinking about any of that. I just didn't want to know. I actively chose ignorance, and I'm not proud of it in the slightest.

Eight days ago, I stood in a pulpit and eulogized my father.

Considering the current state of affairs, I have no clue when I'll be able to write something original. I'm hoping it'll be next week, but I'm fully prepared for this to take some time. In the interim, I'm going to share what I hope was a decent eulogy. This one won't be as melancholy as the first, I promise.

You were the perfect father for me. I lived in constant fear of letting you down. I still live in that fear, and I doubt it'll ever subside. It motivated me. It'll continue to motivate me, because you've set the absolute highest standards for me to reach. I've never sought accolades or the spotlight for me. Everything I've accomplished has been for you. I'm in awe of the man you were, and I know I've got some big shoes to fill as your only son.