Last week, I was standing at a busy bus stop in the late afternoon and a young man danced-walked up to me (he moved like Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk – while going forward). He was smiling and very happy. He leaned in towards me and announced that, “Black people, we are time travelers! It all makes sense! This is a spaceship! I can see it all so clearly now! Black people are time travelers!” I paused for a few seconds. I then replied, “Damn right. We are.” The young man danced-walked up to another Black person several feet away from me and shared his personal revelation again. He continued dance-walking down the long city block, the time-traveling Black town crier was waking up all those who would listen.
I wondered if I was stuck in my own version of Terry Gilliam’s film “12 Monkeys” or its French original “La Jetée.” I concluded that this time machine, if it does exist, must be broken — or perhaps it is just operating in a way that I do not fully understand.
