Confessions of A Black Poet Who Hates Amiri Baraka.

As the son of a white feminist mother and the nephew of two adopted Jewish feminist aunts, I can't say that my experiences in the black neighborhoods of Lakewood and Tacoma, Washington were paradise. They were safer spaces for us than the rest of the state, however. There were familiar aesthetics of oppression: the occasional stranger — feeling that my family members were the only white people they could affect — would go out of their way to say something loaded to us; and the street harassment some black men would engage in was so ugly I had to be the wild little man…