Why Breaking Bad’s Finale Was Perfect

Why Breaking Bad‘s Finale Was Perfect

 

There was never any doubt that Breaking Bad cared about its viewers. The show’s most impressive feat to me was its devotion to clarity, no matter how complicated its character dynamics or intricate its plot developments. Breaking Bad explained everything and then re-explained it. Jumps in logic were extremely rare and when they were employed—Jesse’s a-ha ricin moment from earlier this season, in which he deduced way too much given way too little information, and wielded his hunch like a weapon—they sent the plot forward with too much velocity to upset anyone but nitpickers.

The show was so satisfying, at least to me, because it played like a system of rewards. It would introduce a character or concept, allow you to engage and wonder, and then, just as you were getting to the point of Wait, what?: It delivered. Take Walt’s initially mystifying pay-phone conversation from last night’s Breaking Bad series finale, in which he impersonates a New York Times reporter in order to track down Gretchen and Elliott Schwartz, his former partners at Gray Matter. Walt’s ensuing break-in, while Gretchen and Elliott putter around their mansion oblivious to the invasion, is so calm and casual—the resulting suspense fucked with us the audience and only us. (And how about the eventual reveal that Walt’s intentions are not to murder Gretchen and Elliott, but to rope them into distributing his remaining fortune to his children? That show could play with me all night long if it wanted to.)

Another example: Walt’s final meeting with Skyler, preceded by a phone call from her sister Marie, who informs her Walter is in town, that he could be coming for her at any moment. Skyler hangs up, the camera deliberately pulls forward and reveals Walt, who’d been standing in the kitchen the whole time, previously obscured from our vision by a support column.

Breaking Bad made disclosure into a game in which viewers always felt like we were winning. The hang time between introduction and revelation is what we reveled in, and it was complicated further by characters’ participation in the game too, their worlds circumscribed by their own knowledge, ignorance, and willful suspension of disbelief in any given situation. This was not simply in a scene-to-scene way, but in the structure of the entire series. From Walt’s introduction to the meth trade in the pilot episode, his frequently repeated motivation—his risky behavior was all for his family—was dubious. The show allowed us to draw our own conclusions, to fill the small open space in Walt’s motivation and transformation from hero to anti-hero, from mild-mannered high school teacher to Heisenberg. And then, considerately and perfectly, Walt fills out his own understanding of himself: “I did it for me,” he tells Skyler, in a moment of ultimate revelation. “I liked it. I was good at it, and I was really… I was alive.”

No one gets to write his own obituary, but in taking control and revising his life—an existence eaten by cancer, already down and out after a near miss at entrepreneurial glory—Walter White came as close as a man can get to doing so. The tagline on posters advertising this final batch of Season 5 episodes was: “Remember my name.” That kind of egocentrism is fuel for success and ruin. The two existed simultaneously for Walter White. As much as Breaking Bad was the story about a man’s death—and thank god it turned out to be that story via its definitive, satisfying ending (not that I’d expect less)—it was also one of rebirth. Nothing exists in a vacuum: Walter’s selfishness affected everyone close to him, and his generosity was ultimately self-serving. He was a bad man who was attracted to innocence, which is why the only moments of pure joy we saw him experience were spent with his baby Holly (and also, I’d argue, why he saved his basically incompetent and certainly dependent beta counterpart, Jesse).

In the finale, Walt employs Jesse’s cohorts Badger and Skinny Pete to help scare Gretchen and Elliott into delivering Walter’s money to his son. The pair then shares an exchange that’s the most overt shout out to fans in Breaking Bad history:

Badger: I don’t know how to feel about all this.
Skinny Pete: For real, yo; the whole thing felt shady morality-wise.

They feel us. This chamber has an echo.

The finale was tidy, maybe overly so for a show about a man who made a mess of his life. Few questions were left unanswered—the Times points out that we never really got to the bottom of Walt’s departure from Gray Matter, and there was the curious removal of his watch after the aforementioned pay-phone call. (Later, on the post-show Talking Bad, creator Vince Gilligan explained that this was a matter of keeping continuity with the flash-forward that we saw at the beginning of the season, but also provided a more interpretive explanation about Walter’s time being up.) But really, except for henchman Huell (who trended on Twitter last night as a result of being absent from the finale), all T’s were crossed, all I’s dotted as they always were.

Walter’s ending was a happy one, or as happy as one could be engineered from the ruins of his life: He put a plan in place to ensure his kids would get his fortune (thus his meth-making was not in vain), he effectively destroyed the arm of the meth industry he built up, he got to be a hero to Jesse, and he died without suffering, beating his cancer once and for all. Walter got off easily, yes, but in receiving a definitive ending that is both thoughtful and morally straightforward, so did we. Walter’s destruction was not for nothing. We won’t have to argue and debate this to death a la The SopranosBreaking Bad did most of the work for us, as usual.

Michael K. Williams ‘Goes Down the Rabbit Hole’ on ‘Boardwalk Empire’

Michael K. Williams ‘Goes Down the Rabbit Hole’ on ‘Boardwalk Empire’

‘Wire’ actor also starring in ’12 Years a Slave,’ MGMT video

 
 
 
 
Michael K. Williams as Chalky White on ‘Boardwalk Empire’
 
Macall B. Polay/HBO
September 27, 2013 2:40 PM ET

Michael K. Williams won us over with The Wire, playing the indefatigable stick-em-up-boy Omar, the Robin Hood of the streets. On Boardwalk Empirenow in its fourth season, he’s Chalky White, the voice and bootlegger of the black community in the Nucky Thompson’s (Steve Buscemi) Atlantic City. Rolling Stone spoke with Williams about going down the rabbit hole with Chalky this season, appearing in MGMT’s latest video for “Cool Song No. 2” as a witch doctor with a sweet ride and stalking Steve McQueen in New Orleans to get a part in 12 Years a Slave. 

This feels like a big season for Chalky White on Boardwalk. It sort of feels like a big season for African-Americans in general on the show.

It’s definitely a huge season for Chalky White. It’s a huge season for me personally. I’ve never been this involved in a big storyline in anything that I’ve done. 

You say you’re more involved with the season. How so?
There are things that were promised to Chalky from Nucky Thompson that came through. Nucky told him that he would grant him his wish and give him his club on the boardwalk, so that happened. So you have a black man in 1924 with a major club on the boardwalk of Atlantic City – that’s huge. And most of the storyline this year takes place from that club. All of the problems that occur happen from that club opening up and how Chalky deals with it. He makes a lot of bad choices, primarily over a woman. And we just pretty much watch him go down the rabbit hole. 

How do you understand the struggle between Chalky White and Valentin Narcisse? 
The relationship between Dr. Narcisse and Chalky is a very intense, very real relationship in the black community. You have the educated, fair-skinned Negro, you know, going up against the dark-skinned, un-academically educated Negro, and the friction of the light skin and dark skin, educated versus the non-educated. There’s a friction there, you know, on many different levels. The house Negro versus the field Negro.

What was really important to you in creating this character? 
The main thing I wanted to do was I wanted him not to feel like Omar. That was number one. The second thing I wanted to do was to not make him appear as just an angry black man. There are things that Chalky experienced that I have no understanding of. I don’t know what it’s like to see my father hang from a tree, or to be illiterate in America. I don’t know what that feels like. So I wanted to bring dignity to him, in spite of all his flaws, and I wanted people to understand why he does the things that he does. And last but not least, I wanted to pay homage to my ancestors, to anybody who’s alive today, any black men that are alive today.

I was just watching your MGMT video, “Cool Song No. 2.” What sort of direction did you get for that? 
The character I play, his best friend, is dying from the very thing that he sells. So it’s a take on addiction. What they used was this plant, and apparently there’s somewhere – I believe in the Philippines – where people get this rare disorder where their skin turns into tree bark and ultimately takes over their body. The character I play in this video was the cultivator of a particular tree that was killing one of his best friends. When he realized there was nothing else to do, he figured that he would let his friend die with dignity, and he took him to that house where they manufactured the stuff and just let him live out the rest of his days in happiness and bliss. And in doing so, he contracted the disease also. So it’s like a take on addiction and things of that nature.

Did you know the band’s music going into it?

I’m a huge fan of MGMT, and I love this director, Isaiah Seret. I’d never met him before, but I love the work he did on a Raphael Saadiq video called “Good Man,” which starred Chad Coleman, who is one of my Wire brothers. 

You hang out with your other Wire brothers? 
Absolutely. We’re very close. I consider us a family. Everybody from Sonja Sohn to Felicia Pearson to Jamie Hector to Andre Royo . . . Wendell Pierce, Domenick Lombardozzi, you know, we’re a very close-knit family.

You’re also in 12 Years a Slave. What was that set like? 
That was another huge experience for me. Something along the lines of what it felt like for Boardwalk. That’s another period piece dealing with my ancestral energy, once again, during the time when I have no idea what it must’ve been like to live in America, to be alive in that time. So it was a huge time-travel, and I got to really get a glimpse of what my ancestors would’ve gone through so that I could be here today. It was very humbling.

Did you know Steve McQueen before you made the film?
I knew of him. I was a huge fan of his work from Hunger and Shame, but I had never met prior to this film.

Did you audition for it in the traditional way?
It wasn’t quite the traditional path. I guess you could say I stalked him a bit? I waited outside of his casting office in New Orleans in the pouring rain for, like, an hour, because I heard he was in town, and I ran up on him, kind of Omar style, and I think he was a little taken aback. I was afraid I’d actually screwed up my chance of being in the project with that stuff that I pulled. But then about 45 minutes or so later, his assistant gave me a call and said “Steve McQueen wants to take you to dinner,” and I sat down with him and Michael Fassbender and Lupita Nyong’o. We sat all down and had dinner, and he pretty much made me the offer right there at the dinner table. 

What made you really want the part?
Any opportunity to tell a story like that – any opportunity to tell African-American history, something of that nature, of that caliber, I will jump through leaps and bounds to get. Because it’s based on a true story, it’s American history, it’s about my culture and my ancestors, and it’s not just a typical film. It’s a story that I can get in my heart as something to take seriously. I think 12 Years a Slave is that caliber. Any actor would’ve been proud to be in Schindler’s List, and I feel the same way about our film. This actually happened, and it’s going to teach people how far we’ve come as a nation. 

Read more: http://www.rollingstone.com/movies/news/michael-k-williams-goes-down-the-rabbit-hole-on-boardwalk-empire-20130927#ixzz2gOsdiWYt 
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‘Conversation About Race’ Has Not Brought Cultural Consensus

CROSS CUTS

Never-Ending Story

‘Conversation About Race’ Has Not Brought Cultural Consensus

 

O.O.P.S.

By 

Published: September 27, 2013

The “conversation about race” that public figures periodically claim to desire, the one that is always either about to happen or is being prevented from happening, has been going on, at full volume, at least since the day in 1619 when the first African slaves arrived in Jamestown. It has proceeded through every known form of discourse — passionate speeches, awkward silences, angry rants, sheepish whispers, jokes, insults, stories and songs — and just as often through double-talk, indirection and not-so-secret codes.

What are we really talking about, though? The habit of referring to it as “race” reflects a tendency toward euphemism and abstraction. Race is a biologically dubious concept and a notoriously slippery social reality, a matter of group identity and personal feelings, mutual misunderstandings and the dialectic of giving and taking offense. If that is what we are talking about, then we are not talking about the historical facts that continue to weigh heavily on present circumstances, which is to say about slavery, segregation and white supremacy.

But of course we are still talking about all that, with what seems like renewed concentration and vigor. Nor, in a year that is the sesquicentennial of the Gettysburg Address and the semicentennial of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, are we simply looking back at bygone tragedies from the standpoint of a tranquil present. The two big racially themed movies of the year, “Lee Daniels’ The Butler” and Steve McQueen’s “12 Years a Slave,” are notable for the urgency and intensity with which they unpack stories of the past, as if delivering their news of brutal bondage and stubborn discrimination for the first time.

"12 Years a Slave,” directed by Steve McQueen, with, from left, Michael Fassbender, Lupita Nyong’o and Chiwetel Ejiofor.
Francois Duhamel/Fox Searchlight Pictures

“12 Years a Slave,” directed by Steve McQueen, with, from left, Michael Fassbender, Lupita Nyong’o and Chiwetel Ejiofor.

 

And one of the strange effects of this country’s anxious, confused, hopeful and delusional relationship to its history of racism is that such narratives often do feel like news, or like efforts to overcome willful amnesia. The astonishing experiences of Solomon Northup, Mr. McQueen’s protagonist, a free man from Saratoga, N.Y., who was kidnapped and sold into slavery in the Deep South in 1841, are not being presented to the American public for the first time. Northup’s memoir was an antebellum best seller, nearly as widely circulated in abolitionist circles as “Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass” and Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” A screen adaptation, directed by Gordon Parks and starring Avery Brooks in the title role (played by Chiwetel Ejiofor in Mr. McQueen’s version), was broadcast on PBS in 1984.

A scene from the mini-series “Roots” (1977) based on the novel by Alex Haley, with LeVar Burton.
Warner Brothers Pictures

A scene from the mini-series “Roots” (1977) based on the novel by Alex Haley, with LeVar Burton.

 

Some of the film’s representations of cruelty — whippings, hangings, the sexual abuse of a young female slave named Patsey by her sadistic master — will also stir the memories of those Americans (like me) for whom “Roots” was a formative cultural experience. In 1977, when the mini-series, based on Alex Haley’s book, was first broadcast, it was heralded not only for its authenticity and comprehensiveness, but also for its newness. This was the first time such a story had been told in such breadth and detail, and with so much assembled talent. It continued, two years later, with “Roots: The Next Generations,” which was in some ways more groundbreaking for bringing attention to the often neglected decades of struggle and frustration that fell between the end of the Civil War and the birth of the modern civil rights movements.

Such stories, of course, do not stay told. The moral, economic and human realities of slavery — to keep the narrative there for a moment — have a way of getting buried and swept aside. For a long time this was because, at the movies as in the political and scholarly mainstream, slavery was something of a dead letter, an inconvenient detail in a narrative of national triumph, a sin that had been expiated in the blood of Northern and Southern whites.

D. W. Griffith’s “Birth of a Nation” may look now like a work of reactionary racism, but it is very much an artifact of the Progressive Era, embraced by President Woodrow Wilson and consistent with what were then understood to be liberal ideas about destiny and character of the American republic. In Griffith’s film (adapted from “The Clansman,” a best-selling novel by Thomas Dixon), the great crime of slavery had been its divisive and corrupting effect on whites. After Reconstruction, the nation was re-founded on the twin pillars of abolition and white supremacy.

Which is also to say on the basis of terror and disenfranchisement. But that side of the story was pushed to the margins, as was the harshness of slavery itself, which was obscured by a fog of sentimentality about the heritage and culture of the Old South. This was the iconography of “Gone With the Wind,” and while the pageantry of that blockbuster seems dated (to say nothing of its sexual politics), the old times it evokes are not forgotten, as Paula Deen might tell you.

The appeal of “Roots” lay partly in its status as a long-delayed, always-marginalized counternarrative, an answer to the mythology and romance that had shrouded popular representations of the American past. Much doubt has been cast on the accuracy of Haley’s book (which was marketed as a novel based on family sources), but the corrective power of the mini-series lay in its ability to reimagine the generation-by-generation sweep of American history from a perspective that had not before been synthesized on screens or public airwaves.

D. W. Griffith’s “Birth of a Nation” filmed in 1914.
Kino Lorber Inc.

D. W. Griffith’s “Birth of a Nation” filmed in 1914.

 

In retrospect, “Roots” — which arrived on television a dozen years after the legislative high-water mark of the civil rights movement, in the more immediate wake of Richard Nixon’s Southern strategy and the first “Rocky” movie — may have succeeded so widely with white and black audiences because it simultaneously opened and closed the book on America’s racial history. There were a lot more American families like the one in the mini-series, but also with their own distinctive sagas of captivity, freedom, migration and resilience.

Those intimate stories had never been shared in such a wide and public fashion and the reception of “Roots” had a catalyzing effect on the imagination of many black writers. Until then, slavery had been something of a taboo in African-American literature, whose thematic center of gravity was in the urban North and whose theme was the black experience of modernity. But “Roots,” clumsy and corny as parts of it look now, helped beget radical and ambitious novels like Toni Morrison’s “Beloved,” Charles Johnson’s “Middle Passage” and Edward P. Jones’s “Known World.” They, along with artists like Kara Walker, took slavery as an imaginative challenge and an artistic opportunity.

But there was also a sense, after “Roots” and after “Beloved” claimed its place in the canon, that it had all been said. The white audience, moved by duty, curiosity and sincere empathy, could now move on. The horrors of the past, especially when encountered on television, cast a soothing and forgiving light on the present, where some of us could be comforted, absolved, affirmed in our virtue through the simple fact of watching.

“Lee Daniels’ The Butler” with Forest Whitaker.
Anne Marie Fox/Weinstein Company

“Lee Daniels’ The Butler” with Forest Whitaker.

 

But after such forgiveness, what knowledge? Post-“Roots,” a Hollywood consensus took shape that replaced the old magnolia-scented mythology with a new one, almost as focused on the moral condition of white people, but with a different political inflection. The existence of racism is acknowledged, and its poisonous effects are noted. But it is also localized, in time and geography, in such a way as to avoid implicating the present-day white audience. The racists are clearly marked as villains — uncouth, ugly, ignorant in ways that no one watching would identify with — and they are opposed by a coalition of brave whites and noble, stoical blacks. At the end, the coach and his players, the preacher and his flock, the maid and her enlightened employer shame the bigots and vindicate the audience.

There are variations on this theme, of course, but it is remarkably durable. It links, for example, “The Help,” Tate Taylor’s mild and decorous look at master-servant relations in Mississippi in the early 1960s (based on Kathryn Stockett’s novel), with “Django Unchained,”Quentin Tarantino’s violent and profane (if no less fantastical) examination of the same subject in the same state a little more than a century before. In both cases, a white character (Emma Stone’s writer; Christoph Waltz’s itinerant dentist) helps a black protégé acquire the ability to humiliate the oppressors. The weapon might be a book, a pie or a hail of gunfire, but the effect is the same. Justice is served and everyone cheers.

Some of us, perhaps including the white directors, are cheering for ourselves. Look how bad it used to be. Thank goodness — our own goodness — that it isn’t anymore. And of course it is never just the way it used to be. The abolition of slavery and the dismantling of Jim Crow really happened, against considerable odds and thanks to blacks and whites who took risks that later generations can only regard with awe and patriotic pride. The challenge is how to complete a particular story and leave the audience with the understanding that the narrative is not finished, that the past, to modify everyone’s favorite Faulkner quote, is not quite past.

Recent work by academic historians has emphasized the extent to which the exploitation and oppression of African-Americans — the denial of their freedom as workers and their rights as citizens — is embedded in the national DNA. Walter Johnson’s “River of Dark Dreams” shows how the Cotton Kingdom of the 19th-century Deep South, far from being a backward outpost of feudalism, was a dynamic engine of capitalist expansion built on enslaved labor. “Fear Itself,” Ira Katznelson’s revisionist study of the New Deal, shows how the great edifice of American social democracy, passed with the support of Southern Democrats, rested on and upheld the color line. And while neither white supremacy nor slavery has legal standing or legitimate defenders in America today, it would be hard to argue that their legacy has been expunged, or to confine their scope to the benighted actions of a few individuals.

Racism is part of the deep structure of American life, which is to say a persistently uncomfortable and also a persistently interesting subject, a spur to artistic creation as well as historical research. “The Butler” and “12 Years a Slave” may not be telling entirely new stories, but they are trying to tell them in new ways. Mr. McQueen infuses what looks like a conventional costume drama with the unflinching rigor that has characterized his previous films, “Hunger” and “Shame.” Mr. Daniels, the director of “Precious” and “The Paperboy,” blends melodrama, naturalism and brazen theatricality into a pageant that knowingly flirts with self-parody even as it packs a devastating emotional punch.

“Django Unchained” (2012), directed by Quentin Tarantino, with Christoph Waltz, left, and Jamie Foxx.
Andrew Cooper/Weinstein Company

“Django Unchained” (2012), directed by Quentin Tarantino, with Christoph Waltz, left, and Jamie Foxx.

 

Some of that impact comes at the end of “Lee Daniels’ The Butler,” which pointedly asks the audience to consider what has and has not changed. It is not much of a spoiler to say that Barack Obama is elected president, an event that is especially sweet and piquant for the title character, a black man who worked in the White House through the administrations of every president from Eisenhower to Reagan.

And it is certainly not a spoiler to note that in real life, Mr. Obama’s election and re-election have not ushered in an era of colorblind consensus. On the contrary, the fervor of the opposition to the president, and its concentration in the states of the former Confederacy, have at least something to do with the color of his skin. But Mr. Obama’s victories, and the resistance to them, have opened a new and complicated chapter in a continuing story, which means also a new interest in how the past looks from this particular present.

This chapter is being portrayed on screen by filmmakers like Mr. Daniels and Mr. McQueen, and written in journalism, fiction and memoirs by a rising generation of African-American writers that includes Ta-Nehisi Coates, Kiese Laymon and Jesmyn Ward. Ms. Ward’s new book, “Men We Reaped,” is a Southern coming-of-age story that evokes a long tradition of black autobiography going back to slave narratives and (in its title) the words of Harriet Tubman and an old chain-gang work song. Ms. Ward’s stories of black men in tragic circumstances seem both ancient and contemporary, echoing back to the lives of those less lucky than Solomon Northup and connecting with the fates of Trayvon Martin and Oscar Grant III, whose 2009 killing by transit police in Oakland is the subject of the recent film “Fruitvale Station.”

What links these episodes is the troubling reality that now — even now, we might say, with a black president and a culture more accepting of its own diversity than ever before — the full citizenship, which is to say the full acknowledged humanity, of African-Americans remains in question. The only way to answer that question is to keep talking, and to listen harder.

 

A version of this article appears in print on September 29, 2013, on page AR1 of the New York edition with the headline: Never-Ending Story.

The Plight of Black Battered Women

See on Scoop.itOUR COMMON GROUND Informed Truth and Resistance

OUR COMMON GROUND Omnibus‘s insight:

Vernellia R. Randall
Professor of Law and 
Web Editor

 Linda L. Ammons,

excerpted From:  Babies, Bath Water, Racial Imagery And Stereotypes: The African -American Woman And The Battered Woman Syndrome , 1995 Wisconsin Law Review 1003-1080, 1017-1030 (1995) (275 Footnotes omitted)

 

"Battered African-American women are also particularly vulnerable because of the lack or the underutilization of resources. For example, African-American women hesitate to seek help from shelters because they believe that shelters are for white women. Because the shelters are associated with the women’s movement, and many black women are estranged from women’s politics, they may feel that only white women’s interests are served in the shelters. African-American women are not totally mistaken in this assumption. A study of the shelter movement in America led a researcher to conclude that black women are ignored in the policymaking, planning and implementation of shelter services. The lack of community outreach in black neighborhoods by the shelters also contributes to the perception that the safe havens are not for women of color. Finally, black women have found the shelter environment inhospitable to their cultural differences."

See on academic.udayton.edu

The Enduring Myth of Black “Buying Power” (2013)

See on Scoop.itOUR COMMON GROUND Informed Truth and Resistance

Update September 20, 2013  The myth does indeed endure.  A few weeks ago I was contacted about being quoted in a forthcoming article on “Black Buying Pow

OUR COMMON GROUND Omnibus‘s insight:

Update September 20, 2013 

The myth does indeed endure.  A few weeks ago I was contacted about being quoted in a forthcoming article on “Black Buying Power.”  I was initially hopeful but upon reading the piece had to unfortunately send the following to its author: OUR COMMON GROUND Voice, Dr. Jared Ball

See on imixwhatilike.org

Black Fire: An Anthology of Afro American Writing-Amiri Baraka and Larry Neal

See on Scoop.itOUR COMMON GROUND Informed Truth and Resistance

Black Fire: An Anthology of Afrom American Poetry

OUR COMMON GROUND Omnibus‘s insight:

Black Fire is a seminal literary resource from the Black Arts Movement. Editors Amiri Baraka and Larry Neal compiled over 180 selections from more than 75 cultural and political leaders, including John Henrik Clarke, Sonia Sanchez and Kwame Ture in this revolutionary anthology. Includes a new Introduction by Baraka.

See on www.blackclassicbooks.com

An African American Perspective on U.S. Exceptionalism | Black Agenda Report

See on Scoop.itOUR COMMON GROUND Informed Truth and Resistance

News, analysis and commentary from the black left.

OUR COMMON GROUND Omnibus‘s insight:

“In order to escape accountability for his crimes, the perpetrator does everything in his power to promote forgetting.”

An African American Perspective on U.S. Exceptionalism

by BAR editor and columnist Ajamu Baraka

See on www.blackagendareport.com