By Kyla Jenee Lacey
Ever since I can remember, two constants have been in my life:
- My mother was never religious.
- She went all out for Christmas.
Each year she attacked the holidays with an ever increasing fervor. She has lived in the same mostly white neighborhood for 23 years, where all the homes are as homogeneous and drab as their inhabitants, so it is pretty obvious around Christmastime which one is the “black house” in the neighborhood.
Instead of a Martha Stewart-like wreath, there’s a big, black-ass Santa face displayed on the door that looks as if the Notorious B.I.G. came down from the North Pole where the Junior M.A.F.I.A. makes presents to alert the white people in the subdivision: “The only St. Nick we acknowledge is St. Nicky Barnes.”
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