words.

"Like a bunch of other festival revelers, the tie-dye-wearing Hula-Hooper and her crew share their knowledge and drugs. Along with joints they pass on compliments about how beautiful our skin is and how mesmerized they are by our hairstyles and the fact that we know the words to "white songs." They can't really be black, can they? I imagine them thinking. You can tell by their tone that they consider themselves sincere, generous even. The backwards generosity maybe an upshot of the electronic dance music credo, PLUR—Peace Love Unity Respect. I can't help but question if it's kindness or if they don't even see us.

My friend dubs it "black privilege." It's her glass half-full way of looking at racism, at least for the weekend. Instead of playing the race card or getting all angryblackwoman, we should just relish the moment, that for once in our lives we're benefiting from bigotry. Like a slave praising massah for leftover scraps and holey shoes. Am I supposed to say thank you? Should I just believe white people when they claim they aren't racist as a preface for saying something racist, like introducing us as "my black friend" or complimenting how articulate we are? I don't think there are enough psychedelics in this too-big world for me to ever consider microaggressions good-natured banter. 

...We come down off our acid so we light another blunt while Kendrick performs songs from his 2012 album, good kid, m.A.A.d. city. I nod my head and rap along for a while. Until the THC wears off. Then I'm standing still. Thinking. Again. Is Kendrick Lamar our Jimi Hendrix? Is this our version of crying for freedom? Are we today's counterculture? I watch the crowd—all the white people in designer thrift-store clothes and American Apparel bohemian chic rapping along to "Backseat Freestyle." In unison they shout, with their arms pumping up and down, "Martin had a dream. Martin had a dream. Kendrick have a dream."

I try not to laugh. Or to think about the thousands of pale Millennial hippies rapping about Dr. King's dream. Yet I can't help but wonder if they know that he also says "One hundred years later, the Negro still is not free." I question if they care that this still holds true. My friend passes me the joint. I try to inhale until I can no longer hear white people screaming "nigga" along with Kendrick. I wonder why I can't be more like them. Their drugs must be stronger."

GAWKER: Half-Dancing in Those Post-Racial Moments