When I think of growing up in West Oakland, on 7th and Campbell, across the street from the Lincoln Theatre, we called the flea house. I knew I would come home from the Lincoln with fleas. My grandmother would prescribe Eucalyptus for me, and I would cover myself with the leaves to stop the fleas from scratching me. And then there were the rats, but it was just nice to be in a theatre that showed Black movies, along with the white man killing Indians as we cheered in our ignorance.
No comments:
Post a Comment