That B!tch Set Me Up: Consequences of Being a Slave to the Pipe
"That B!tch set me up!!"
Mayor Marion Barry of Washington, D.C.
Vista Hotel (Washington, D.C.)
January 18, 1990
I confess, I didn't give John Singleton his flowers while he was alive. I vaguely remember Boyz n the Hood. The only image I recollect is the "innocent" brother shot dead in the street. Meanwhile, the villainous sibling survived. Snowfall, the FX series produced by the late John Singleton details the sordid rise of crack cocaine descending upon central Los Angeles, in 1983. U.S. government involvement, Columbian involvement, Mexican involvement: Black community demise. Ultimately, this white substance, decimated the Black community. Crack cocaine. This substance had women selling their bodies, mutilating their soul. One hit. One puff and you were a slave to the pipe.
"That B!tch set me up!", shouted the late Marion Barry, former Mayor of Washington, D.C., as the authorities stormed into his hotel room at the Vista Hotel, while he was taking a hit from the pipe. Snow falling down his lungs, hijacking his brain. No one was immune...except if you didn't touch it. It was called "rock", "crack". It created border babies, those babies of pregnant women who had crack flowing through their veins...their blood supply...their breast milk. For five dollars, they would sexually satisfy men just to get a hit of the pipe.
For the love of money is the root of all evil. Snowfall reveals this from the Black boy to the CIA, who were both conspirators in the "war" on drugs. The main character of the series is played by Nigerian British actor Damson Idris. However, in the series, his character's name is Franklin Saint. Really? So throughout the series, everyone is calling him "Saint" or Mr. Saint. He was anything but. He takes his "saintly" position to begin destroying the Black community. One pipe at a time. It's a family affair. His mother. His aunt. His uncle. His father. All of them engaged. For the love of money.
As I watch Snowfall, it's a harsh reality, a grim memory of crack valves and blood stains, huddled together like inseparable lovers in playgrounds, parks, and housing projects. Oh, that's a crackhead. The taunting. The snickering...the disrespect directed toward the addict feigning for the next hit was quotidian. Being a slave to the pipe cost us our Black men and women. It was the ultimate "pipe" line to prison. I'm not certain if we would ever recover from the destruction of the so-called Saints or the CIA. Fast forward, 30 years later. The same city ravaged by crack, is now unaffordable for its previous tenants, the Black community. Instead of crackheads, there are now colonizers, coffeeshops, and condos. It was the best extermination plan which strategically decapitated the Black family and the Black community. We did it to ourselves for the love of money, which is the root of all evil.
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