![]() This is the loudest I’ve ever heard the siren song calling me to leave. I wake up sending my kids to school, wondering if my love of this place has doomed us. Where the appeal to Southernness supersedes mask mandates in schools, quarantine protocols and vaccinations. I write this from my home outside of Atlanta, in Cobb County, where a governor and school superintendent would rather appeal to their base than enforce public health protocols that would keep my children safe. ![]() I’ve known since I was a child that I’ll never truly leave the South, even though this South, the post-Donald Trump South of rage and violence, feels like it’s pushing me closer to death than I’ve ever been. Even after knowing how this place tried to kill my daddy in the ’60s and steal land from my grandaddies before then. I’ve lived and felt my truest self in the South for my entire life. Particularly the Black South that is full of liberation, fire, Medgar Evers and Fannie Lou Hamer, fried catfish and people who crumble cornbread over their greens. The Undefeated asked our writers to pick the most important albums from an insane year.
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