Harlem
through the lens of Parks can be considered America through the eyes of the
working class and the underprivileged. A “For Sale” is dictates that one’s
lifetime of hard work and sacrifice, that “pursuit of happiness” can be
auctioned off to the highest bidder, that one dream can be easily siphoned off
if survival of the fittest is the evolutionary term we know it to be, the
excuse we see it to be today; an excuse to explain away our own selfishness,
murder without regard to the laws, paying the bribe, which is the only thing
that separates them and other scofflaws.
A
contract without the lifelong owner’s consent nor consultation, a fee passed
between two hands covered with black gloves, heads covered with black hats, no
refunds implied in a market where implications are never the need when currency
makes it redundant.
And
what is to become of those dreams dreamed so long that they are no longer
capable of self-renewing? Those night terrors feared so long that those who
have feared them all their life have become inseparable to their very myth? No
monopoly in human suffering exists in the grand scheme of profit, and no one is
immune to becoming a victim when the buyer possesses more than you happen to
possess.
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