For the second year in a row, I made the pilgrimage to the Chosen Few Picnic & Festival. Last year I didn’t know what to expect—other than the music. House Music. The soundtrack of my club days (well, nights). The music of the AKA’s, the Smart Bar, the Riviera. Back when if you didn’t leave the club drenched in sweat, you weren’t doing it right.
This year, I came chasing the euphoria I felt last time. That high-frequency pulse of Black Joy. And I wasn’t disappointed.
At one point, I stood still—just for a second—right in the middle of the deep house classic Can You Feel It… Feel It. Caught in the groove and overwhelmed with gratitude, I asked myself: is it the music or the people?
In my humble, unwavering opinion—it’s the people.
Black people.
The smiles from strangers, connected through rhythm and ancestry. The heartfelt hugs from folks you know. The laugh-out-loud moments born from running jokes with folks under the neighboring tent you just met.
The food!
Shout out to Brother Jean-Claude and our Delta sister Dana who set it out proper.
And the Bruhs—from ‘79 to ‘25—coming together from every corner of the country, locked in that rare fellowship and friendship that is truly unique to the men of Omega Psi Phi.
Black Joy is a phenomenon.
Black Joy cannot be manufactured.
Black Joy cannot be duplicated.
Karen Hunter had a guest on her show recently—a white man, interestingly enough—who offered a sharp truth about the difference between Black joy and white joy.
He said, “…white joy is often expressed through destruction and violence.”
Think about it.
Their team wins a championship, and they hit the streets flipping cars and setting shit on fire. Drunk. Disorderly. Breaking stuff in the name of celebration.
Black Joy is seasoned.
The flavor’s deep. The timing’s perfect.
The ingredients are simple—but sacred.
And other cultures can’t replicate it.
They always mess up the balance, come in off beat, and most of all—they not Us.
Once again, I jacked my old body for a good 30 seconds, dapped so many brothers my knuckles were sore, smiled so wide my face hurt.
I filled my tank with joy. The kind that sustains me until the next time I’m in communion with my people.
My beautiful, brilliant, beat-holding, joy-drenched people.
Black people.
