Where there’s smoke there’s fire.
There was more smoke in the Cosby case than a BBQ pit on the fourth of July. 45 women have accused him. 45! A conspiracy involves 4 or 5 women; 45 women is an epidemic.
No one – or at least no one Black – wanted to believe he was guilty. Bill Cosby was our Thursday night happy for almost 8 years. He was our father figure. He was our inspiration. He was the guy who showed the world that there were indeed Black, educated, kind, married, dedicated fathers in the world. He was our Superman. Everybody needs a hero—a Superman.
We mourn when our heroes fall from grace. Most of us remember when we learned that Santa wasn’t real. We felt a loss—almost as if something died. And perhaps something did: a piece of innocence that believed in absolute goodness. Although we are far from kids, I think that is what has happened to a lot of us in the case of Cosby. We are mourning so much more than a man, or selfishly what even happened to these women, but for ourselves—for the loss of our Superman, our absolute goodness.