Old Revolutionaries don't die, they retreat to the academe

I think most of us old "revolutionaries" are still around in various iterations (if not dead or rotting away long forgotten in some remote prison); mainly in the academe where we're relatively safe from reprisal. We're still writing, agitating, acting as agents of change while "educating" the younger generation interested in learning about the "struggle for self-determination." We used to have a remarkable "rap session" in Detroit that I miss desperately. It was comprised of both young and old, college-educated and under-educated, law enforcement and ex-cons, gay and straight, dreadlock and "baldhead." But everyone was conscious. We'd smoke a little weed, drink a little beer, liquor, or consume nothing at all. But the information conveyed by those elders with often a memorably humorous delivery was invaluable... Now many younger brothers in their twenties and thirties are too "hypersensitive" to talk to or exchange information with: they immediately cop an attitude if their assumptions are challenged. And [you have to wonder why] many of us old heads do not even bother trying... and just observe with a combination of bemusement and sadness both. Al Sharpton talks about this problem with the young [hot] head activists not wanting to recognize or, more importantly, respect their elders in the "Movement." And there is no other community on earth that doesn't revere their elders like young black folks. Unless he is a malcontent, ne'er-do-well, unreformed criminal, dope friend, crack head, drunk, wino, deadbeat dad, or bum, no sixty-year-old black man has to earn a twenty- , or thirty- or forty-something-year old black man's respect. Brothers got it twisted. They have to earn his respect. Because he has been where they are going. He has already arrived in spite of it all. They ought to be so lucky...