Today is a sad day for many, me included. Muhammad Ali has died. From my youngest years I remember loving him. By the time I was born he was past his prime, but I didn't know that. And I didn't care. Boxing was just the arena he chose to display his awesomeness. I remember the words much more than the punches. He was a poet of the highest order who threw fists to emphasize his points. If you had asked me at any point in my childhood who my hero was, I would have quickly responded, "Muhammad Ali". Not my dad, not the president. Ali. I didn't realize it then, but looking back at my teen years, I was emulating Ali everywhere I went. I loved his brash style, the idea that you could say these beautiful words, just as long as you backed it up. But, of course, I was a teen, so I just spoke like him and worried about backing it up later. Surprisingly, it never really got me in trouble. At all my greatest moments in life, I've hollered, "I am the greatest!" and thrown my arms up in the air like him. I will continue to do so for as long as I live.
He was a curious choice for a young, suburban white kid to idolize. But idolize him, I did. Any time I've said anything witty or off the cuff in my life, you can be sure, it really came from him, even if the actual words were mine. And I grew up and got a minor in African American Studies, certainly at some level, because of him. He is a huge part of who I am, and his passing leaves me desolated.
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