For the last two hundred weeks, I’ve written an original American humor column in what seems some of the grimmest times in the history of this great nation.

It was to be a salve, a balm, an analgesic to relieve the legacy pressure of undeniable, inescapable, and unavoidable identity. It was to stand as proof to the next generation of those considered exceptional yet disposable that history, though quite often written in blood, may also be captured in tears of joy.

This has not been accomplished.

That is the achievement of a novelist, a scholar, a person with less action figures displayed on their desk, walls, and bookshelves. Someone with pajama tops that match their pajama bottoms, with a full Mahler symphony occupying the brainspace I use for theme songs to classic television programs and old commercial jingles.

I have not, in the last 200 weeks, created a comprehensive argument guaranteeing All People perpetual basic dignity in every circle, community and circumstance. I have, instead, told stories about my childhood, observations from my youth, and the revelations of advanced age from my perspective as an African American living a lifetime straddling two quite volatile centuries. So much fun! Honestly!

But if you are a reader, I hope that you interpret :lowerblackpain as a consistent and intentional rhythm of appreciation; a lift, a pause, a bit of time-space where you can relax every seven days. I hope that Thursdays at 3:00 PM [EST] mean something new, and you feel I’ve approached your attention with respect and humility.

I appreciate that the world is ever faster, attentions and patience grow swiftly shorter, and there is SO much on Netflix to catch up on with those new Korean soap operas that look so incredibly soothing and all those back seasons of Gilmore Girls. So thank you, for your time. This is the longest I’ve ever done anything that is not a metabolic function.

It’s almost time for Spring Cleaning, and this year I am not just tackling physical objects, but tidying up memory, habit, and sentiment. It makes me kind of nervous how I can find something that was at first a miracle which is now obsolete - our original iPod for instance. Of course, I’m never throwing that away because it’s in the only thing in our house that is also in the Museum of Modern Art.

There’s a IKEA cube filled with all of the cords used to connect old technology to even older technology. Every year this collection degrades a bit more. Surely some of those little metal ends must fit into something I still have plugged in somewhere. Alas.

But I already know where I’m going to get stuck this year, and that is the piggy bank. It is filled with pennies, and for those of you reading this in the distant future, this is the When where the American one-cent piece was discontinued from production after 232 years. The chief complaint is that the coin costs more to produce than the materials it is made of are worth. Considering that, one couldn’t buy a penny with a penny.

It is fair to say that the entire currently living population of the USA grew up with pennies. I collected pennies, learned to flip and use them as tiddlywinks, and for most of my early childhood was paid with a handful or so for the completion of my household chores. That was, to be fair, back when one could purchase a delicious candy bar for 15 of them, or a comic book for 25.

Pennies are heavy. My numismatic wistfulness will not justify a fifty pound barrel of copper-plated discs. I’ll keep some made before 1982 (when they weren’t made of zinc) but then turn the rest in, just to hear that crazy casino sound of the coin counter at the bank, one more time.

What I am most worried about are the phrases. I won’t give those up.

Back when I didn’t have two cents to rub together, and I didn’t have a penny to my name, I had to become a penny pincher… because believe me, living in New York costs a pretty penny, but if I was in for a penny - I was in for a pound, and since a penny saved is a penny earned I pushed ahead, relying on two bits of advice: don’t be penny wise and pound foolish, and if you see a penny, pick it up (but not if it’s tails).

There aren’t that many great expressions about dimes.

The American penny has become part of our culture and language. People have combined pennies with resin to make interesting flooring and tables. The artist Shay Rose made a chain mail cocktail dress out of pennies. For some reason, Batman has a giant one in his cave. The idea that they are worth less than they are worth is mind twisting because finance has never the best way to valuate anything.

I want to keep enough pennies to be able to reach in and pull out a handful. That will never feel worthless to me, because I remember when my hands were much smaller and I could only grab maybe 35 at a time and I felt rich. I was proud to have earned them, and proud to have saved them, and everything purchased with them took on a special significance, because it was mine, bought with these tokens of hard work accomplished.

And I still remember that feeling, and I want to be able to keep it, because it’s worth way more than just a handful of pennies.

But that’s just my two cents.

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