As a kid, I booked a date with NBC each Thursday night, like millions of other African Americans, to watch “The Cosby Show.”
In my house, watching the show with my mother and brother was a family event all its own. At about five minutes to 8 p.m., my mother would yell "Cosby Show!" and my brother and I would abandon our homework, Barbie dolls and GI Joes to catch the opening of the show and scat the jazz theme song. Our eyes would light up to see such beautiful, accomplished brown people dancing tastefully, giving loving glances at each other and smiling contentedly.
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