tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84938768115285564102024-03-13T23:27:10.448-04:00In My Humble Opinion...A place to share my opinions, social commentary, and reviews. Expect an occasional short story or recipe too... Enjoy!In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-82918299441851966252021-06-20T03:53:00.003-04:002021-06-20T03:59:06.487-04:00Get to Work<span id="docs-internal-guid-fbaa5d09-7fff-5309-7dcd-193ed30479cb"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My father Louis Sr. was like life, hard but most times fair. His reputation preceded him and afforded me currency in spaces I had not yet earned. He was serious most times but loved to laugh and had a wry sense of humor that could cut if you caught it by the blade. He had a sweet tooth and loved to dance to calypso, if only in the kitchen with my mother. He kept his wallet, pen, handkerchief, and pocket knife in the same spot on the dresser so consistently that the finish in that corner was worn. He was dependable in a way most people are not, and you could not ask him what he thought if you did not want to know the truth about a thing. Some twenty-five years after I officially left New York I, unfortunately, returned for the funeral of a dear childhood brother. (RIP Jeff) When I made my way inside of the church a neighborhood friend exclaimed from a pew “Boy, Mr. Lord was no joke!” Then he said hello. Hard but most times fair.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Those traits were not given but rather earned. My paternal grandfather immigrated to the U.S. from Guyana in 1917. My grandmother Ruby made her advent from (meh likkle island) Jamaica around the same time. My father was a man in a boy’s body during the Great Depression. After my grandfather completed medical school he separated from my grandmother, a decision she was not initially privy to, and my father was left to look over his mother and siblings in Harlem well before gentrification. Pre-teen Louis worked for the local drugstore, sold vegetables from a pushcart, and delivered the home-cooked meals and cakes my grandmother made from scratch and memory from her Harlem kitchen. When talking to my high school or college friends decades later, my then well-aged father would always impart “a man should always have an honest hustle.” I see so much of him in my son. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Those of you who have lost a parent know how the instances periodically play back like movie scenes. I sometimes think of an experience I had as a boy that left my father’s imprint on me. There are many, but this one always comes to attention like a soldier that heard a command no one gave. I was in elementary school, and up until that night, I don’t ever recall being sick to my stomach. This night something took hold of me and this very foreign feeling woke me from my sleep. As hard as I tried I did not make it to the bathroom. My father was a notoriously light sleeper and the commotion I caused in my failed attempt found me bent over in the hallway looking at his bedroom shoes, holding my hands over my mouth when that ship had so very obviously sailed. I remember feeling helpless and scared, and for some reason I started apologizing. I was standing in the narrow hallway holding soiled hands in the air whimpering “I’m sorry...I’m sorry…” By then my mother was on scene but my father waved her off. “I got it, you go back to bed.” Just like that he rubbed my back and patted in sequence- rub, rub, rub-pat, pat, pat. Before he helped me to the restroom he stood me up and said “Don’t you ever apologize, it’s my job to take care of you.” I watched him get on his hands and knees and clean up after me. He washed my face and helped me change my clothes. He helped me back to bed and reminded me of his charge in a louder tone to make sure I understood. “It’s my job…” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">********************************************************************************************************************Every meal I have ever made my son is wrapped in that moment. Every school trip I chaperoned, every time I dropped him off but doubled back to make sure. Every older schoolmate I stared down just because. Every golf ball I drop in the fairway when we can’t find his(or mine!) and say “Found it!” All of it influenced by a middle-of-the-night wretch session in a cramped hallway.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Happy Father’s Day brothers!!! A prayer for those of us robbing Peter to pay Paul to make it happen, and those of us blessed to not have to do so. A special intention for those of us who have lost our way. May you find your way back on task in time to speak into ears and hearts willing to listen. Fatherhood is our job. It’s hard but most times fair.</span></p><br /><br /></span>In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-82171878653843813492020-05-21T09:58:00.000-04:002020-05-21T09:58:37.907-04:00I Run, With My Hands Up, But I Can’t Breathe by L.E. Lord<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ahmaud Arbery was murdered. My sister says I need to work on getting right to the point of a thing, so there it is. Ahmaud Arbery was stalked and murdered, and gregory and travis mcmichael are murderers. Let us not forget william bryan is somehow complicit. If the scales of justice prove once again off-balance, we will lament and press on, and wait for the fire next time.</div>
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<i>…and we line church pews, perform salat and cypher…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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A little over 11 years ago my wife and I attended one of our last pre-natal visits together, as we did all the visits before. The thing that made this visit extra special was that we decided to accept the doctor's offer to find out the biological sex of the baby we were oh so eager to receive. Somewhere near the end of our scheduled time together the doctor removed his examination gloves and asked “So, are you ready to find out what you are having?” We locked eyes and nodded the affirmative in unison. “It’s a boy!” For our own reasons this was a special pregnancy for us. Expectant parents are trained to “…just pray for a healthy baby.” Ask any anxious parents what gender they fancy and they will almost always instinctively respond “We just want a healthy baby.” I venture that if you get the father alone, in confidence he will admit that he wants a boy; I do not know a father that did not want a son. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i> …and we listen to hip-hop, jazz, and rhythm&blues…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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My wife smiled and I cried. A boy. MY boy. Someone to nurture, someone to care for. Someone to buy all the sneakers I wanted but could not afford. Someone to pull books off the shelf for when I think he is ready, placing them in his open hands with the sacred decree to “read these.” I cried tears of joy and gratitude. I distinctly remember that at some point a different feeling crept in. I recognized it but felt it was out of place in that space, at that moment. I was sad. Well, I was sad and anxious. My wife is Black, as am I. My seed would be Black. Black like Till, like Martin and Malcolm. Black like Michael Griffith, Yusef Hawkins, and Amadou Diallo. Black like Eleanor Bumpurs and all of the people in the incidents that happened around a budding me that helped shape my worldview. I was sad because I knew then (as I do now) that my Black son would be born into a world that does not love him, and for no reason other than the color of his skin. Please do not misunderstand. There are non-Black people on this Earth that have shown me love and love me, no doubt. Some of them prayed with us for our Black son before he was born and loved him without limitation once he arrived. I am talking about the societal framework of the American system and beyond. The actual architecture of a system designed to oppress non-White and poor people systematically: mentally, physically, and financially.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>…and we sip bourbon, smoke cigars, and self-medicate…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Have non-White and poor people made great strides over time on the globe? Absolutely. Through grace, persistence, and resilience a good number of us have moved on up. The Talented Tenth is alive and well. Staying alive was, is, and will be the challenge. In the middle of a global pandemic and at the mouth of challenging economic times for all of us, one might think that Americans would muster that September 12<span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 0; position: relative; top: -0.5em; vertical-align: baseline;">th</span>. spirit and re-discover our “…crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea” Americanism. My father served this country in the United States Marine Corps during a time when the powers that are did not want Black recruits to serve, and certainly did not intend to keep them in service after they served their purpose. Proud does not describe how I felt when I draped the Congressional Gold Medal my father was posthumously awarded around my mother’s shoulders. I’ll stand for the national anthem, don’t mind that I am slow to rise.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>…No refuge could save the hireling and slave, from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I awoke from a well-deserved nap to a television commercial about opioid addiction. The faux lawyer informed of a class-action lawsuit filed by American cities and counties against the makers of popular drug OxyContin, the drug infamously credited with helping to fuel the opioid crisis. I was a latchkey kid and I watched more than my fair share of after school television before my parents got home. I assure you, the 1980's and 90’s offered no t.v. spots inviting poor souls with crack additions to participate in a multibillion-dollar lawsuit. All things considered; I am certain a commercial that called the bodies responsible for fueling the crack-era out by name would prove uncomfortable for some. Do the research.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And please know, we are more tired of talking about it than you are of hearing it. Every eye roll and “here we go” you proffer is eclipsed by a personal experience- a story, a pang of fear, a shed tear, a drop of blood. The fabric of this nation is stitched with painful thread. The benefit of the doubt and a second chance are sweet treats not all get the chance to taste. During this COVID-19 pandemic, the CDC recommends wearing face coverings in public to help slow the spread of this wicked disease. As Paul Laurence Dunbar so eloquently proffered, <i>We Wear the Mask</i>, but our masks fit different. Is it lost on you that during such trying times, whether you agree with the science or not, that some of your fellow countrymen struggle with the decision to wear the suggested face coverings in some settings? Your firearm permit allows you to stand in the face of law enforcement officials and spew insult; my permit grants me the award of being shot in my seat, as I “just comply” the way so many say I should. If Dameon Shepard’s mother was not home, he would most likely be another hashtag.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>…and we earn the degree, and mow our lawns, and head nod in the elevator to say “I see you…”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Review the data the Constitutional Rights Foundation, the Prison Policy Initiative, the Equal Justice Initiative, Repairers of the Breach, and countless other organizations have provided over time (again, I will not do your homework for you). Overall, Black, Brown, and poor people do not get the accommodations. The opportunity to call in a favor, to reach out to mommy/daddy’s friend to discuss “how we can make this go away” is not afforded to all. It is insensitive, disingenuous, and ignorant to criticize the person paying for groceries with public assistance, while you vacation on the disability check from your trick back. “Why do you look at the speck of dust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?” That’s in the Bible you claim to love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our son was born in October, SpelHouse Homecoming season. One of my brothers gifted me a picture for our son’s room that I unwrapped joyfully. When I saw my present I understood immediately, as my father did before me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>…and we vote, and debate, and plot, and pray.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>*A prayer for the peaceful repose of the soul of </i>Ahmaud Arbery, and all God’s children that lose the gift of life because of who they are and what they look like.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">Image: “A Father’s Prayer” by Sidney Carter</span></i></div>
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In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-86516423407604601952013-06-10T02:02:00.001-04:002013-06-10T02:02:42.117-04:00Be a Man Son
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Those in the fraternity know the commercials don’t help. With
my fifth official Father’s Day on the horizon I realize I have matured. I smile
when people wish me a “Happy Father’s Day” and resist the urge to respond “Thanks,
but it would really be a happy day for me if…” Admittedly it takes time, but after
a loved one dies you realize though they are physically gone they are
ever-present. They visit us in the passing scent or a comment from an honest
child. I like to believe our angels send us thoughts and unexpected blessings
to let us know they are there, watching. I also believe they visit us in the remembrances
of the time we spent with them and in the lessons they left. Thank God for the
lessons.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
patronize a local mall whenever possible. It is in an area some may consider “urban”
in the new negative sense but I try to spend money there when I can. I have
however decided that as a family we visit this particular place as early as
possible. Like Whodini proffers, “The freaks come out at night.” As late day
became early evening I remembered I wanted a few things and decided to hit the
mall. Time of day and my son’s heavy Sunday cartoon rotation dictated I would
be traveling alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When you go places alone you only have to worry about yourself. </i>As
I’m sure it is for most men the shopping was uneventful. I knew what I wanted
so I went in, found my size, and paid for it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I reached the parking lot I heard a woman’s
voice in an emergent tone. She demanded the receiver of her command “Get the
f*ck away from me!” I focused on the source of the commotion as I made my way to
my car. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never break stride. </i>A woman
was arguing with her male companion in front of the pre-teen girl that
accompanied them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they cursed and
shoved each other I wondered how many times this poor child had watched this
scene play out. As I feared he would the cowardly shell drew back his hand and
struck the woman in her face. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
pause she hit him back and the shoving continued. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Men don’t hit women. Period. <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I pulled my car around on
his blind side and got out before the bully could see me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Opening the car door caught his attention and
gave him a new target for a moment. The young lady took a few steps forward and
almost stood directly next to me. Imagine being so scared and frustrated you
would stand next to a perfect stranger without even knowing his intention. I
stepped away from the girl and toward this “man.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Always give yourself space. Watch his hands. </i>I told him how
cowardly his actions were (in more colloquial language) and reminded him he had
his child watching. His defense was, “She’s not my daughter. She is a niece.” I
let a couple seconds of silence pass for the ridiculousness of that statement
to settle in. The woman (who I might add never stopped talking smack???) took the
opportunity to take the young one by the hand and walk to the neighboring bus
stop. That left me and the woman beater alone to do whatever it is that two men
decided to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we did just that- we
talked. He told me their whole story, or at least his side of it. He complained
that her family was taking advantage of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He griped that the child was left in their care. He grumbled about his
woman this, and his woman that. I never missed an opportunity to chime in. “Men
don’t hit women.” I heard my father’s voice and was suddenly standing in our
old living room. Actually he was standing and I was fixed on the plastic
covered yellow/goldish couch. I have never seen anything since that matched that
couch exactly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">My
father was clear. “Unless you are trying to save your life or someone else’s
life you should never hit a woman. If I ever hear tell of you hitting a woman I
will kill you.” Those that knew my father know that was how he shared important
information. It was short and succinct and usually followed by some sort of
threat. A threat I never doubted he would carry out if my mother wasn’t home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked this man how he would feel if his
mother or sister or daughter called to tell him their mate just beat them in
the mall parking lot. His silence meant that he saw the point, he was tired of
the conversation, or both. I urged him to do better and back up the few steps
to my open car door. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t turn your back
on anyone. </i>I am wise enough to know that he probably caught the next bus
home to finish the fight, but I am foolish and faithful enough to believe that
just maybe…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I hear
you Pops. I always do. Thank you for it all. The lessons I learned and the few
that escaped me. Thank you for watching over the loved ones you left. You would
have gotten a kick out of your youngest grandson. He is a thinker like you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before I
got up from the warm plastic on the couch my father put his hand on my shoulder
and caught my eye to make sure he had my full attention. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Always be a man son. Be a damn man. </i>I am trying Pops.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-68155101915439699052013-02-02T20:53:00.000-05:002013-02-02T20:53:07.711-05:00Get Up, Get Out, and DO SOMETHING!<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<span class="userContent"> Happy Belafonte delivers a rousing and timely call to action during his Spingarn Medal acceptance speech at the NAACP Awards. At the same time that speech airs some yet unidentified (although authorities "have a good idea who the suspect is") misguided young man does the devil's work and uses a gun to shoot a student at Morehouse College after a pick-up basketball game. Dear Old Morehouse- the nation's only all-male, <span class="text_exposed_show">predominately African-American liberal arts institution. How timely was Mr. Belafonte?<br /> It is time to take an honest look at the culture (yes, the music, dress, motivation, drive...) and act. There is no time to waste arguing about individual freedoms and the right to express oneself. We should return to the values our forefathers held dear. Ill-prepared parents are raising ill-prepared children the culture turns into well prepared miscreants. Conflict resolution is an art we should embrace immediately. It should be taught at the most elementary level. Men should return to the community immediately and strive to protect and educate the women and children we find there. </span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> There are too many pictures of buffoonery on social media and not enough pictures of mentorship and fellowship. The music is base and empty. We glorify the liar and braggart. I know men who don't make time to spend with the children they gave seed to but will stand in line to pay money they don't have to spend that same time with entertainers who despise them. I know women who find those men attractive.</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> I love to laugh and I'm good for a quip,but like my dear friends father says, "Joke is joke, but damn joke ain't no joke." Whatever you do, do something.<br /> In my humble opinion.</span></span></div>
In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-20237757095012785962012-07-20T10:55:00.000-04:002012-07-20T10:55:06.232-04:00What Kind of World...Prayers go out to all of the victims of this (recent)senseless tragedy in Colorado. As my wife instructed me to "turn on the news" I knew something had gone wrong in the world as I slept. As always I will be honest with you. Though my first words to her centered on the need for prayer at this time my first thought was selfish. I was glad we were not there. Though it wouldn’t be logical for 40 year old parents of a little one to be in a movie theatre clear across the country at midnight, everything and nothing makes sense at dawn.<br />
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The second thing I thought of is Cornel Campbell’s version of The Cables classic “What Kind of World.” His accented falsetto begs the question, “What kind of world am I living in? Is it a world without love?” This song sometimes plays in my head whenever I see or hear something ridiculous or tragic. The news of moviegoers being gassed and gunned down is both. Next, images of last week’s family vacation played through. As I ushered my son through security at the Empire State Building I remember thinking “We got through too quick.” I looked around at all of the people I didn’t know-people of different hues, religions and cultures, and I wanted to grab my family and run. Hey, I said I would be honest.<br />
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I grew up in a place where no two people were from the same place but generally it was cool. The rules to get along weren’t very complicated. Sweep your steps off and keep the noise down. If I have a driveway don’t block it. There were no “anti- bullying” campaigns. If you talked about my mother I talked about your father worse. If you didn’t have one in the house it made it better for me. We dusted off our bruised feelings and went back to the park- a five on five full usually squashed all beefs. I admit I take license and romanticize about the past. Don’t we all? Most of my friend’s sentences start with “Back in the day…” Whenever the “reason” for this heinous act of cowardice is uncovered it will of course pale in comparison to the damage done. The punishment would not have fit the supposed crime. <br />
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I will continue to fight the daily urge to buy more guns and run for the hills but I will stop making fun of those that have. I wonder if Cornel Campbell ever hums to himself?<br />
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Pray people. There is power in it.<br />
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In my humble opinion…In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-53945904796704721122012-03-25T12:53:00.004-04:002012-03-25T13:06:42.451-04:00Hooded, Not Blinded<span id="internal-source-marker_0.020385509004284263" style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“The problem with people…people who have only partly comprehended that race is no longer the primary defining factor of American life, is that they…unknowingly keep watch over the masters’ wealth; and that the power of that wealth maintains all the ignorance of centuries of classism, racism, and the hierarchy that ignorance demands.”</span><br />
<span style="color: orange;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Leonid McGill, from Walter Mosley’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">All I Did Was Shoot My Man</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “I should be able to wear what I want!” That is what I used to mutter at my mother while I was holding the detached (and forcibly so) hood from my most recent purchase. Sometimes she would respond, but most of the time my words would bounce off her back as she walked down the hall outside my bedroom. </span><br />
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</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> That is the second thing I thought of when I heard the initial account of the murder of Florida teen Trayvon Martin. And let us not mince words or shrink away from what reason provides. This child was murdered. The first thing I thought of was my son. After the initial joy I remember the dread that crept up through my belly like so many punches to the gut when the nurse performing the sonogram on my wife proclaimed “It’s a boy!” You see, my eyes were open well before the murder of Trayvon. I know there is something else at work here. The African American male is all but guaranteed a contrastive experience in these United States. One that will at some point take a hard left from the path his peers of various races are on. Not debatable. It is guaranteed.Though the range and scope of the experience may vary, ask any black man you know to tell you his “aha moment” and he will recount it as easily as you could tick off what you had for breakfast this morning. I had many.</span></div><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> After my mixed race elementary school turned us out into the sun one afternoon a friend decided to walk home with me. When we reached the avenue that bordered my neighborhood he stopped. With a blank yet somehow telling look on his face he sheepishly revealed, “My parents said I can’t go down there.” My first thought was “Down where?” As I watched him shuffle off the other way I almost didn’t want to go “down there” either. Hell, maybe he knew something I didn’t. Fast forward some years and Michael Griffith is streaking across the Belt Parkway in a fight for his life after being chased out of Howard Beach by a pack of cowardly teens. He lost that fight. When my mother found out I was driving my high school buddy John home to Howard Beach she forbid it. I couldn’t go down there. Tight shoes hurt no matter what foot they’re on.</span><br />
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</span><span style="color: orange;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> But back to the matter of the hooded sweatshirt. A Champion hoodie, black to be exact, was the only sweatshirt any self respecting member of my urban peer group would be caught wearing. Allowances were made for crew neck or colored variations, but you had to have the sneakers to match. This was high level stuff, no half-stepping allowed. I worked before I had the state issued “working papers” coveted by city teens, and had several jobs in the neighborhood over time. Whether delivering the newspaper, groceries, or at my job at a local mom and pop cutlery shop, I made my own money and thought I should decide how it was spent. Enter the dragon (or dragon-lady as it were). My mother despised hooded sweatshirts of any color or style. She associated them with negativity and crime because most of the negativity and crime she saw in our neighborhood was perpetrated by a young black male in a black hooded sweatshirt. I made a special effort to hide my hoodies until I could do my own laundry. Whenever that effort failed I was greeted with the body of what once was a hooded sweatshirt (sans hood) sprawled across my bed. She took no pity. Jagged scissor marks and holes adorned the collar. All that was missing was the yellow crime scene tape. I would of course do what any rebellious man child would. On payday I would march back to the avenue my boyhood friend feared (apparently he and his parents had no idea what they were missing) and lay down another “forty dollars no tax.” Days later I would enter my room to find the mutilated corpse. Another victim of a shear wielding vandal.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> This went on until I left mom and pop’s roof for a college arch. As I matured the many lessons my parents attempted to teach me would bare and I often thought about this epic battle of wills with my mother. At some point in adult life you focus on not what a person did, but why they did it. I took stock of my mother and what tempered her worldview. Born in the 1930’s South, my mother grew up in an era where at times anything outside of “yas sir” or “naw sir” could literally cost you your life. This was especially true for black men. Granted, slavery was officially over but the stain remained. When something stirs the memory my mother recounts sneaking away from the family house one morning to go into the neighboring woods with her siblings. The mission was to spy a peek at the corpse of a recently lynched black man. To be clear that’s mutilated- and- hung- from- the- neck -until -he -died man. I know what seasoned her broth, It’s just that the “Fight the Power” generation I grew up in wasn’t drinking it. I mean, after all, this is the land that promises “liberty and justice for all” right? I stood with my classmates and swore allegiance to the flag that sealed that deal every morning. Certainly I was free to wear what I wanted,no? </span></div><span style="color: orange;"><br />
</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> A demure and graceful priest once taught me that the definition of freedom is “Your right to do what you want, as long as it does not impede the rights of others.” That should certainly include my right to don a sweatshirt for a walk to the store for candy and tea, no matter the opinion of a wannabe cop or has been shock journalist. So I will reach for my hoodie and join with those that mourn the loss of Trayvon Martin. There is something to be said about solidarity. I will also note the moment but join the movement for faith without works is dead. We should never pass on an opportunity to actively speak out against the attitudes, laws, and practices that seek to justify senseless acts of ignorance and violence like the murder of an innocent, no matter their race, creed, or orientation. As a human being I pray for the peaceful repose of young Trayvon’s soul. As a father of a boy I pray a special intention for Trayvon’s father. A man’s instinct is to protect. I cannot imagine the sound of my son’s first cry in life being drowned out by a recording of his last.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: orange; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I will act while waiting for the justice for all this country boasts, but I won’t wait long. Though my hood is on I can still see.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-63249790924440726652012-01-10T18:31:00.000-05:002012-01-10T18:31:17.622-05:00Red Tails: Please Do The Right Thing, For Better or Worse<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">If an accomplished director like George Lucas has to finance a movie like this on his own, hasn’t <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Hollywood</place></city> once again (and hopefully finally) proven to us that they are only interested in very specific and limited portrayals of us? Lucas said, “I wanted to make it inspirational for teenage boys.” Looking at the condition of a large number of our boys I appreciate his effort. When he started he had a consulting group of 40 Tuskegee Airmen. There were approximately 7 left when the movie was complete. There is so much of our AMERICAN history in this movie I feel we would all fail terribly if we cannot contribute to this film having a blockbuster opening weekend, the only weekend that matters in <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Hollywood</city></place>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">If this was a big screen offering from the Housewives franchise (or Scarface 2012, or Ballerina Meets Hood Dude That Can Really Dance But Just Needed An Opportunity To See Life Outside The Hood...2) there wouldn’t be a question of international marketing and box office receipts. I don’t think you can have an opinion in the “<place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Tyler</city></place> vs. Spike,et al.” debate (however ridiculous that is) and not support this movie on opening weekend January 20, 2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll kick the soapbox over now, but I reserve the right…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Vew official Red Tails trailer here:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/RedTailsMovie?v=uQdUOWcsCrE&feature=pyv&ad=11879477703&kw=red%20tails">http://www.youtube.com/user/RedTailsMovie?v=uQdUOWcsCrE&feature=pyv&ad=11879477703&kw=red%20tails</a></div>In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-24946624415148785992011-07-16T02:44:00.001-04:002011-08-13T09:21:01.929-04:00I Came for My Tux...<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix"><div> January 16, 2010<br />
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After sneaking a few spoons of Irish oats from my son's bowl, I started my Saturday with a trip to the drycleaner. I always enjoy these brief visits with Park, the owner, because he is on my list. You see I keep a mental list of people that I enjoy talking to because they always impart some wisdom, some jewel that I tuck away and unfurl when the time is right. So you don't walk away from this questioning yourself-yes, you are on the list. It is actually a working document made up of all of the people that I have met, will, and hope to meet before it is said and done, but that's not what this is about.<br />
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When the normal pleasantries were dispensed with we got down to business. I normally leave with a bit of small business advice, a parenting note or piece of information for the file, but there was no time for that. "Can you believe what happened in Haiti?" he asked. "No", I responded. "It's really incredibly sad and hard to fathom. I mean, how much can one people stand?" He went on to tell me that while he lived and operated a business in Florida he gained immense respect for the Haitian community there. "Really hard working people. They keep to themselves and work hard," Park said, qualities any hard-working and honest immigrant would appreciate. He went on, and the shoe dropped. "I like the Haitians, but I have no respect for the Jamaicans. They are all into the drug selling, and they steal." He might as well have added "They smell and talk funny," all things I heard about any group of people that migrated to the New York borough of Queens I grew up in. When my family moved from Brooklyn to Jamaica Queens in the early 1970's, my new neighbor Ms.Iboni still rushed through the vacant lot next door after a rain to collect the snails that appeared and made wine in her basement. I mean she "made" wine. There was a small wooden pit down there that she actually used to crush grapes with her feet. I bet we smelled funny to her, because she smelled like grapes and the corner market to me, but again, I digress.<br />
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In 38 years I have learned to welcome moments like this instead of run from them. I let Park finish, pondered a moment, and responded. "You know not all Jamaicans steal and sell drugs. As a matter of fact, I'm Jamaican." Before he could respond or apologize, something the look on his face told me he wanted to do, I continued. "Well, I'm not from Jamaica, but my grandmother was." I went on to tell him about Ruby Hyacinth Duncombe, born in Kingston in 1897, and migrated to America around 1917. I told him how proud I was when I found her name in the Ellis Island online logs, and how she cooked and baked the best black cake and royal white icing you could buy, all to support herself in a Harlem that doesn't look much like the one that stands now. The bell rang and the door opened for another patron on a Saturday morning pick-up mission, but I was on a roll. I told him about my immigrant Guyanese grandfather, Edward Adolphus Rufus Lord, a member of the freshman class of 1918 at Howard University. He was the first black doctor in Bainbridge Georgia circa 1935, and both brave and fool enough to believe the town needed an NAACP chapter. His death went down on the books as an accident. I also invited him to visit Lord Avenue in Bainbridge if he got the chance, and let him know that if there are any drug dealers on the block, I don't know them.<br />
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I paid for my clothes in silence, but we smiled, shook hands, and parted with the relationship in tact. The conversation left me with much to think about, as I pray it did him. On the eve of a national holiday that was fought for to commemorate the life and works of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and in the midst of a tragedy of mind and body but triumph for the soul in Haiti (yea, though Haiti and her citizens are bowed, they are not broken, and the world's response nourishes the soul) when will we ever get to "the content of one's character" and deal with the individual versus some misplaced stereotype? Can we ever? Can we as Black people acknowledge that we too suffer with color and class consciousness issues and move forward? Why can't we respect and enjoy each cultures individual contribution to the word, without infusing our individual assumptions and opinions? Why are people so damned scared to discuss race in this country?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWwFR5KocQCgfsr3RvRYsmOLv9J4Sf8nvTClIE3VYUFjIH1Tp3BCbX1UZ1ywtV9tlK-Mh8dYBFQS4A3zAk62K44DY3hYzCa5u4HGNu1ZUDueEAx9ztX8-PZHGqnlG94BDM97T2hBtI9v2Z/s1600/Dr.+E.A.R.+Lord.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWwFR5KocQCgfsr3RvRYsmOLv9J4Sf8nvTClIE3VYUFjIH1Tp3BCbX1UZ1ywtV9tlK-Mh8dYBFQS4A3zAk62K44DY3hYzCa5u4HGNu1ZUDueEAx9ztX8-PZHGqnlG94BDM97T2hBtI9v2Z/s320/Dr.+E.A.R.+Lord.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. E.A.R. Lord</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div>In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-70096917023964741782011-06-19T03:11:00.000-04:002011-06-19T03:11:50.131-04:00Get in the Game!During a recent phone conversation with my friend and mentor Chris, I began to outline the frame of a business idea I have been mulling over for a few months. In true Chris fashion he cut me off in the middle of my elevator pitch, laughed, and said,” Let’s do it.” Before traces of the old me could surface and I rambled on with a Letterman’s Top Ten List of why I wasn’t ready for the opportunity, he went on. “Not only do I think that’s a good idea, but at the end of this month I’m speaking in front of a group with 800 members that work with what you just outlined. Make sure you’re there and I’ll introduce you to some people. You’re a pretty smart guy, don’t worry. Just get in the game and you’ll figure the rest out. ” <br />
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Today on our leisurely Sunday excursion (<em>where I kidnap the family after church and drive around Georgia while my son gives in and falls asleep in the back and the wife just hums and waits for the car to give out of gas</em>) the Mrs. was reading the paper. After a chuckle she said, “Henry Winkler showed someone a picture he took and they gave him a book deal.” What?! What do you mean? I know self-published authors that hawk their books whenever and wherever they can not only to move units, but in the hope that someone will get them in at a large publishing house or if all the stars are aligned get their work to “Oprah” (insert heavenly harp music here). Not taking anything away from Winkler’s talent, but that had to be one hell of a photo. She went on to read the passage. Said Winkler, “I was at my oldest son’s wedding in the Bahamas, and I took a picture of the beautiful sky. I showed it to everyone at the table, and fashion designer Cristina Ferrare suggested I meet an agent she knew to discuss a book of my photographs.” In his description of the work Winkler said, “It’s a book of photos I took on the river, in the river, and getting to the river, along with life lessons I learned from the river.” Wow. Deep, right? <em>C’mon son! </em><br />
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Again, no disrespect to Winkler, but what separates “The Fonz” from the guy hawking hand painted scenes of the Caribbean island you visited last, or the vendor at a fair whose booth is chock full of his life’s work? How about the guy at the park that takes black chalk and weathered paper and captures nuances in your face that are so subtle you never noticed them? I’ll tell you what. Henry Winkler was in the room, at the game, and they weren’t. Here is my humble advice for the day. Take stock of the people you spend most of your productive time with and creative energy on. Are they poised to get you in the room and a ticket to the game? If not, something needs to change, and chances are they won’t.<br />
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Go get in the game. You’re all pretty smart, I’m sure you’ll figure the rest out.In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8493876811528556410.post-15426779623845228102011-06-19T02:41:00.001-04:002011-06-26T09:12:38.078-04:00Knock-Knock: A Two-Minute Father's Day Read<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When he would come to my apartment to visit, collect the rent, or say hello, he was never empty handed. The Old Man always managed to bring a book or record with him. He would offer it up at the door with the simple but meaningfully layered instruction to “Check this out.” Some evenings we would sit and talk about the last thing that he delivered. “Did you listen to that Fela album?” “Yeah, I did.” That was usually the last word I got in as he provided the background on whatever or whoever the topic of discussion was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fela brought Afrobeat to the world. Do you know what that is?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pretended to answer, but knew the question was rhetorical. As expected, before I could offer a response he interrupted with, “No, I bet you don’t, but you listen to it. I hear it in that ‘house music’ you jump around to.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would on occasion go on for hours, especially after he would put on whatever record we were dissecting on his old Champion stereo. The old dinosaur record player was supposed to be portable, but after moving all of my things in I didn’t have the energy to heft that relic to the storage room. I think he was glad I left it in the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">One Saturday morning I heard the familiar gait across the weathered hardwood upstairs, making way to the door of my rented but oh so familiar haunt. “Knock-knock,” then a chuckle and Cheshire cat grin I could imagine through the door as he caught his breath. “Who’s there?” I would answer in a bland and robotic tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s your daddy boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You look more like the mailman but I fed you all these years so I claim you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would laugh heartily because after all of this time he still thought it was funny. I laughed for the same reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After proffering a weeks worth of mail and my rent receipt (he insisted on cash), The Old Man found a seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From under his arm protruded a thick book and an album cover I couldn’t see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I glanced at the worn spine- “The Miseducation of the Negro by Carter G. Woodson.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without speaking I made my way to the bachelor’s kitchen he put in before I moved back home and began making coffee, fruit salad and pancakes for two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind me I could hear him working the Champion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” danced through the air and mixed with the smell of cinnamon and over-ripe oranges we ate in silence, both of us respecting the solemnity of the moment.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When years of unfiltered Camels, Chivas Regal, and the acute loneliness that only a widow knows caught up with The Old Man we had a simple but well-attended service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would have liked that. Two weeks later at the reading of his will (who knew he had a will?) I received the key to his old canvas and leather packer trunk and an envelope. When I got home I sat in silence for what seemed like hours before opening the sheath. In his thick but legible script was written “Knock-knock! Between the lines and notes you will find your truth.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fingering the well worn key I opened the trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside was the deed to the house sandwiched between every rent payment I ever made. That gift was undergirded by scores of albums and books: from Brahms to Billie Holiday, Mozart to Miles Davis. There was Shakespeare, Khalil Gibran, and distinctively dog eared copies of the Bible, Koran, and Torah. Books and records formed a parallel pallet from the floor to the ceiling of the trunk, some leather bound hardcover and some paperback. Others were wrapped in plastic or thick patterned and colorful material that looked and smelled like the men at the corner market (“<em>We Sell Halal</em>”). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Brought to my knees by the realization that my friend, mentor, and father was gone, I pulled a record I had never heard before from a haggard sleeve, turned on the record player,and cried myself to sleep.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>In My Humble Opinion...http://www.blogger.com/profile/10577178472698289267noreply@blogger.com3