Get to Work

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.

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. 

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…” 

********************************************************************************************************************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.

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.

I Run, With My Hands Up, But I Can’t Breathe by L.E. Lord

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.

   …and we line church pews, perform salat and cypher…

     

     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. 

   …and we listen to hip-hop, jazz, and rhythm&blues…

      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.

    …and we sip bourbon, smoke cigars, and self-medicate…

      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 12th. 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.

…No refuge could save the hireling and slave, from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave…

     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.

     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, We Wear the Mask, 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.

…and we earn the degree, and mow our lawns, and head nod in the elevator to say “I see you…”

     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.    

     

     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.

…and we vote, and debate, and plot, and pray.

*A prayer for the peaceful repose of the soul of Ahmaud Arbery, and all God’s children that lose the gift of life because of who they are and what they look like.

                                         Image: “A Father’s Prayer” by Sidney Carter

Be a Man Son

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.

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.  When you go places alone you only have to worry about yourself. 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.  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. Never break stride. A woman was arguing with her male companion in front of the pre-teen girl that accompanied them.  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.  Without pause she hit him back and the shoving continued. Men don’t hit women. Period.

I pulled my car around on his blind side and got out before the bully could see me.  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.” Always give yourself space. Watch his hands. 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.  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.  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.

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.  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. Don’t turn your back on anyone. 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…

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.

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. Always be a man son. Be a damn man. I am trying Pops.

               

 

 

 

               

 

 

 

Get Up, Get Out, and DO SOMETHING!

   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, predominately African-American liberal arts institution. How timely was Mr. Belafonte?
    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.     

   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.

    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.
In my humble opinion.

What 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.

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.

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.

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?

Pray people. There is power in it.

In my humble opinion…

Hooded, Not Blinded

“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.”
Leonid McGill, from Walter Mosley’s All I Did Was Shoot My Man

         “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.

         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.

         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.

         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.

         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?

         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.

         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.

Red Tails: Please Do The Right Thing, For Better or Worse

If an accomplished director like George Lucas has to finance a movie like this on his own, hasn’t Hollywood 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 Hollywood.  

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 “Tyler vs. Spike,et al.” debate (however ridiculous that is) and not support this movie on opening weekend January 20, 2012.  I’ll kick the soapbox over now, but I reserve the right…

Vew official Red Tails trailer here:

http://www.youtube.com/user/RedTailsMovie?v=uQdUOWcsCrE&feature=pyv&ad=11879477703&kw=red%20tails