TheSistaRocks

2023-12-11T11:15:00.000-08:00

An Open Letter to the Democratic Party

I’ve been a Democrat since I was a child. I watched John F. Kennedy when he was campaigning, and I was impressed that he cared about the poor people that didn’t have a decent home or food to eat. From what I knew, he was a rich man from Massachusetts and rich people didn’t really seem to care what happened to poor people.

I was just a child, but I had seen poverty. I was born on the South Side of Chicago, and I had family and friends in the South. I knew about poor people.

But the fact that this rich man was concerned and wanted to do something to help people was something that touched me. So, I decided I wanted to be like him and the only way I knew to do that was to support his political stand and so, years before I could vote, I became a Democrat.

My parents, both Democrats, were impressed at my decision.

So here I am all these years later. I’m retired and living on the pennies we get from Social Security knowing that it wasn’t intended to be this way. I struggle with medical bills that I shouldn’t have to worry about. I can’t get some of the care I need because some pencil pushers who work for the insurance company I have think I should have physical therapy before getting an MRI to determine exactly what is wrong with me.

I’ve marched, I’ve protested, I’ve written letters, made phone calls, joined groups, participated in events, donated money, posted signs and all those things that involved people do. I even tried to get a job working for the party.

Twenty years ago, when we were living in New Orleans, we went to the Meet Up events and got involved in helping get the vote out. We shared information and made friends and spent a lot of time spreading the word. I thought those meetings were a great idea and I was glad to be a part of it. I wish we still had them.

But nothing was done. Democrats were losing elections they should have won. We got together and tried to figure out what happened. Why did this keep happening? We had good candidates, we had plenty of good ideas and plans, and we were working our butts off. But we kept losing.

I wasn’t convinced at first when Barack Obama ran that he could win. As a Black woman, I knew the level of racism that was right under the surface in this country, and I didn’t think white people would vote for him. In fact, I thought he would probably be killed before the election. I was afraid for him.

I had been supporting another candidate, but I went to a dinner in Tallahassee, and I met Mr. Obama and I was instantly enamored. He spoke to me as if he had known me all my life and he held my hand and smiled at me and answered all my concerns. I quickly changed my focus even if deep inside, I was still afraid for him.

Later in his campaign, I was living in Chicago and a friend accompanied me to his campaign office where we offered our services to help get him elected. The place was running like a well-oiled machine, and they thanked us for the offer but politely told us we were not needed. We bought some merchandise, took the free items they gave us and left, more convinced than ever that he was the right person for the job.

We were in Grant Park that night when he won the election. It was a wonderful, magical night that I will never forget. I cried tears of joy and I wished my parents had been alive to see this miracle, a Black man elected President of the United States. I was never prouder to be a Democrat in my life.

That pride has pretty much gone away since then.

Whenever the Democrats lose, I hear the excuse that enough Black people didn’t get out and vote. They depend on older Black women like me to win elections but why not get out and get engaged with other folks to get their votes? Why not find more people to make up the base? Stop blaming us and do your job.

In 2004, I thought that the administration branch of the Democratic party was not doing enough to help candidates win. All I saw them doing was begging for money from us voters and I knew that wasn’t enough. I had ideas and I wanted to work for the party.

I got a polite thanks but no thanks for my effort.

When we met party executives, we asked them questions and they put us off as if we didn’t know what we were talking about. They didn’t answer us. They tried to shut us up instead of addressing the issues we were concerned with. I remember being furious about that.

The Obama campaign won because they put together an involved, engaged hard working team from top to bottom. They worked hard and worked with people to get the word out. They used social media like no one before them had. We were impressed with the work they did.

And he won.

When Hillary was running, we decided we wanted to get involved. We wanted to get yard signs and we went to the local headquarters. There was one young person there and he didn’t have any signs and the only way we could get merchandise was if we offered to make phone calls and knock on doors.

Or we could go to a location miles away where she was going to speak and we could buy signs and shirts and show our support. That was too far for us to go for something like that. We are a couple of retirees and we had no desire to do either one. Both of us had done it when we were younger, but it wasn’t something we wanted to do now that we were older. I volunteered to be an election watcher. We had done that in the past.

He gave us an address 50 miles away to try to get signs. We went there and they didn’t have any but told us if we paid them, they would have some sent to us. It all seemed so haphazard and sloppy and not well managed that we were put off and we just left. How could she win with a campaign like this?

And of course, she didn’t.

So now we live in Florida, and we are struggling under the DeSantis administration. It’s been clear from the beginning that he had no real thoughts about the people in this state and he saw being governor as a steppingstone to being President. He has pandered to the mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging minority and left the rest of us out in the cold.

Why didn’t the Democrats do more to get someone else elected in 2022? They gave up. Didn’t contribute enough money to the campaigns and no one came to this county or to this area to talk to people. They just left us to suffer. There were people here who would have listened if they had only tried to help us. Maybe they didn’t like Charlie. Why not help find another candidate who could have gotten more votes?

For that matter, why didn’t they help Stacey Abrams? Why not support her program to get voters educated in other states besides Georgia? Why not get out there and meet people and talk to people and spread the truth about what the Republicans are doing?

Why didn’t we fight harder against Donald Trump?

Why did the Democrats let Mitch McConnell cheat us out of a Supreme Court Justice?

Now they are trying to strip away the Voting Rights Act.

They are denying women the right to govern their own bodies.

Look what happened in Louisiana last month. And the mess in Mississippi that got that governor elected again when he shouldn’t even be picking up trash for a living.

How did the Democrats allow this to happen?

I don’t care about having talking heads on news programs. They need to get boots on the ground and get out here and actively work to get candidates elected. More ads on television. Look at all the streaming services and apps now. There are lots of ways to get the word out.

I get dozens of emails and I see posts on Facebook and Instagram urging me to donate money to the party. I don’t even respond to some of the issues because if I sign a petition, the next thing I get is a request for more money.

What do I get for my money?

So, you high paid employees of the Democratic party, you need to get out there and earn your keep. You need to get your Loubotins on the ground and have events and meetings and parties and whatever it takes to get more people concerned and involved. You need to buy more ads on television and online and start getting the word out. You need to find good people who want to be candidates and then you need to support them with lots of hard work. You need to fight the misinformation and you need to spread the truth.

You need to get out here and lead us. You need to help us. You need to support us. You need to stop begging us for money and start showing us why our money matters.

We want to get these Republican liars and thieves out of office. We want people we can trust to be on our side to represent us. We don’t want more of these people who use us to get elected so that they can get rich. We don’t want more embarrassments like Marjorie Taylor Green and Lauren Bobert and Josh Hawley sitting in Congress making fools of themselves and us. There are good people out there and they would run if they thought they would be supported.

We will fight for you if you fight for us. How about it?

Signed,

A Concerned Democrat

What I Believe...and Don't Believe

2022-06-27T12:13:00.000-07:00

When I was a little kid in school and we had to pray every day, I wondered why? I did it in church and in Sunday School. Why in school?

As I got older, I thought about people of different faiths. Why weren't they allowed to pray too? It didn’t seem fair to me.

I asked a lot of questions about religion when I was younger and nobody gave me any good answers. They got mad at me or told me I shouldn't ask questions.

Why not?

I saw and heard a lot of things that I knew wasn't right.

Supposed religious men were saying and doing things to me that I knew were wrong. My very religious Mama told me I must have misunderstood or that I was lying. So, I stopped talking to her about it. Later on, she saw that I was telling the truth and she apologized. Sort of.

As I read more and tried to understand, some folks told me I didn't need to go to college because they would teach me things.

What things?

Again, no answers.

I heard more homophobic comments, more prejudiced discussions, all kids of hateful and mean things that shouldn't have been going on in church. I won't even talk about the sexual wrongs.

But I began to think as I got older that I didn't need to be involved in all that stuff. I didn't feel comfortable. I didn't feel at home.

I went with my mom to some of her Baptist conferences. The preachers were straight up showing their asses. They weren't acting like leaders. I wasn't seeing very many people who were real leaders at all. So, I started distancing myself from it all.

But then something really awful took place at the church I belonged to and I was appalled. And my Mom, the one who had always told me to not judge people and to be open minded and love everyone made some horrible homophobic comments.

I felt stunned, shocked and hurt. How could this be? She taught me to not be a bigot and here she was, sounding like a bigot.

I stopped going to church that very day. I began to mistrust so-called Christians. The people who displayed the most hatefulness, who told the biggest lies and were the biggest hypocrites sat their butts right there in church every Sunday, trying to tell others how to live.

I sat down and evaluated my own feelings and thoughts and came to the conclusion that I didn't want to be a part of that number.

I know that God and Jesus an'nem know we have a complicated relationship and I know They are ok with it. I know They don't require this blind, stupefying devotion that many seem to display. I don't think They mind my questions. Right about now, looking at these folks down here acting a straight up fool and blaming God; They probably have questions too.

Religion is one thing. Politics is another. Mixing the two is wrong and causes trouble. And it's not fair. These people here think that being a Christian makes them superior. They feel like they have a right to force their beliefs down everybody's throat.

But the problem is that since the beginning of time, everyone thought their religion was better than the other one. How many wars have been fought; how many people have died because of misguided religious beliefs?

Christians thought slavery was all right and took some stuff from the Bible to prove they were right. They said Black people weren’t even human to justify their treatment of us.

Someone said years ago that the most segregated hour is in church. For the most part, it’s still true. Some of the most horrible bigots alive thought themselves stellar Christians. Even the KKK claimed to be a religious organization.

Right now, there are Christians wanting to kill people because they are gay. They justify rape and child abuse and many more still worship and follow known pedophiles.

What are we supposed to think or believe?

I’ve studied the Bible both as a religious document and as a mere book. I’ve listened and learned. I’ve been in class where Christians got angry because we learned philosophy from people who weren’t Christian and wanted the professor not to teach it.

Why not?

If your faith is strong, you can stand criticism, right? If you know what you believe is right, what others think shouldn’t matter, should it? Does it shake your faith?

Why is what you believe more important than what others believe?

I have friends and relatives who are Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, etc. I have friends and relatives who are atheists or agnostics. I have friends who have questions like I do and like me, never got answers.

But I also have friends who are Christians and others who claim to be Christians. I don’t have a problem with them as long as they know the boundaries.

I don’t force my beliefs on you, so be kind and do the same.

The one thing that sticks in my craw is how can you claim to be a Christian and then support and embrace Donald Trump who is as far from a righteous man as one can be? How can you follow him and worship him and then hate Barack Obama, who is everything Trump is not?

Ok, I know the answer to that so don’t protest.

You know what you are.

Separation of church and state is a great thing. It is how this country was intended to run and how it should run.

If you get elected and you represent a constituency that does not agree with your beliefs, you should put that aside and vote and support them. That is why you were elected. Your job is to represent their beliefs, not yours. Don’t bring your church to your job.

Same with school.

Parents, it’s YOUR job to teach your children about religion. You are supposed to teach them morals and ethics and all that. Teachers are supposed to teach them reading, writing, math, etc. Oh yes, and history and science. Ugly as it might be, yes, they are supposed to teach them history. And science. You can tell them your beliefs and then let your children make up their minds about what they think and believe.

You pray with them before they go to school. Pray with them before they go to bed.

Prayer does not belong in school unless you take the whole first hour so that the Christians get their prayer and then the Jewish kids and then the Hindu kids and then the Muslim kids (and they pray 5 times a day!) and then the Buddhist kids and then the Native American kids…

See?

If you get to pray, everyone gets to. It’s only fair. Don’t want to do that?

Then no prayer at school.

Now you might think you want to argue or debate me on this.

Save it.

You will not change my mind anymore than I will change yours. Keep it to yourself. If you don’t like what I say, that’s fine.

Live with it.

I have a right to my beliefs just as you to yours. Let’s just agree to disagree.

But if your beliefs butt into my life and try to decide my own choices and decisions…well, we have a problem.

And I will fight you.

The Real Dirty Deal

2022-06-25T14:51:00.001-07:00

I have been thinking about this a while. I don’t know that it’s true, but I also don’t know that it isn’t.

The ones who do aren’t talking.

Meanwhile, we are all struggling, trying to understand what has happened to us.

There was a time when political differences didn’t matter that much. We just took it for granted and agreed to disagree.

There was a law that said if one position was presented on television/ radio, etc., the opposing side had to be presented too. But then that law was gone.

And then came Fox News. Rush Limbaugh had been a terrible dee jay on a radio station in Missouri and suddenly, he was spouting all this ridiculous hateful stuff on the radio. Folks saw that he was getting rich and famous and since that was the goal of almost everybody, lots of them jumped on the bandwagon and started saying the same kind of stuff.

Meanwhile, the people who had thought history and political science were boring when they were in school, suddenly had opinions. Lots of them had not graduated from high school, probably had never even seen a college textbook, but wanted to talk to you like they were smart. You just looked at them in disbelief because you couldn’t believe they were saying that stuff to you.

They were against everything you thought we stood for. And while a lot of the had always been racists, they had never been bold enough to come right out and say it but now they were.

I remember one night driving back to New Orleans from Florida we put the radio on WWL from New Orleans. We listened in shock because it was some conservative preacher saying the craziest stuff like liberals were aliens from another planet and that if you agreed with them, you were going against Jesus and other madness I don’t even remember. We laughed about it then, but a few days later, at the casino where I worked, I heard some older people repeating that stuff to each other. I got chills.

It didn’t matter how far out that stuff was – folks believed it and were repeating it.

Things went downhill from there.

All this time, these republicans had an agenda. They wanted to get rid of Roe v. Wade. The so called evangelicals aligned with them and so did the racists and the Klan. They wanted to go back to the “good old days” when women and Black people “knew their place.” They wanted to force their restrictive brand of Christianity on everyone.

So, all these folks who thought they were getting a rough deal in life – the ones who thought they should have been rich and important lapped it up like milk.

It wasn’t their fault they didn’t have that job or live in that house or got that woman/man they wanted.

It was “their” fault. They. You know. Them.

They took everything from them and these people understood and they loved it.

Didn’t matter that those folks were rich and were getting richer preying on their lack in education and gullibility. They were saying what they wanted to hear.

And then Barack Obama had the nerve to win the Presidency.

And these folks lost their minds. The racists took off their robes and capes and began to openly express all the mess their parents and grandparents had been allowed to say and do.

And the so-called pro-life folks? Well, they didn’t think they were racists, but if aligning with these people meant they could get what they wanted, they would hold their noses and stand with them. There were “Christians” there too, right?

So, things got really bad for us. Liberals. “Snowflakes,” they called us. They decided it was time to go to war with us.

They were quietly planning to do away with all our liberties and drag us back to the Dark Ages, but no one paid any attention. We just lived our lives and tried to go on and ignore them.

Couldn’t have been that many of them, right? And they were just the lunatic fringe. Most folks didn’t go along with that – did they?

Then this fool Donald Trump got insulted with something Barack Obama said about him. Didn’t matter that he accused the President of not being American and came up with this whole ridiculous “birther” thing. The unwashed masses grabbed it like gold and ran with it. Trump decided he would run for President.

Most folks laughed and said he had no chance. They didn’t think folks were stupid enough to vote for him. He said and did every possible thing wrong and still, he was considered a viable candidate.

We thought that he would lose in a landslide and boy, were we surprised when enough folks voted for him that he won the electoral college and was elected.

Hillary Clinton was a far better candidate with experience and great ideas and would have been a great president.

But the misogynists and the folks who hated her husband and the whole group of uninformed, uneducated and misled people rose up and voted for Trump.

What then?

Well, this is what I think happened.

When trump was running, he had a meeting with the republicans, they talked about what they wanted. They had a long-term plan to do away with Roe v. Wade and if he agreed to help them take it down, they would swallow their dislike and mistrust for him and support him.

So, they agreed.

He would help them get the conservative trash they needed on the Supreme Court. And those people knew what was expected of them and they would lie during hearings, but they had agreed to the republican agenda as well.

This has been in the works for years.

They would pass bills that would help their corporate buddies get past regulations and lower their taxes. They would help the people running in the local elections win so that they could bolster their evil plans. They would keep quiet and let Trump run roughshod on the nation. They wanted what they wanted and he would give it to them.

You tell me in what other instance a man who accused of rape can sit before a Congressional committee can lie and cry and repeat over and over how much he likes beer and still get on the Supreme Court, let alone get a job.

Let a Black man have tried that one.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg hadn’t even gotten cold before they dragged up a woman who is part of a cult who had almost no judicial experience and BAM, she is on the Court too.

So maybe the republicans hadn't counted on trump being as bad as he was.

Maybe.

But they knew he was incompetent and selfish and ignorant and perhaps criminal. They knew he didn't care about anybody but himself.

But because of their hellish agreement, thousands of people died from Covid.

Children were taken from their families and "lost" somewhere but we know they were probably sold into slavery or worse since then.

Millions wasted on a piece of crap wall that little kids were climbing before they were 6 years old.

I don't need to run down all the stuff he did or caused. You know it just like I do.

They knew he was wrong and should have been impeached and convicted but they kept quiet and still supported him. Twice.

January 6 happened and they still stand by him.

Why?

He’s got something on the republicans and they can’t back out now. They know he is dirty enough to do what he said he would and they are too weak to admit their duplicity and they have gone along with his every move.

What do you bet he told them you'd better stay with me or I will tell the American people about our deal and you all will go down. I'll destroy this whole damn thing if you don't support me no matter what.

It's too late to think any of them aren't complicit. We know the ones who have spoken up.

But the rest of them?

He went way too far and they know it, but they still don't have enough hair on their butts to be honest. It's all past them now.

Almost everyone in America has some form of PTSD. We’ve been through enough horrors in the past 5 years – things we never thought would happen.

We thought we were better than that.

We’re learning now that these people who are among us have dragged us down to their level. What did we do to let this happen?

How did it happen?

We look around and we are sick inside.

People that we loved and trusted have shown us a side of them that we didn’t believe existed. They look at us as if we were their enemies and they do unbelievable things and don’t seem to care.

They accuse us of being elitist and call us names and they get together in their “rallies,” and call for us to be killed. They threaten to kill us if we disagree with them. They hate us and treat us all like garbage and then whine when we speak up. They act amazed when we withdraw and refuse to engage with them.

Families have been ripped apart and friends don’t trust each other and some don’t even speak anymore.

We look at them and wonder what is wrong with them. How could they believe that stuff that any reasonable person would know is not true? How can they show so much disregard for other people?

What happened?

Don’t touch their guns.

They want their guns with no restrictions and they don’t care how many people die.

Black people tend to vote for Democrats so they want to make sure they can limit how many of us can vote. They openly admit it’s the only way they can win so we have to be ready to stop them.

Immigrants come here to have a better life just like their immigrant families did years ago. Why punish them?

Keep their uneducated hands away from books and they have absolutely no right to decide what schools can teach. They don’t even know what CRT is but they know they don’t want their kids to know that them or their parents helped lynch an innocent Black person.

Women are going to die because of them striking down Roe v. Wade. And they aren’t doing it for the children. That’s the lie they tell us.

They hate this multicultural world we live in and they fear they will lose their power position and they are willing to let millions die to keep their grip on the world.

We need to get together and stand up and let them know that it’s time to take our country and our lives back.

We need to support each other.

Black folks and Asians and Mexicans and Gay/Lesbian/Trans/Bi/Queer…white; all of us. We need to be there for each other. We need to help and love each other.

There are more of us.

These restrictive laws are harming us all. People will die because of them.

We need to ensure that everyone who can vote does vote. And we need to educate them on who supports us.

Confront these candidates and demand that they tell you where they stand and if they won’t be honest, don’t vote for them. If they say they support these laws, don’t vote for them. And then go tell others not to vote for them either.

We have to speak up and fight back or we will continue to be victims to their hateful agenda.

They got Roe v. Wade and now they have their eye on taking away birth control, any reproductive rights and the rights of gay people. They won’t stop. They think they have the power now.

Trump gave them what they wanted and he has got them over a barrel and not a one of them has the decency to tell the truth.

Why else do they blindly support him when they know he’s the worst thing that ever happened to this country?

You think I'm wrong?

Time will tell.

But I bet I'm right.

My Brother, Punkin

2021-11-02T14:30:00.002-07:00

The Life of Eddie Thompson

I was 6 years old when he was born. I had the chickenpox and I was sitting in my room alone most of the time. Mom had gone to the hospital early – she had never been able to carry a baby full term and she had developed some issues that meant she wasn’t home.

Brian was only 2 and Daddy was working in Wisconsin, so Aunt Geneva came down from Detroit with a friend named Dorothy Gladden. I was glad they were there as they were both outgoing and funny and even though I had to stay away from everyone, they managed to make my exile bearable.

I remember when Daddy came in and told me that I had another little brother, and I wondered how long it would be before I got to see him. He was extra small, they said and he would have to stay in the hospital longer. Mama came home after a few days but my little brother didn’t.

But when he did! Wow.

He cried a lot. I mean, a lot. We all just sat and looked at each other while we heard him crying. Mama did what she could, but he just wasn’t happy. Daddy looked at him and said he looked like a little yellow monkey. But Dorothy was outraged and said no, he didn’t look like a monkey. He looked like a little “punkin” colored doll.

And so, he became Punkin.

That wasn’t the only issue. Mom had named him Bernard Joel Thompson. We all had BJT initials – Brenda Joyce, and Brian Jeffery. Dad wanted to know why he wasn’t named after him. Mom gave in and so he became Eddie Lee Thompson, III, even though Bernard was his name on his birth certificate.

But we all called him Punkin.

He was this cute little baby boy with the huge eyes who clung to Mom and shied away from most men. He cried when Daddy tried to hold him at first and he didn’t want Mom to go anywhere without him. It became a family joke that if she was leaving, he would pout and ask her where was she going and when would she come back. They called him her “husband.”

One day Brian and I were watching television when something whizzed past us. It wasn’t the cat. What was it? We looked at each other and then back at tv when it happened again.

It was Punkin, on his feet for the first time. He didn’t walk. He stood up, got on his toes and ran across the room, crashing into the wall. He picked himself up and ran back across the room. And he never stopped running.

Not long after that, we were reading and he was sitting with us like he wanted to read too. I asked him how he was doing and he uttered his first word.

“Volcano.”

Not Mama or Daddy. Volcano. He said it clearly.

Volcano.

You know a guy is going to be different when that is his first word.

Our grandparents came to visit us every summer. Mom’s sisters and brothers mostly lived in Florida except for Aunt Geneva and Uncle Richard in Detroit, Bootsie in Chicago and Uncle George in Washington, D.C.

All the rest were in Vero Beach and lived near Grandma and Grandpa. At the beginning of the summer, Papa would come to Chicago and pick up Mike and Keith. He would bring them to Galesburg, where we were living, and then take Brian and Punkin to Detroit. Everybody swapped kids for a while but since I was the only girl, I stayed home till Papa went home.

He spent time with all the boys, but he especially loved Mike and Punkin. He played with them all and they loved him.

After a few weeks, he would take me with him back to Vero and I would spend the summer there, visiting all my aunts and uncles and cousins. I knew when I was a little girl that I would want to live in Florida the rest of my life.

Brian and Eddie and I all loved to read. Mom had a friend who was a teacher and she had taught me to read before I went to kindergarten and I in turn taught Brian and Punkin how to read too. Mom bought a set of World Book Encyclopedias and the three of us fell upon them like hungry wolves.

We sat down and read them all cover to cover as if they were enthralling novels. Mom updated them each year and even though not a whole lot had changed, we still read them all. It was typical to hear one of us asking where the G book was or who had the second S book.

Those books made us who we are today – the devoted, curious, bookworms that love reading obsessively. It was one of the greatest things our parents ever did – besides moving us from Chicago to Galesburg.

Dad got a job there and it meant he wasn’t spending 2 weeks in Middleton, Wisconsin cooking at the Pines Steak House, and then spending 2 weeks at home. He went to work every afternoon and came home at night. It meant we went to better schools and we lived in better neighborhoods and it changed us for the better. We loved it.

I remember our childhood as being comprised of good food and laughter. We laughed a lot about a lot of things.

Punkin never liked biscuits. He especially didn’t like them if the bottom was hard. Dad got mad at him if he didn’t eat the whole biscuit. Sometimes he was able to get the dog to eat the part he didn’t like, but other times, he piled those bottoms on his plate and Dad was really mad at him for it.

He didn’t like vegetables much either back them. Neither did Brian. I ate them, but I was picky about so much, I feel guilty to this day. We gave them a lot to worry about.

Punkin and Brian were very close as little boys. Mike and Keith spent a lot of time with us and it was usually the 5 of us hanging out together. But the boys spent time on their bikes, riding all over town, getting into so much mischief that Mom had to change her work hours so that she was home when the boys got out of school. They were always getting into something and then coming home, looking innocent.

One time they were over at the stockyards when somebody got the bright idea to hit a cow in the butt with a slingshot. The poor thing screamed and then began to run. The other cows ran with her and they tore down the fence and before you knew it, dozens of panic stricken cows were running down the street.

Punkin and Brian were sitting at home at the dinner table eating dinner when Mom noted there were cows in front of the house. As we got up to see what was happening, we noticed that the trucks from the local tv stations were parked in front of our house and the police were running down the street trying to catch the cows.

The boys were just sitting there, looking innocent as madness ensued outside. They had no idea what had happened, they said. I knew better and after our parents had gone outside to see what was going on, I asked them.

Punkin told me what happened with a little smirk and I confessed I laughed. But I didn’t tell our parents. I was afraid they would blame the boys and I didn’t want to see them get in trouble.

Again.

Somewhere along the line, Punkin and I became really close. I think it was after Brian left to go to school in Mississippi because he went on to graduate in Florida and then he went into the Army. I was in and out – I went to New York for a while and I was running about with my friends, but Punkin and I spent a lot of time together talking about everything in the world and we never stopped.

Till last week.

He read my books and magazines about becoming a woman. He wanted to know how to treat women he said. He asked me questions. He figured to ask a girl was the best way to learn.

He was curious, engaging and smart. He listened and learned eagerly. He was tall and lean and he had long legs and a great big ‘fro and there were those eyes – huge and open and beautiful. He had the greatest eyes ever and it was such a tragedy that he had a couple of accidents that caused him to lose most of his vision early in life. He was attractive and girls noticed him but he had always been sort of shy and reticent and girls went for the guys who were more aggressive than he was.

He wanted to be a Marine but his vision kept him from getting in. He went to work and learned to enjoy his life as a young single man. He was into muscle cars and he had a ‘Cuda that he loved and a GTO. My brothers raced around in those cars and were the envy of a lot of other gear heads.

Just the other week, when we were coming home from one of his appointments, he and the driver struck up a discussion about muscle cars and Punkin lit up, telling him about the cars he had had and what kinds of engines they had and how he had worked on them to make them fast and powerful. He always loved cars.

He took to being a father like no one expected. He was young when Terrence was born, but he was a great father. He took that boy with him everywhere and spent time loving and teaching him.

We all loved Terrence from the moment he was born. He has those huge Thompson eyes and I was able to pick him out of a room full of newborns because of those eyes. No question that he was Eddie’s son. None at all. And now, he is every bit as amazing a man as his father was.

Eddie loved teaching. He was amazing with little children and he worked with kids nobody else even wanted to deal with. He knew how to communicate with them. He was open and giving and shared his own experiences and they loved him too. I remember seeing him take several little ones camping and I just shook my head. Who ever expected anyone who looked as cool as Punkin being so great with children? But he always was.

He loved his little girls. I saw his eyes light up whenever he looked at Alaina after she was born. It tore his heart out when he didn’t get to spend time with her as he wanted. Same with Janae and Erica. Some men didn’t care much about being a father but Eddie always did. I used to joke and say he got the parenting gene that had obviously missed me.

I always had my own sense of style and I taught Eddie to have his as well. I told him not to pay any attention to what others thought or might have said about how he wanted to look. I told him to be himself and be proud. Some people made comments about how he dressed. He was always neat and coordinated. When we were in college, he met a guy who sold suits in his second-hand store. He loved the suits from the 40’s and 50’s and Eddie bought lots of them. He started wearing hats and he always looked elegant and sophisticated.

We both love Converse All Stars and he started collecting them in every color. He loved Hawaiian style shirts just as our Dad did. He always looked sharp. Some folks called him a pimp, and others said he should have dressed more like an older man, but he looked the way he wanted to look.

When we lived in Chicago, we used to go to the thrift store and we got great bargains all the time. I knew what he liked and I used to find something and run to him and he would smile and say, “Yeah, Sis, you know what I like.” We’d come home dragging several bags of goodies we had found. Our closets were running over!

We both went back to college later in life. He went to Southern Illinois University Carbondale and I went to the University of Miami. We both blossomed in the academic environment. We were meant to be teachers but we both thought we could make it in the business world only to realize later that academia is where we belonged.

He was a history buff and he loved philosophy. He loved having deep and intense discussions about things he was learning and some folks were intimidated while others were just bored to death. He didn’t read history books because he had to – he read them because he loved them. He was a true nerd.

He stumbled in college because he was math phobic. He tried several different ways to overcome his problem, but the sad truth is, he didn’t graduate because he didn’t get his degree. One course caused him to drop out of school. They wouldn’t work with him to pass that one course and over the years, he reached out and tried to get that done so he could get his degree and I am broken hearted to this day because he didn’t. It would have meant the world to him.

He loved jazz and Old School R&B and he was a great dancer. He loved dancing so much! I will never forget seeing him on the dancefloor having a great time. He loved music and he was constantly learning more about music as time passed.

It didn’t seem fair when Eddie got sick.

I saw it beginning when he got diagnosed with the glaucoma. We knew it ran in the family and we both got tested yearly but he missed a couple of years and then bang! He had developed a particularly aggressive and fast moving case. He had lost the vision in one of his eyes after a childhood accident and another incident later. And now, with the onset of the glaucoma, he lost a lot of the vision that he had left.

He had an accident in Arizona and he was recovering too slow. He knew something was wrong. I was living in Chicago and I knew we had great doctors there and I encouraged him to join me there. He did.

He drove there and parked that truck in the garage and never drove again.

He kept telling me that something was wrong with him and his doctor tried for a long time to try to figure it out. It wasn’t until she sent him to a cardiologist who then sent him to an oncologist that they figured out that he had multiple myeloma complicated with amyloidosis in his heart.

We then found out that he had a heart defect and it had been a stroke of luck that he hadn’t become a Marine because it would have killed him.

We began the treatment for his cancer and glaucoma and he endured procedures and surgeries that I don’t think I could have taken. He never complained. He did as the doctors instructed and came home and sat in the dark.

When he had trouble walking, we got a cane and he managed to jazz it up putting his keys on it. Some days he was too weak to move and when he had the stem cell transplant, he was in the hospital for nearly 2 months. He couldn’t eat and his hair and teeth fell out. He was suffering and I cried myself to sleep many nights worrying about him.

But on the days he had to get up and go, he did, carefully picking out his clothes and making sure he looked perfect. We took pictures of him and sent them out so that family wouldn’t worry. He was sick, but he always looked good.

We would often have to sit in the hospital atrium waiting for our ride and I noticed women walking by staring at him. I had said I was going to get a tee shirt made that said “I’m his sister,” so they would quit giving me dirty looks.

And then there was his cooking…..

He was a great chef. He learned from watching our father when he was a little boy. Dad made it look easy and so did Eddie. He just went in the kitchen and performed magic. Steaks, chops and fish…they were all perfect. He cooked shrimp fried rice and quesadillas and spaghetti.

But his barbecue was the best.

He had developed a 3-step formula. He made his own sauce, seasoning and basting solution. I probably harassed him about trying to get it patented and selling it for years. The rest of us fought for his sauce whenever he made it. I anticipate a battle for the last few bottles that are in his fridge now.

In Chicago, we met one of the guys in the 80’s soul group Slave. He was trying to get the guys back together again to start touring and he got them to Chicago and asked Eddie to cook a feast for them. We had ribs, a huge pork loin, brisket and sausage.

Eddie had this big old grill that had wheels that he had brought with him and he got busy cooking. That food was so good! Everyone was knocked out and we had a great time that day.

We then asked Eddie to start writing down his recipes so that we could put together a cookbook. He always said he had all his recipes “in his head.”

Yeah. They’re still there and here we all are….

When he got home from the hospital in 2013, we spent our Sunday nights looking at “Sunday Night Noir,” on Me-Tv on Sunday nights. They ran great old tv shows like “The Untouchables,” “Perry Mason,” “The Naked City,” “The Fugitive,” “Route 66,” “Peter Gunn,” “Mr. Lucky,” and “The Saint.”

Our parents had watched those shows when we were kids and we hadn’t gotten to see them because of their strict “8:30, asses in bed,” rule we had grown up with. We had to be in our rooms so that they could enjoy the rest of their evening without kids. We hadn’t realized how great those shows were until we got to sit down and look at them. We were usually up all night long on Sundays.

Eddie had long been talking about opening his own restaurant and we sat and spun ideas about what we would do. We didn’t have any money or a ghost of a chance to have any, but it kept him engaged and interested as we talked about it. I wanted him to have something to look forward to – something to live for – so I encouraged these discussions. We talked about what kind of restaurant we would have, the kinds of food we would serve, what the décor would be and all kinds of things. He was lit up when we talked about it so I kept it going.

The one thing he was able to do was cook so each day, he got up and prepared meals for us. He enjoyed the cooking and I surely enjoyed the food!

As long as he had something to keep him occupied, he didn’t worry much about the cancer. He knew he could beat it and he did.

He said the one thing he missed was riding a motorcycle. He wanted to be able to get out on the road one more time in his life. He had gotten sad and morose and depressed and he would often call me and tell me how lonely he was. This was after he had moved to Arizona and I was in Florida.

We had lived together for years and we had been through a lot but he had come through it all and was still standing. I wasn’t sure he should have been living alone, but he had grown to love it except he was alone more than he had expected.

I tried to get him to use a computer to reach out but he stubbornly refused any and all attempts to get him to learn to be more comfortable online. He was proud to be “Fred Flintstone,” he said until it became clear that his stubbornness had left him way behind the rest of the world. And he continued to resist to his dying day.

He did used to go online and look at motorcycles and cars for sale and he mentioned to me one day that he wanted to buy a motorcycle. He knew he might never ride it. His vision wasn’t that great and he said he knew there were a lot of accidents in Jacksonville. But he needed something to distract him; something to keep him busy and if he had a bike, he would putter around fixing it and making it run better.

It just so happened that one of our cousins shared his love for motorcycles and had just bought a new one and so he sold Eddie his old one. It was in pristine condition and Eddie was over the moon. They got the bike to Florida and suddenly, Eddie was going out and spending more time with his son. It just so happened that the bike was in Terrence’s garage and while he and Cassie weren’t happy about it, I knew that it was likely he would never ride it. But having it opened up the world for him and so I was glad he had it.

He was justifiably afraid that he might never get to ride his motorcycle, but he loved going online buying parts and getting his beloved “Sweet Sherry Blue,” up to snuff. He opened up again and went on dating sites and began to meet women. He started buying clothes that he would wear while riding and planned trips across the country. He began to live again.

But life can be cruel and not long after he got Sherry, he started feeling weak and sick again. He was encouraged to go to the hospital again, but he had hated it so much during his cancer battle that he found every excuse not to go again no matter how hard I nagged and begged.

The pandemic was difficult for us all, but he was starting to feel sick again. We found out later that he had developed a blood clot in his heart and was also struggling with arrythmia.

He had fought off cancer, so he thought he could fight off anything. He would sit at home and suffer in silence, confounding us all. “No hospital,” he would stubbornly insist.

We talked about taking trips. He wanted to go to Paris and London, He wanted to go to Miami again and spend more time. He wanted to go to the Keys.

He had decided when he was young that he wanted to live in Florida and now that he did, he wanted to explore and see more places that he hadn’t visited when he was younger. We bought tour books and atlases and we talked about places we would go.

Once he felt better, we were going to either rent a car or take the bus and go to Vero Beach and visit family. After that, we would go on down to Ft. Lauderdale where we had spent a great week together years ago. Then we would go to Miami and I would show him around and then we would go on down to the Keys.

I ordered a tour guide of South Florida and I was going to bring it with me when I went back to Jacksonville this week. We would sit and talk about where we were going to go. We had a couple of my friends that we thought would be fun to hang out with on a trip like that. He smiled when he talked about that.

I tried to put his pain out of my mind and think about the things we would do later. But his language had changed. He always said, “….when I get better….”

But now he was saying, “….I don’t know if I can get over this….this is worse than the cancer….the pain is awful….”

I was afraid and I had never been afraid. The spectre of losing him was there and I didn’t want to acknowledge it. But it was there.

And now he is gone.

That beautiful, smart, loving, funny man that had been a part of my life for all my life was suddenly not there. The man who called me “Dear Heart,” and told me he loved me was gone. My brother that I shared secrets and jokes with, that I called and told him the news, that we wondered how the world got so broken and would be ever be able to trust people again.

I don’t know what my world will be like now. There is a huge gap.

We have suffered a great loss. All of us will flounder and miss him. We will second guess decisions and we will play conversations over and over in our minds. We will want to hear his voice and we will miss his smile. We will have to go on with this gaping hole in our world.

I will tell myself that he is with Mom and Dad, and that he will walk down the street and see Uncle David and Uncle Albert and that he and Uncle Peter will laugh again. He will see Hamp and Thomas and P.J. and Stevie and Stephanie and Grandma and Grandpa. He will hang out with his beloved Bitsy.

And he will ride his motorcycle and be free of pain and worry.

And we will love and miss this man who filled our world with love and joy.

Goodbye Punkin. And Godspeed. We love you more than you will ever know.

My Family, My Blood

2021-06-02T12:19:00.005-07:00

I am thinking of my own family these days. My maternal grandparents and all their children, brothers, sisters, etc., all moved to Vero Beach, FL in the late 1920's.

At first, I didn't question it. Vero is beautiful and I get why they were there. But as I got older and started learning and questioning, it occurred to me that something must have happened to make them just gather up and leave like that.

All of them.

I mean, families relocate often, but not like that. Not every single one of them all at once. My Grandfather and all his brothers and sisters and my Grandmother and all her brothers and sisters.

They all left together. At once.

Something must have happened.

I knew that they had all gone to Palatka but that they hadn't stayed there long. Later, I found out that they said the KKK was real prominent there and they couldn't stay there either, so they all fled again.

I heard about Rosewood and Ococee and I started putting things together. I asked one of my uncles once and he didn't want to talk about it. All he said was that the white folks were killing them and they had to go. 

I remember once I asked Grandma why she considered herself a republican. She said that a white man had told them that they could vote but that they had to vote the way he told them to and they did. 

She was surprised when I told her that she could vote for whoever she wanted to. She was later afraid to vote because she wanted to vote for a Democrat, but she was afraid the "folks in charge" would come down on her if she did. 

I don't come from rich powerful folks. Most of my family didn't go to college and they weren't educated. My folks bought property and they all settled in Gifford, the town north of Vero Beach where Black folks were allowed to live. They opened grocery stores and bars and one of my cousins had a bus that went back and forth to Vero so that the people who worked for the white folks in Vero didn't have to walk those 7 miles between the towns. Some of my family owned orange groves and grew their own fruit. 

White truck drivers would not take their fruit to the markets so they bought trucks and took it themselves.  

When World War II happened, the government came to my Grandfather and told him they needed some of his land because they needed to build an airport. They didn't offer him any money. They didn't offer him anything in exchange. They just took a huge plot of land from him and built the airport and gave some of the rest of the land to some white folks. They thought it was wrong for a Black man to own that much land. 

At night, after my Grandmother's store closed, my relatives would all gather there and they would sit and play music and drink and talk. Most times, it was wonderful. They would laugh and tell funny stories and jokes and I loved it. 

But sometimes, someone would drink a bit too much and angry, hurtful stories came out. I was young and I really didn't understand a lot of it then. I didn't know about the things they had experienced. I didn't know how to process what I was hearing and later, when I asked questions, they would just dismiss it saying Uncle So-and-So had drank too much and had been running his mouth. 

My Grandfather died when I was 13. I wish I had had more time with him but I cherish his life. He was wonderful to me in the short time I knew him. He was smart and had an entrepreneurial streak. He wanted all his family to have a place to live and he wanted us all to live close together. I guess now he felt that was the safest thing for us to do. He wanted to leave us something. But all the progress he was making stopped when he died. No one took up the mantle. It all ended with him.

My Grandmother only went to the 3rd or 4th grade. Folks back then didn't think girls needed an education. They needed to know how to work and how to get married, have kids and be a good subservient wife. She got part of that right. Papa's attempt to make her subservient resulted in his getting a pot of hot grits tossed on him.  She died over 20 years ago. 

But she had refused to let my Mother go to college. Mom had been smart and she had been a tall, lanky redheaded girl who played basketball. She had gotten a scholarship and wanted to go to school. Grandma dismissed it. She didn't need to do that. Stay home and help me take care of your brothers, she told her. My Mom rebelled and left home. She went to Miami to live with relatives and then moved to Philadelphia and then to Brooklyn where she had gotten married to an abusive man. 

She finally clobbered him and fearing she had killed him, fled to Chicago where she  learned later that her ex was still alive. She divorced him and married my father. 

I wonder what went through their minds when they had to leave their homes. I wonder if they were angry or just terrified. Did all of them make it out? I heard whispers that maybe two of them didn't, but I don't know for sure. 

I recall in 1981, my Mom had bought a van and she piled my Grandma and 2 of my uncles and my brother and me with his son and our nephew and we drove up to Gainesville. Grandma directed us to a little dirt road right behind an apartment complex that had been built for University of Florida students and showed us a little old one room building that was rotting. 

It was where she had gone to school for a while, she said. She got out and walked around the property and told us that the church they had attended had been near there as well. Then when we were leaving, the road turned into another larger street and I-95 was just across the way. She said that the cemetery where her family had been buried had been covered over by the Interstate. She was wiping away tears as she told us. 

She directed us to another house and said that she had relatives living there. My uncle went to the door and sure enough, there was more family there. My uncles were surprised that Grandma had remembered as much as she did and we had a wonderful time that day. 

I had always asked a lot of questions. I always have. It's why Mama bought a set of World Book Encyclopedias when I was 7. She said if I read them, I would learn about everything and wouldn't be asking her questions all the time. One of her friends had taught me to read when I was only 3 or 4 so I was more than able to tackle those books and I was overjoyed. I loved reading more than most folks did. I also enjoyed going to school and learning. The hard part for me was dealing with the other kids who had preconceived notions about me and folks like me. 

Learning was never difficult or boring to me. I loved learning new things and I still do. I have an inquiring mind and I am curious about most things. It's why when I was hearing things about all these massacres and riots and lynchings that happened back in the day, I wanted to know more. I researched them and tried to find out more - because I wanted to know if my family had been affected. I knew in my heart that they had, but I didn't know for sure because no one wanted to talk about it. All those years later, they were still afraid. 

My family didn't ask questions. They obeyed and listened and did what they had to do to survive. They didn't have the advantages that we have now. The last of my Mom's siblings died a couple of years ago. She had lived her whole live working as a domestic and she had never been curious or interested in much. She worked hard and raised her family and she was a good woman.

Researchers are saying now that for many of us Black folks, the miseries and pain of our ancestors has found its' way into our DNA. Their struggles have become ours and our health is often marred by it. Our life expectancy is less than that of white people and we are often crippled with illnesses in a disproportionate measure. 

More of us have high blood pressure and often, as in my case, a stubborn resistant strain of HBP that resists medications. I have been on several different ones in my life and it took a cocktail of several drugs to get it in line. My doctor told me once that if Black patients don't also have a diuretic prescribed, the drug for HBP won't work. 

My Grandmother and every one of her 9 children all had glaucoma. Two of my uncles lost their sight all together. My brother Eddie has an aggressive form that sneaked up on him one year and reduced his vision to nearly zero. He has had several surgeries to retain what little vision he has. 

I lost the vision in the center of my left eye and I thought at first it was because of an injury. Several years ago, it turned red and was swollen and sore and I couldn't wear my contact lenses. I thought perhaps I had some kind of infection and went running to the optometrist that I trusted. It took 6 months for my eye to return to normal. What I had was twofold: a lot of nerve damage caused by glaucoma and one of those nasty nagging symptoms of lupus. 

I've had myopia and astigmatism most of my life. I was born prematurely and back then, they put silver nitrate in preemies' eyes and then popped us in incubators which they discovered later, caused us to have eye problems later in life. I wore big thick glasses until I discovered contact lenses. But now, since I was in my 40's, I basically have full vision in only one of my eyes. 

Diabetes runs in my family as does multiple myeloma, a form of bone marrow cancer. I wonder if this is inherited, part of the package passed on by living in fear and submission? Is it true that living a life being treated as less than human, with no one truly caring about you can somehow find its' way into our very DNA, affecting future generations, causing us to be more susceptible to health conditions that doctors cannot find a way to cure or even handle in some cases?

I didn't have to suffer the indignities that my relatives did. But that doesn't mean I don't share their pain. I look around me and find that I am less trusting and not open to people I don't know. I look at the people here and I wonder if they are walking around harboring hatred in their hearts or if their ancestors were involved in a lynching or a massacre. I wonder if it's a family secret that they don't talk about or if they are proud of what they might have done. 

For those who did participate, how did they sleep at night? Did they ever realize what they did was wrong? Did they think about it? 

Do they even understand that the best thing for us all is to bring all this out into the light and acknowledge it? We need for the truth to be taught so that the generations to come don't make the same mistakes and don't live with the same lies and illusions. We all need to know. 

So what if it makes some folks uncomfortable?

How do you think my family felt? 
How do you think I feel?

Us and Them

2020-07-22T13:41:00.001-07:00

You know we all speak from the person we are. We try to speak from our hearts if we are honest and true. There are those - many - who don't care about that and say whatever they want to whomever they want to because they think they have the right to do that. Those are people who don't matter. I really believe that if you don't care about other people, you aren't worth a dime.

Black people have had to live our lives not saying what we really mean. Not saying what we feel. Not being able to express ourselves for fear of alienating, offending and making white people "uncomfortable." We have to had to worry if what we said would get us lynched, threatened, fired, banished, ostracized, etc. We have had to smile when our hearts were breaking, we have had to act like we were happy when we weren't and we have had to swallow insult after insult after insult without saying a word in response.

Black women are branded “angry” if we say how we truly feel. Same with Black men. White people claim to be afraid of us if we don’t put on the “go-along-to-get-along” mask. “I was afraid for my life,” they say.

White people freak out when we call them on their racism. “I’m not a racist!” they scream, right after they did or said something so racist it makes your head spin. White women start crying and of course that makes white men want to comfort them, and so they blame us for making her cry and suddenly we are the antagonist in a situation where we were attacked and insulted. But we are not supposed to show our emotions. We are supposed to just take it.

We are tired of that.

Others, like me, have tried to educate and explain so that our words are understood but that has been hard too because often, our words have fallen on deaf ears. It's only now that people are paying attention after seeing videos of what we have been trying to address for years.

So, we are struggling to try to work together and, in this environment, we find we are still being stifled when we express ourselves.

Reality - we don't speak the same way. We don't say the same things and sometimes if we do, it means something different than what the common thought is.

All this back and forth about the n-word for example. Black people don't use it as a negative term. It's a form of a greeting, a sign of shared experience or heritage, friendship, etc.

Yeah, we shouldn't use it and many of us are actively trying not to. It's a pejorative established by non-white people who used it as a weapon against us. It was one more term to deny our humanity. A lot of Black people want to take it back and make it our word for our relationships.

And so, now white people want to use it too.

No.

I don't think there is a Black person alive who hasn't had a white person (or a child) bristling with anger and hate who couldn't think of anything else to say to hurt us spit that word at us. Write that word to us. They wanted to say the worst thing they could think of to say to us and so they used that word.

White supremacists enjoy saying it to us. It brings back those “good old days” when they could address us any way they wanted and knew they would get no reaction.

Yeah, rappers use it in their “music” and so folks think now they can get away with it by claiming they are just “singing” what they hear in the “songs” they listen to.

Because of the negative connotation of the word, there is no situation where a white person can say this to a Black person without bringing up a very negative reaction.

Why? Because white people made it that way. By making it a weapon, it gets a very strong reaction from us. White people say it to hurt us and we know it. I don’t know a single white person on this Earth who knows me well enough, who is close enough to me to address me with that word and not expect to get cursed out or slapped.

Just don’t. I know white people don’t like being told what they can’t do, but add this to your list of words to just never ever use like those words in the dictionary that you don’t know and don’t use.

Just don’t.

Now, the word coon. Once again, there is a cultural difference. White people have used it just like the n-word. It’s a negative thing, racist and offensive in origin and when white people say it, we know what they mean.

When Black people say it, it has a whole different meaning. When we call someone a coon, it’s like we called them Benedict Arnold. It’s negative for us, but in a different way.

We use it on Black people who have seemingly turned their back on us. People who are struggling to identify as white and to get white approval and we find that to be treasonous. We also recognize the truth that those people who adopt that attitude are usually being used as tokens by white people who don’t really care about them and really do see them as coons. When they are done with them, they kick them to the curb and go back to their white supremacist buddies without batting an eye.

So, if we call someone a coon, it is not the same as if a white person says it. Understand that.

Facebook doesn’t get that. If we are in a group with white people, and one of us refers to Candace Owens, or Ben Carson, for example as coons, there will always be that one white person who will immediately think, “I can’t say that and so they can’t either!” and report us. And FB will punish us for it.

A lot of times, we are repeating what someone said to us, or a post that we saw by a racist, but it doesn’t matter. The bots that look at the posts only see that word and respond accordingly.

Look, racism is a white people problem. White supremacy is a white people problem. Neither will go away until white people stop whining, crying, blaming and not accepting responsibility for what has happened since this country was born. It doesn’t matter that it makes them uncomfortable or that they don’t want to be seen as “the bad guy.” White people have to work this out among themselves.

Several years ago, I was involved in creating an anti-racism group. A white woman and I decided it was time to address the issue in an open way, giving people the forum to talk about racism in an effort to kill it.

We had meetings and invited friends and soon friends invited friends and our meetings grew from a couple of people to dozens. We had Black and white people involved for the same purpose we thought.

I had an experience when teaching college classes years before that opened my eyes. At first, my students separated themselves by race and there was no interaction. But as we talked about racial issues, as they got honest about how they felt, things got emotional and almost heated. I was nervous that things would erupt into a fight, but that didn’t happen.

What did happen was after getting those very uncomfortable things out in the open, the students grew closer. They became friends. They sat together and talked to each other. They stopped looking at each other as “the other.” It was wonderful to behold.

So, I thought the same thing would happen with this anti-racism group. Our meetings got loud and emotional and instead of letting it play out, the white people got intimidated and uncomfortable with the reactions they saw.

Talking about race and racism isn’t easy. It’s hard. It’s difficult to hear people relate stories about things that have happened to them, how they have been treated, how their families have been insulted and affected by white supremacy. It’s hard to listen to people who resent white people because of it. It is hard to hear that people bear years and perhaps generations of anger and hatred against people who aren't like them. Some people have been raised to believe that Black people aren't even human. But all that has to come out in the light for the demons to be exorcised.

The white people complained to the white woman who co-created the group with me. She was uncomfortable with it too. Our political differences came into the mix as well. She was conservative and I am liberal. We were in the middle of a difficult election in our area and all that was brought up.

I remember once an older couple came to a meeting. They didn’t understand why Black people were angry. They wanted things to go back to the way “used to be.” The 50’s they said, were the best time. Everything was peaceful and everyone knew how things were.

I said something like, oh, when white people could call us names and get away with it? When we had to ride in the back of the bus and train and weren’t allowed to sit where we wanted? When we couldn’t stay in hotels and eat in the same restaurants? Where we were not allowed to buy houses where we wanted and we had to go to separate but unequal schools? When interracial marriages were illegal? Those the days you mean?

That wasn’t what they meant, they said. They were outraged that I brought all that up. It wasn’t fair. They just didn’t understand. We didn’t understand. They got mad and left after other people there agreed with me.

Some of the white people just couldn’t handle us saying what we felt. I don’t know if it was guilt, anger, or what, but it was just too much for them.

I had seen progress in our meetings until the white people decided to make rules making it difficult to honestly and openly express your feelings.

They wanted to keep it civil and quiet and they wanted to stop the outbursts and tears. They were afraid of the rage and resentment. They were more comfortable with no emotions, no real feelings, just being logical and racism isn’t logical. It’s emotional and it’s full of anger and hate and fear and ugliness.

Black people were outraged and insulted and many stopped coming to the meetings. They felt they were once again being stopped from speaking the way they wanted to. We had to alter our emotions to make people feel safe. Comfortable.

The group still exists, but it isn’t nearly the force it could have been or should have been without that rule. It should have been a safe place for everyone to speak to racism but instead, it was defanged and declawed and it was basically a place for white people to complain that they didn’t understand what Black people wanted.

We can’t get past this if we cannot be honest and say what we mean. Black people have to listen and look at white hatred almost every day. But white people cannot stand to look at our reactions to it, don’t want to hear our rage and our pain. It makes them “uncomfortable.”

I say grow up and put your adult panties on, sit down and listen. Don’t take what you hear personally, don’t get defensive, just open your heart and mind and listen. Learn. Grow.

Look in your own heart. Who are you when it comes to race relations? Do you have Black people in your personal lives? Do you regard them as whole entire people? Are they your friends, but in a way, you still consider yourself better or superior to them? Or do you just sit with them at restaurants, at bars, at church but you don’t really interact with them? Are they welcome in your home? Can they speak to you about their lives without your “getting uncomfortable?”

Do you worry what your friends will think if you are close to a Black person? Are you afraid or loathe to date interracially because you are concerned about what others will think?

You really need to study your own thoughts and feelings and decide if you want to merely not be a racist as opposed to being anti-racist.

Listen to us with your heart. Step outside of being white and trying to defend yourself. Listen as a human being. Our anger isn’t directed at you. If you are truly our friend, you will want to hear how we feel and know what hurts us and you will want to embrace all that we are just as we want to embrace all that you are.

Only then will we really believe that you are an ally and that you have our back. Only then can we share our lives and become the one human race that we were always meant to be.

Are you ready for that?

Not Like This

2018-10-05T12:47:00.003-07:00

I was visiting a friend for the weekend. She and I had always had a lot of fun together so I thought I would go hang with her.

We went to a club we had always gone to and we had had a few drinks and had danced till closing time. One of the men who managed the club used to flirt with me and I flirted right back. It was nothing serious to me. He was an okay guy but not someone I would have considered getting close to. It was just playful fun. He joked about wanting to get with me and I managed to laugh it off and keep it light. I don’t remember but there may have been a time I sat in his lap or even hugged him. I know I didn’t do anything to make him think I wanted him for more.

I didn’t want to have sex with him. He really didn’t turn me on like that and I liked him for a friend but not someone I wanted in bed with me. I really didn’t want that with him. I just wanted to be friends. I told my friend that. I wasn’t interested in him like that.

So that night, we came home and I was in bed asleep. I was wearing a flimsy little nightie because that is what I usually wore. I toss and turn a lot and I have torn up nightgowns when they got caught under me. I liked something light and loose because I also got very warm at night and I wanted to be able to get out of it easily.

I don’t remember what caused me to wake up, but I did and there he was, in the bed with me. He had taken off his clothes and he was under the covers with me and he had pulled my gown up above my breasts so it was nearly around my neck and he was kissing and licking me while holding that gown tight. He was on top of me and I couldn’t move.

Was I dreaming? Was this an awful nightmare?

No. It was all too real.

He was large – probably 6’3” or so and muscular and very strong. I could not push him away nor could I get out from under him. I was trapped.

My mind was racing. What could I do? I wanted to get away from him but at the same time, I didn’t really want to scream or anything. I just wanted him gone.

Meanwhile, his hands were all over me, his mouth, touching me in places I didn’t want him to touch. I didn’t want him in bed with me. I didn’t want this. Not with him. Not like this!

I tried to joke with him or say something that would defuse him but it wasn’t working. I asked him to stop and he said no. He had wanted this with me and he was going to have me. He told me to stop fighting and enjoy it. I said I didn’t and he said “Fake it. That’s what you women do all the time anyway, isn’t it?

”

He had obviously put on some cologne before he showed up and I could smell it all over him. His body was hard and like stone. I could not move him and I couldn’t get away. I was furious. I hated the idea of having to have sex with someone I didn’t want but there wasn’t anything I could do. I just lay there and let him have his way.

When he was finished, he wanted to joke and play and tried to kiss me again and I told him to get his clothes on and get the hell out. He said he wasn’t finished and wanted to do it again. I said no. I slid out of the bed and wrapped the sheet around me and called him names and demanded that he leave.

I remember that he looked hurt and sad and said he didn’t understand why I was so angry. He had only wanted to make love to me.

That wasn’t love making! I hadn’t wanted it!

I was so mad I couldn’t think. I just wanted him to go

My friend was standing in the doorway as he left and she looked puzzled too. Didn’t I want him to come visit, she asked.

Maybe I would have earlier. Maybe if she had asked me. Maybe if it was to just sit and talk and get to know each other better. Maybe I might have liked him more later.

But to let him in without asking me and show him where I was sleeping and then leave me alone with him, no, that wasn’t what I wanted.

I had not wanted to have sex with him.

I was angry with her too.

The next day, I got dressed and I went home and I never spoke to her again.

I saw him years later at another club in another town with other friends. I made sure I stayed out of his line of sight though by then, he probably forgot me and what had happened.

But I hadn’t.

I didn’t think of it as rape. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. I was a young woman who had had sex with men as I wanted, I went out drinking and dancing and I smoked weed and on top of it all, I was black. Who would believe me?

I thought about my life being broadcast in court and having all those self-righteous white people looking down their noses at me if they were in a jury. I thought about people staring at me and those thinking I had asked for it even though I hadn’t.

I had had a couple of the local police make a pass at me and I had said no. One of them had tried the same thing but I had been lucky enough to get away from him before anything had happened. They would not believe me.

And I had been flirting with him even though to me it was meaningless. What would they make of that?

I didn’t think anyone would believe me and so I just kept quiet about it.

As time passed, I told a few friends about it but mostly, I put it out of my mind.

I was more careful though. I wasn’t as playful with men as I had been. I didn’t smile and kid around with them if I didn’t know them and I made sure I wasn’t alone with them unless it was what I wanted. I didn’t accept rides nor did I let men in my home unless there were other people there too.

I had several men get angry with me because they said I was treating them all like they were rapists. Perhaps I was. I just knew that to protect myself, I had to be far more cautious than I used to be. I didn’t intend to ever get caught like that again and I never was.

Last week, as my brother and I discussed Brett Kavanaugh, he asked me if anything like that had ever happened to me and I told him about it.

He was quiet for a long time and then he said, “You just told me that you were raped.”

We both sat quiet, not sure what to say. I really had never thought of it that way, but he was right.

I had been raped.

A man had held me down in the bed and had sex with me without my permission or my cooperation. I had said no, please no and stop and he had not stopped but had gone ahead and forced his way into my body against my will. And it wasn't my fault. I hadn't done anything wrong.

I felt the tears burning but I didn’t want to cry and I fought them back. And I thought of all those other women who had had something like that happen to them. All those women who like me didn’t think they would be believed. All those women who had kept quiet for so long and had tried to forget it because they blamed themselves.

All of them who like me, had been with a man who was more powerful, who felt like he could do anything he wanted and did.

I looked at Brett Kavanaugh on television and I saw that anger, that rage, that how dare you tell me I was wrong look on his face. No one had ever challenged him and how dare a mere woman try stop him from getting what he wanted. I knew he didn’t think he had done anything wrong. But I knew he was lying. I knew he did it.

I looked at those men sitting there smugly agreeing with him and calling her a liar among other horrible things.

All those feelings of helplessness came back and once again, I fought off the tears. The anger came back.

But that large lump of pain is still sitting there in my chest.

I don’t think it will ever go away.

The Night We Lost Dr. King

2018-04-03T22:26:00.001-07:00

I was 17 when Dr. King was killed. I will always remember when it happened.

My brothers were paper boys and we had dropped off their money and they had their pay and my Mom loaded us all in the car and we were driving to Chicago to spend the weekend with our Aunt Bootsie and Mike and Keith. We were on the road when we heard that Dr. King had been shot. We were all stunned, shocked and for a moment, none of us spoke. We were listening to the radio and it just seemed like it sucked all the air out of us. Who would have done such a thing?

I remember that I had tears in my eyes and that I felt bereft and painful. We had lost someone who meant a lot to us all, but I didn't realize at that moment just how much we had lost.

We were halfway there when the first reports of unrest in Chicago came up. Should we go home or should we keep going? Mom thought we would be all right, so we kept going. When we got there we knew we should have gone back home. We could hear gunfire and we saw smoke and things did not look good. Our Aunt lived on the west side where the rioting was happening and somehow we made it to her house. We parked the car and ran in the house and then we heard more gunfire. Should we have left the car there? Our Uncle Robert moved the car to the back of the house and we all huddled inside.

It seemed like gunfire was going off every minute. We didn't sleep in the beds near the windows. We slept on the floor just in case. It was terrifying.

While I don't condone rioting, I understand the rage that makes people do it. When you have been suppressed and oppressed and no one listens to you and you feel hopeless and powerless, and the rage just builds until you just explode. I get that.

But this was my first time being in the midst of it and it was frightening but the little rebel inside me understood their rage and anger. Dr. King was a man of peace. Why would someone want to kill him? We knew it wasn't a black man who did it. But again, why?

We left Chicago after the National Guard came and settled things down. I wasn't so sure this was a good thing. People had a right to be angry. We had lost someone who meant a lot to us and as usual, Mayor Daley just decided to shut it all down and make everyone behave. We saw burned out buildings and lots of soldiers on the street and people did go inside but I knew the anger was still there.

We were glad to get home where it was quiet and we could think about what had happened. I knew this was going to change the way we lived and that it wasn't going to be for the better. Dr. King spoke for the poor and the disadvantaged and nobody cared about us. Things were just beginning to get better. What would happen to black people and civil rights now?

But my biggest revelation was yet to come.

Back at school, we talked about it. We didn't understand why someone would want to kill him unless they just hated black people and hated what was happening. That had to be it.

The white people acted like it was no big deal. They didn't care about him. They had no idea how hurt and devastated we black people were. We were together in school physically, but we were still disconnected from each other in reality. This became apparent in the following days.

The day before his funeral, the school administrators decided that if we wanted to stay home and watch the funeral and honor his memory, we black students could take the day off of school. I recall the anger that the white kids in my class exploded with. I recall I tried to explain to them then that they didn't know who he was or what he was trying to do and nobody wanted to hear it. These were people I had considered my friends and they showed who they really were with their reaction to that simple day off to honor Dr. King. I never looked at them the same way after that.

Fifty years later, I cannot recall names and faces but I clearly recall the rage and anger they expressed thinking we black students were going to get something they weren't going to get. But over the years, I have seen that same reaction every time white people thought we were being favored or chosen over them or given something they didn't get or just treated as equals to them.

Dr. King was a complex man as most people are. He tried to do good things but he wasn't perfect. He was just a man. Back then, not that many believed he was an agent for good. I heard more sneering nasty comments from white people than I want to think about. I got into many arguments about him.

Even my parents were afraid that somehow white people would get mad at us and would treat us even worse than we had been in the past. They grew up and endured horrible treatment because of Jim Crow laws. It was why they left the South during the Great Migration.

But now, everyone, even racists who do not believe in what he tried to teach us use his name. They quote him even if it's only part of what he said. He is recognized for what he tried to do.

I just remember how hollow and awful I felt looking at that casket on that mule drawn wagon, going down the street in Atlanta that day. I looked at the faces and I remember seeing Bobby Kennedy walking along in the procession. It was hot that day and he had taken his jacket off and he and Ethel were walking together. She was pregnant. He was going to run for President and I was sure he was going to make things better. I had faith in him.

Two months later, he was gone too. I gave up all hope for what our country was going to be. I didn't care anymore. I went to college but I didn't care. I just wanted to have fun. All the people who cared and tried to change things got killed. Nothing mattered.

Fifty years later, are we any better off? I feel that hollow and empty feeling every day when I get up and look at the news. Whatever progress we had made has been lost in the past year. So here we are.

What would Dr. King say about us now?

LISTEN TO ME!

2017-09-23T08:04:00.003-07:00

A friend wrote a very impassioned post a few days ago about how her friends seemed to be so very resistant to dealing with the mere fact that racism exists. I thought about what she said and I even posted a response but sometimes, things just stick in your mind, you know?

There have been a lot of articles written about how deeply in denial a lot of white people are about racism. It makes them uncomfortable to talk about it and they wish we wouldn’t bring it up so much. I mean, after all, none of them are racist, right?

With the exception of some diehard white supremacists, white people as a rule will deny that they are racist even after they have been seen doing or saying something extremely racist.

“That isn’t me,” they protest, “I’m not like that. That isn’t who I am,” they whine, the ink on the page where they called someone the n-word barely dry.

I don’t understand that one.

I used to think it was because the image of a racist was some guy named Billy Joe Jim Bob who drove a truck with a confederate flag on the back with his dog named Rufus and his gun rack in the back of the cab.

I know now that a whole lot of white folks drive trucks with the flag and their dog and gun rack and they don’t think they are racist at all. (And his name is Will, thank you very much.)

It’s like they suddenly realized that racism exists and that it is more widespread than they believed and now they know it’s bad but don’t seem too willing to do much about it. They don’t want to discuss it because it’s too hard for them.

People just shrugged and said, “It’s just the way it is.”

For years, Black people have protested about their treatment. We were lynched for no real reason other than we were black. Sometimes folks told a lie and that got a man or a boy lynched. People brought their children to watch. They even fixed lunch baskets and posed for pictures with the victims. I still think of the pregnant woman who got lynched. They cut the baby out of her and stomped it to death.

But it’s black people who are violent, right?

We get harsh treatment from the ones who were supposed to protect us. We go to jail in higher numbers even though we are only 12% of the population. Cops were more likely to shoot us because they “fear for their lives,” even when it’s just a little boy with a toy gun.

We get pulled over and fined for minor offenses when white people just get a lecture and are let go. Sometimes we even got killed for them.

But I don’t need to bring up all the injustices because you know it, and you don’t want to hear it anyway, right?

But when we tried to tell other white people about something racist that happened to us personally, we were told it wasn’t true. Officer Bob is a good guy and he wouldn’t do anything wrong. It had to be us. We should have obeyed his every command even if it was wrong. Race had nothing to do with it, we were told.

“That kind of thing doesn’t happen now,” they told us, “it’s 2017. People aren’t like that anymore. I can’t believe it’s still happening. Maybe it’s something else. It’s not always race, you know.”

No one listened to us because it had to be our fault. Racism just wasn’t that big a deal.

Well, listen now because this part is on you.

Remember that friend of yours that said he didn’t like black people?

“Oh, he’s ok. He just has a thing about it, you know.”

Or your Uncle Joe who always told racist jokes and made it a point to say racist things at family get togethers. He didn’t mean any harm, did he?

And that woman who clutches her purse into her body when black people get too close. It’s not her fault. She got robbed by a black man so she is afraid of all of us now.

How many times did you try to check them? Did you tell your friend that you have black friends and you don’t appreciate his being racist to them? Did you tell him that he’s a racist and that he needs to look into his own heart?

Did you stop Uncle Joe? Did you tell him his jokes aren’t funny and that you don’t want him to say things like that in front of the children because they will soon learn that it’s all right to say those things? Did you tell him that you want your children to treat everyone with dignity and grace and that his behavior is crass and ugly?

Did you remind your friend that black people have far more reasons to be afraid of white people? Did you tell her about the lynchings and the murders that happened for no reason other than the person was a racist and knew he could get away with it?

You didn’t did you? Not ever. You just kept quiet because you didn’t want to make a big deal of it and you didn’t want people to think you were soft or that you are a n-word lover. You still wanted them to think you were a fine upstanding member of the community and you weren’t going to call them on their ugly behavior.

You realize that by always being quiet, you allowed that kind of behavior to persist year after year, person after person. Racism flourishes in the dark, quiet places we don’t want to address. We don’t want to go there, we don’t want to say anything, so we find a way to justify it and hope that everyone moves on.

You try not to acknowledge the hurt you see in your black friends’ eyes. It’s not your fault. You didn’t say anything wrong. We are being too sensitive.

But you didn’t say anything at all. You didn’t defend us and you didn’t try to see why we were hurt.

For years, people like me didn’t say anything either. We swallowed hard – that big lump of racism is hard – and we told our friends and family who shook their heads and shared instances of the same behavior with you. They didn’t tell you that it was all in your head and that Bob is really a good guy. They knew that Bob was a racist and that you were complicit in his racism because you didn’t say anything.

We wanted to stay friends so we just didn’t say anything to you though we never forgot it. We wondered if it was just us or if you weren’t the friend we thought you were. But it stayed with us.

Now you want to say that you are “woke,” too. You are our “allies.” You finally understand where we are coming from. You don’t want to identify with the groups of people in the streets yelling racist chants and you see them calling us names and taunting us openly now. You are offended and appalled and you want it to stop. You act like this is all new.

Maybe for you. Not for us.

You want this to end? It’s on you.

You need to step outside of your comfortable space and try to look at the world through our eyes. Listen to what we tell you. Pay attention to our pain. Hear us when we speak. Don’t get defensive. Don’t say you are being attacked. Yes, it’s uncomfortable but stop and listen to us.

And when you see or hear racist behavior or language, stop it. Don’t assume it’s all right. It’s not.

And now, this pretend president that we are suffering with, he has emboldened the racists so that now we know who they are. When he said racist things, instead of disavowing him, white people rushed to vote for him. “He says the things that I am thinking,” they said.

And then they had the nerve to be shocked when black folks were appalled with them. After all, voting for him meant that you were okay with the offensive things he said, right?

So now the incidences of hate crimes have increased since November. People of color are being openly harassed and everyone is nervous.

People of color aren’t comfortable much of anywhere anymore. More of us are buying guns but you know what that means: Officer Bob/Betty sees you have a gun and suddenly, they “fear for their lives” and you end up dead.

And yes, this is something YOU can help fix.

What is it they said about the terrorists, “if you see something, say something.” Well, these days, the terrorists aren’t immigrants. They are Americans, right here among us, festering in their rage and hatred.

We have to find some way to get past all this. We have to get to know each other and we have to talk to each other and we have to understand what is being said. It’s the only way things can even begin to change. Otherwise we are going to go deeper down the rabbit hole of hatred and I don’t know how we will ever find out way out.

The Grand Tour of the South

2017-09-14T00:47:00.001-07:00

I hadn’t been anywhere in a long time. Actually, I hadn’t been traveling much over the past 10 years. I am used to taking off and going here or there to visit family and friends and I had not been doing that much. I missed a good road trip.

My brother and I had gone to Philadelphia once and Savannah, GA twice to visit his son and his family. We’d taken short trips from Chicago to Galesburg to visit friends and family but that was about all. And since I’d been in Florida, I really hadn’t gone anywhere so I was overdue for a trip.

Blountstown, Florida is a nice little town in the Panhandle of Florida. Nothing much happens here and if you don’t have a car, you are really stuck. We lost our car late last year and we had only been going to the doctor either in Tallahassee or Panama City and I was very bored.

Eddie is living in Tucson, Arizona and we hadn’t seen each other in nearly 2 years. He had been diagnosed with multiple myeloma and amyloidosis in 2011 and we had gone though all of his treatment and chemotherapy together in Chicago. In 2015, we both left Chicago; he went to Tucson and I went to Blountstown.

Eddie also has severe glaucoma and we had to deal with multiple eye surgeries as his doctor was determined to save what sight my brother had left so it had been a long and difficult process for him but he had been a true warrior and went through it all barely complaining.

I was honestly concerned about his health and I wanted to see for myself how he was. He is kind of stoic and will say he is all right even when he is in pain so I wanted to be sure he really was all right. He was pretty much alone out there so I figured a visit was in order. I had never been to Texas so I thought it would be fun to take the bus out there.

Now I don’t have a problem riding the bus. When I was a child, we often took the bus to go to visit family. We took trips from Chicago to Detroit, Washington, D.C., New York but mostly to Vero Beach, Florida, where our grandparents lived. I loved those trips on Greyhound.

And after I was grown, I still didn’t mind taking bus trips so it wasn’t unusual for me to do it again. Most of my friends and family by then swore they could not do it but I didn’t mind. As long as I had something to read, music and something to drink between stops, I was good.

This was going to be a different route than what I had initially looked at when I was deciding when to go. It would have made sense for the bus to stick close to I-10 and go through Destin, Pensacola, Mobile, New Orleans, Houston, and San Antonio.

Instead, it went to Houston then up to Dallas and then down to El Paso and then Lordsburg, New Mexico and then to Tucson. I was leaving from Panama City, Florida so the trip would take about 2 days. It was a longer trip than I had taken for a while. Usually, my trips were about 24 hours in length. But I was fine with it. I had packed most of what I needed in a handy carryon bag.

Now I am not a person who travels light. I try but I always seem to take too much. I was taking my laptop with me and my backpack to keep with me. My carryon was just a bit too big to go in the overhead bin so I checked my suitcase and kept the rest with me.

I am a senior and I do have some health issues that make some travel a bit tricky for me, so I always request to sit in the front seats and I ask for priority boarding so that I don’t have to wait in line. Usually, the ticket agents are good about it and I get my seat before most of the other people get on the bus. They also check my bag granting it “special handling” which means that when I have to change buses, I don’t have to go get my bag. The baggage people will put it on the bus for me which really helps a lot.

We don’t have a car, but Harmon, my husband, was going to the doctor in Tallahassee the day I planned to leave. I always go with him to the doctor and we get picked up by the local senior transportation service. I asked if I could be dropped off at the bus station in Tallahassee which meant I could get a bus to Panama City sparing me having to get someone to take me to PC. That went smoothly, even though a one way ticket to PC cost me more than I had expected.

I got to the station earlier than I had planned and had to sit there for a few hours waiting for the bus. I hadn’t gotten any cash so I couldn’t get something out of the vending machines and the charging station there didn’t work and I needed to charge my phone so I had to use the one connection they had there.

The bus station closed for an hour or so in the afternoon so we all had to leave the station. There was no place near where we could wait so I went across the street and sat at the bus stop because it was the one place where there was a bench with shade. And yes, it was hot. But it was better than sitting on the ground so I sat there. I was letting my friends and family know where I was and how my trip was going on Facebook.

The bus arrived late but finally, we boarded and took off. I was going to be on the same bus all the way to Houston so I was delighted. The driver was a black woman and she was a really good driver. She made up the lost time and got us to Mobile on time.

I hate it when we get to a station and the restaurant is closed. I figure if buses are going to arrive there all times of night, they should keep something open so that we weary and hungry travelers can get a sandwich or something. I got some cash from an ATM and hit the vending machines and that had to do till we got to Lake Charles.

The stop there was actually a gas station, which I discovered is what many stops are. They had fried chicken and meat pies which I love so I got some and a cup of coffee and that was my breakfast.

I had ridden along pretty much sitting alone all the way to Houston but when I had to get on my new bus, I found it was packed and I had to put my carry on under the bus and tuck my backpack under the seat. It was really uncomfortable. My legs were stiff and I could barely move my knees so each time we had a stop and could get off the bus and stretch, I did. Unfortunately, I had to ride that way all the way through Texas, which was no fun.

I had to change buses in Dallas and that was a trip. There were a few customer service agents whom I called the Seat Nazis. There were some seats reserved for Priority Boarding and they insisted that you pay the $5 for that privilege.

Now Greyhound policies state that if you are elderly or handicapped, you qualify for Priority Boarding and no one had asked me to pay for it.

Not the Seat Nazis. One of them walked through the station yelling at people telling them they couldn’t sit in the Priority section unless they had their ticket stamped Priority. She didn’t want you to sit on the floor and she was clearing folks away.

That bus station was crowded so there wasn’t enough space for anyone to sit down. I went to the ticket counter and paid the $5 and they stamped my ticket Priority all the way to Tucson and also from Tucson all the way home. I felt better about that and the Seat Nazi allowed me to sit peacefully till my bus left.

I got to Tucson as scheduled and got an Uber to take me to my brother’s apartment. His place is small but really nice and very clean. We were glad to see each other. We often sit and talk for hours about political issues, social and racial issues and then we laugh and share family memories. He and I have always been close and we had missed each other. I wanted to go with him for his chemotherapy and talk to his doctors myself.

I decided to spend a few more days with him and I changed my departure from Tuesday to Friday. It wasn’t until that night before that I realized that if I had left that Friday, I would have gotten caught right in the path of Hurricane Harvey who just happened to be visiting Houston about the same time I would have arrived.

I endured a visit from Hurricane Katrina in 2005, and that was about all the time I wanted to spend with a hurricane so I postponed my trip again to the following Wednesday.

I called Greyhound that Monday and asked if leaving would be all right. The person I spoke to had a very heavy accent and was hard to understand and he apparently didn’t want to talk to me so he was trying to hurry me off the phone. He told me that I would be rerouted after I got to Dallas and I asked him again if it would be all right to leave Wednesday and he assured me it would.

Looking back, I wonder if there was some kind of communication gap between us, but I did ask him more than once and he kept saying it would be fine.

Right.

So Wednesday, I showed up at the bus station and the ticket agent told me there were no buses going that way and that I should not travel for a few days. I told him I had called and spoken to someone and he said, well, you will get to Dallas anyway.

I should have listened to him. But he took my bag, checked it through to Panama City and off I was again, on my way home.

When we got to El Paso, a baggage clerk there told me I could not take my carryon on the bus. The bus wasn't that crowded so he was just being a jackass. I had only paid for one seat he rudely reminded me and I had to go check my bag. That was going to cost me $15 and I had already paid to change my ticket and I didn’t want to spend any more.

Thankfully, when I went to the ticket agent, I told her what I had been going through and she didn’t charge me to check the second bag. I was not happy about it though.

I have asthma and cigarette smoke really bothers me. I hated having to walk through the cloud of smoke to get in and out of the bus station and having people get back on the bus with their clothes and hair reeking of smoke was making me really sick.

One man got on the bus and asked if he could sit next to me and without thinking I said no. He smelled like the bottom of an ashtray. No way I could have tolerated that! It was bad enough that he sat behind me. But I managed to have the seat all to myself most of the way home, thank God.

When I got to Dallas the next day, my suitcase was not there. Apparently the agent in Tucson had forgotten to put it on the bus. And the customer service agent there in Dallas told me that I could not leave until the next evening. I was going to have to spend the night in Dallas.

Things were getting worse.

The station was full of people and I was concerned about my missing bag. She suggested I go to a shelter but we both knew that wasn’t a good idea. There were a lot of people stranded there at the station and some of them were either trying to get away from Houston or trying to get there. Many of them were headed for the shelter and it was already nearly full.

I went outside and looked around and saw several hotels but most looked out of my league. This trip was going to cost me a lot of money.

I went to McDonalds and tried to get on to Priceline and get a bargain on a hotel there and for some reason that didn’t work so I realized the one hotel was the cheapest one so I trudged the 2 blocks and got a room there.

I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept much the night before and I fell into bed and slept a few hours after I let my family and friends know where I was. I had set up a group text with my brothers and nephew and friend and I contacted Harmon and assured them all I was all right.

I got up, went to get something to eat and drink and because I had nothing to sleep in, I bought a few tee shirts and came back and took a shower and passed out again. I looked up a few places intending to go get some Texas barbecue the next day. My hotel room was quiet and comfortable and I got some good rest before I got up, cleaned up and checked out.

Two doors down I saw a little fried chicken place. Nothing fancy - just fried chicken. It had to be good because there was a long line inside so I went in and ordered a couple of pieces and sat down and enjoyed it before I walked over to the bus station.

It was still packed but I got there around 1:30 and my bus wasn’t leaving till 7:30 but I had nowhere else to sit and wait so I did. Thankfully, the Seat Nazi didn’t hassle me and I didn’t have any problems while waiting.

I asked one of the customer service agents a few times about my bag and one finally took me over to the baggage area and lo and behold, there was my suitcase, tagged and stacked and ready to go on the bus I was going to take. I felt a lot better.

I shouldn’t have. I should have taken my suitcase with me. But no, I was trusting them to get my bag home with me and I left it there. This was Friday afternoon.

I met this wonderful lady who was 75 years old and was still working as a nurse. We sat and talked for hours. She really made the time go by a lot faster. I wished that we had been going in the same direction, but we weren’t.

I had been rerouted through Shreveport, Birmingham and Atlanta. I would change buses there and take another bus that would go south through Georgia and then over to Tallahassee. There, I could wait 8 hours for the bus to Panama City. I said no, I could call my family and they would come get me in Tallahassee.

I sent Harmon a text and told him that I would not be home until 10 p.m. on Sunday. He spoke to our friend and told her and she said she would be sure to be there to get me.

We got to Shreveport late. We were even later getting to Jackson, Mississippi. We had to wait there and the bus station was locked when we got there. Someone opened the door and the restaurant was closed and there were barely enough seats for us all to sit in. There was nothing for us to do but just stand around and wait. It was awful. The bathroom was disgusting.

We got to Birmingham late as well. We stopped at one place that did have food so we got a good breakfast and of course, we got to Atlanta late. I missed the bus I was supposed to take and guess what? My suitcase was not on the bus.

Now when I got to Dallas, they had issued me a different ticket. I had my luggage tag at that point. I was assured my bag would make the trip so I wasn’t too worried. It did have a luggage tag on it with my name and destination. Actually, I had gotten a different ticket in Tucson, Dallas, Atlanta and Mobile. Somewhere along the line, my luggage tag went MIA.

However, our bus was late arriving in Atlanta and I missed my connection by about half an hour. When I spoke to the ticket agent, she issued a different ticket for me and I was glad because it got me back to the original route and I would get home at 9 a.m. the next day instead of 10 p.m. as I had originally been told.

I checked in with Customer Service again, and I was seated in Priority Boarding. It was at this point that I think I wasn’t given my luggage tag. She again assured me that my bag would go on to Panama City and that I shouldn’t worry. I had checked a second bag but did not trust “special handling” so I kept it close to me.

Two years ago, I took a trip from Chicago to Savannah, GA with my brother and we were seated in Priority Boarding in Atlanta to wait for our transfer to the bus to Savannah. The way it is supposed to work is that an agent is supposed to let the bus driver know that he has Priority riders and that he is supposed to walk us out to the bus and board us before the rest of the travelers are boarded.

So we sat there, trusting the agent to get us on the bus.

However, the agent forgot that we were there and did not board us and we ended up having to wait 5 hours for the next bus. We were given a voucher for future travel but we didn’t use it.

So I was leery about being seated there and I spoke to several of the people working in Customer Service so that I would not be forgotten again. They all assured me I would not be forgotten and that they would see to it that I was seated. One even gave me a voucher for a meal which was nice.

The bus was supposed to leave at 11:35 that evening but it was late. We weren’t informed that our bus was late until after midnight and we were told it would be another hour before it arrived.

I was afraid I would not get home when scheduled and I had already contacted my family to let them know when to expect me. Since my arrival time had been changed so many times, I was worried, but they assured me they would be there whenever I got there.

I went to ask the ticket agent about when another bus would leave in Mobile because I was going to miss the connecting bus. She gave me some kind of silly reply that did not really address my question. I noticed the customer service agent who assured me he would take me to my bus walking off with his meal and when I got back to the Priority Seating area, they were seating people for my bus! No announcement, no one had come to get me, if I hadn’t returned when I did, I would have missed my bus!

I rushed out and told the driver I was to get Priority Boarding and he said no one had told him I was there and he told me to go ahead and get on the bus.

We were very late arriving in Mobile, so once again, I had to sit 6 hours till the next bus. This was Sunday morning and I had been traveling since Wednesday afternoon.

And no, my bag was not on the bus when I got to Mobile.

I got to Panama City Sunday afternoon about 4:30. Yes, we were late. And what amazed me was that the driver stopped at a convenience store not 5 minutes from the bus station.

When we got there, I went to get my carryon bag. When we left Mobile, he was the one who insisted I put that bag under the bus and had asked to see the luggage tag on the bag. I showed it to him and he had the bag put on the bus.

But when I got to Panama City, I didn’t see my bag. I asked about my bag because it hadn’t been taken off the bus.

The driver said it must not have been on the bus and I insisted that it was. It was on the other side of the bus and the driver demanded a luggage tag. I reminded him that he had seen my bag in Mobile and that it was tagged with my destination and name and he allowed me to claim it with my ID.

I asked the ticket agent in Panama City if he had a bag there that had not been claimed. As I said, the bus station there closes for a while in the afternoon and he was ready to leave and didn’t want to take the time to look for my bag.

By then I was tired and frustrated and I just wanted to get my bag and go home. You see, Blountstown is about 40 miles from Panama City and I don’t have a car so I didn’t want to have to ask someone to make a second trip for me to get my second bag.

He was not willing to even listen to me, but said if I didn’t have a luggage tag, he couldn’t look for it. I kept telling him he needed to stop and listen and he did but it was clear he was angry and didn’t want to entertain me.

He made a half-hearted attempt to look for it but I told him that I had been re-ticketed so many times that I didn’t have a luggage tag anymore. He couldn’t find my name in the system and I realized he wasn’t really going to look for me. I left my name and number and what the bag looked like and asked him to call me.

I have called a few times in the 10 days since I got home. The agent said that things were slowly coming in from that direction and he hoped my bag would still arrive. But in order to fill out a lost suitcase claim, I have to go to Panama City so I will have to make a second trip anyway. So far, my suitcase, marked “Special Handling” is still missing.

To put it briefly, this was a nightmare of a trip. I really do understand about rerouting me because of the hurricane. I know the roads were flooded and that my route would have taken me right through areas that were hit hard with floods and wind. But I still think things could have been handled a lot better.

There were a few bus drivers who just didn’t seem to care that we were late and that we were going to miss connections because of it. That really made me angry. I have been with drivers who hate being late and really do their best to get us there as close to the original time as they can. Not these drivers. They just moseyed along and took longer times at the rest stops and caused a lot of us to miss our next bus.

I wrote a letter to Greyhound after I got home. I don’t expect to hear much from them.

I am not sure if I will take Greyhound again. I think this was the final straw for me.

All I want now is my suitcase.

My Friend, My Protector

2016-11-22T12:48:00.000-08:00

One night when I was about 19 or so, I was hanging out at this bar/restaurant in town. The drinking age was 21, but because my father was the chef there, I was allowed to hang out. Plus, I didn’t really try to sneak a drink and the owners were cool.

An older black man that I didn’t know said something to me that was off the wall and I just looked at him like he was crazy. He took my lack of comment as approval and kept talking to me. I was quite uncomfortable with his sexual innuendoes and not really sure how to get him to shut up without being totally disrespectful.

A big blonde biker looking man was sitting at the table nearby and correctly assessed the situation and leaned over and told the guy to back off. I had seen that guy before; he came to the place often and nodded at me with a grin as he passed by.

The man got totally offended that a white guy would tell him to leave me alone and went into this whole tirade about how he was going to kick his butt. I was wondering if he had really gotten a good look at this guy because he was no pushover.

He was big and broad and looked strong as all get out not to mention he was wearing black leather and a no-nonsense look on his face.

They went back and forth and finally the black man said let’s take this outside. The biker gladly got up and so did I and we went to see what was going to happen.

It was over before it started. It was one of those two-hit fights you hear so much about – the white guy hit him and he hit the ground. And he lay there a while.

We went back downstairs laughing and my Dad asked what had happened and we told him. He told the biker, Jerry, my Dad called him, thanks and bought him a beer.

And so I met Jerry Whitman – known to many as “Animal.”

So Jerry and I became friends. I think we knew instantly there was no sexual chemistry or any of that. Hell, he was married and I was still innocent and kind of childish. That didn’t last long!

One night I let him convince me to go to a party in Wataga with him. I didn’t go out there much – it was just a lot of white farmers and they weren’t always cool to black folks but he insisted I would be all right. So I got in the sidecar of his bike and went with him.

Apparently Jerry told his friends to spike my Pepsi and anything else I was drinking. I was staggering about and being silly and he and his friends were laughing like mad. I don’t remember hardly anything except when he was taking me home and I said I wanted some tacos from the Hideout.

Somehow we made it there and I got my tacos and when we got to my house, it took me a while to get out of the sidecar. I was drunk beyond belief.

My parents heard the bike and my Dad came to the door, turning on the front porch light. By then I had fallen out of the sidecar and was lying face down in the grass, still clutching my bag of tacos and my purse. Jerry figured my Dad wouldn’t like that much and he took off and left me like that.

Yeah, I had some choice words for him the next time I saw him! And my Dad was winding up to rip him one when another patron of the bar had decided he needed to take my virginity and was squeezing my butt and thighs, not realizing that my father was not far away.

Jerry being the good citizen he was, told the dude that I was indeed a virgin but that he should tread light if trying to hit on me. The man then detailed to Jerry exactly what his plans were which Jerry helpfully repeated to my father.

Dad came out of the kitchen with a large knife and snatched up the poor guy and threatened to cut him up in dozens of tiny pieces. The guy was scared out of his mind and took off.

I looked back and saw Jerry sitting in a booth with the beers my Dad had bought him just grinning like a Cheshire cat.

I knew then what my friend was really like. And I loved it.

Jerry took me to biker parties and I took him to the black bars, called “The Clubs.” People were always doing double takes when they saw us.

Who expected to see a big muscle bound blonde biker with a little black chick dressed in spandex and heels together?

I got to know some of Jerry’s family. His sister was married to a guy I had known since high school and her laughter was like magic to me.

To this day, I love to see Marilyn laugh. She radiates an inner beauty that most people only dream of. She and I became fast friends. I love her madly.

He had another brother that I knew from the bars but he and I were never close like Jerry and I were. And of all people, his father was one of my biggest fans.

My father liked Jerry but he had known him before I did. They had been drinking buddies and Jerry had been asking him for recipes and such. I don’t think Dad thought about us being friends but as long as that is all we were, he was ok with it.

Mama was a bit nervous about it but Jerry had dinner with us one night and declared her food to be sent from Heaven and he gave her one of his famous bear hugs and kissed her cheek and that was that. She would often ask me where my friend Jerry was and when he was coming over again.

Now we grew up in a town that liked to say it was tolerant about race but it was just a story for them. While we all lived close together and went to school together, there was still a generous dose of classism/racism going on.

Galesburg had been a stop on the Underground Railroad in the 1800’s and there were stories about how they had helped slaves escape to freedom but those days were long gone.

Our swimming areas were still segregated and there were some restaurants and bars where people of color were not welcome. (That never stopped Jerry. He took me to several of them daring anyone to say a word.)

It was obvious that many people there thought they were superior to black people and, I might add, a biker from Wataga too.

I was at a bar one night with a couple of friends when a truck driver came in and was giving us looks. He was a white guy, big and country and he didn’t like to see so much “race mixing” going on.

Jerry had come in too and he was standing not far from the guy who was at the bar.

Finally, the man leaned over to the bartender and said something like there are too many niggers in here. Why do you let them hang out in here?

The bartender was flustered and asked him what drink he wanted and he said he didn’t want a drink, he wanted all the niggers gone. Jerry turned to him and said, “Maybe you need to leave.”

“Why should I leave? I’m a white man. I can go where I want to.”

“People here get along. We don’t need trouble from assholes like you. I think you need to leave.”

The redneck bristled up and stood up, glaring at Jerry, “What are you fucking one of nigger girls? You can’t tell me what to do…..”

And then Jerry stood up and said, “I’m going to tell you one more time to get out of here and then I’m going to kick your ass. You can’t come in here insulting my friends.”

The two glared at each other a long moment when the trucker realized that Jerry had about 4 other bikers with him and they were all standing at attention ready to spring into action if Jerry said the word.

Not only that, but all the black men around were also glaring at him and he realized that he was about to get the ass whipping of his life. The bartender repeated that he had to go or he was going to call the cops.

He paid for his drink and left and the party went on.

Later one of the black guys said to Jerry, “Just one time will you let us kick the redneck’s butt? You always get at them first!”

Jerry laughed, “Next time we take them together, ok?” And they agreed and laughed.

We both had our friends and we went separate ways, but we always managed to hang out together. I will not ruin both our reputations by telling you all the things we did together. Suffice it to say we had lots of fun.

We were always laughing. We used to just give each other the side eye and we would both would fall out.

We would drink shots together and he would egg me on to drink more knowing I had no tolerance and that I would get drunk. And then he would laugh and tell me what I had done the next time he saw me.

One night we were at a bar and an older woman had decided that she wanted to take Jerry home. He was not into it but she wasn’t giving up..She kept brushing up close to him and grinning up at him and he was really embarrassed but kept trying to let her down nicely. She tried to drag him to the dance floor and she was simply relentless. I was laughing and he was threatening to throw me out the window but it was too funny.

Finally, he said he had to go to the bathroom and he managed to escape. I teased him about that one for years.

But out of all the people I knew, Jerry was one who would not tolerate any kind of slight be it racist, sexist or what. He insisted that we all be treated with respect and while I knew his friends all thought I was his side chick, they were always friendly and nice to me.

I found out later that the way he kept them all from trying to hit on me was by telling them that I was indeed his mistress and they dared not approach me. I had to laugh when I realized that.

There were other times that some drunk guys said something off color to me or referred to me as a coon or something like that. He didn’t try to reason with them or tell me to ignore them. He got right up in their faces and insisted that they shut up and/or apologize or get handled. Nobody wanted him to handle them and usually left right away. I especially liked it when he made them apologize to me.

I always felt safe around him even though I knew that Devil was not beyond pulling some prank on me. We agreed early in our friendship not to do that as I have never been good with practical jokes but he managed to get me a few times and we laughed as we always did.

But we were the Odd Couple who remained just good friends. I left for a while and went to college but when I came home, I usually ran into him and we took up where we left off.

He told me that it had been fun watching me grow up and that I had become one hell of a woman. He said he was proud of me for going to school later in life.

We talked about lots of things and he would warn me about some of the guys I was talking to.

I remember once I was talking to a guy and he seemed to be more nervous than anything. I didn’t think trying to take me home was that big a deal but the guy was flushed and red faced and stammering and finally took off like the Hounds of Hell were after him.

It was only after I turned around that I realized they kind of were. I saw Jerry standing there, trying to look innocent that I realized what was going on. He didn’t like the guy and wasn’t going to allow him to hit on me.

I didn’t think about how special our relationship was until after he was gone. I remember the day someone told me in passing that they thought my friend the biker had died. I called his sister who confirmed the story. He was gone.

I was crushed. She and I cried together but then she called and said I should attend the funeral with the family and then his friends wanted us to come have join them. It was at a place out in the country with his friends.

I had never been any place like that without Jerry and I was nervous but Mr. Whitman said I shouldn’t worry. So I went.

We all walked in together and Mr. Whitman put his arm around me as if to say, “she’s a part of us,” and it seemed everyone stood down and it was cool.

Jerry’s wife and I had always gotten along and as we were talking, one guy muttered, “How lucky was Animal to have his wife and his woman get along like that?”

She and I just laughed.

But the funny part was one guy said “Well, now Animal is dead so one of us should get to have you.”

Mr. Whitman bristled up and said, “Jerry left her to me!”

I tried hard to keep a straight face but to no avail. We all burst out laughing, knowing it was just what Jerry would have wanted.

I miss my friend. I miss the man who never allowed anyone to denigrate or insult me. I miss the man whose sense of fairness was almost as big as his heart.

I miss his laughter and his devilish ways. I miss seeing that cap with the flaps hanging as he walked away, waving and smiling.

“Stay out of trouble,” he used to say.

“You too,” I would tell him.

He would laugh and say, “Why? That’s no fun.”

I was lucky to have the friendship and trust of that man. I just never thought about what a gift it was till later. But I will never forget him.

Not My President, Not My America

2016-11-10T10:16:00.006-08:00

The first couple of days, I was stunned. I was hurt and I was disgusted. I totally underestimated the true amount of racism and misogyny present in the hearts of Americans and I had thought that somehow this candidate would not be elected.

I saw the amount of hate and vitriol aimed at the liberal candidate and I could not envision that that many people had been swayed and actually believed all the lies that had been perpetrated against her. I thought people were smarter than that but one by one, they showed me that they weren’t.

Now I’m just angry. If I read one more post saying they won’t unfriend someone on Facebook because of how they voted; one more saying we should now all accept the results quietly and get along; one more saying how disappointed they are that people are protesting I just might scream.

What kind of sanctimonious hypocritical mealy-mouthed unrealistic foolishness is this?? Do you really understand why people like me are so angry and hurt?

Let’s analyze this.

This candidate ran on a platform of racism, misogyny, xenophobia – oh, yes the big words. Let’s say it like he would – this campaign was based on hate and anger and fear.

He saw that most white people are racist at the root despite what they may say and think and he played on that. Did you ever look at any of those recordings of his rallies where his supporters were openly calling people nigger, were assaulting people of color and advocating for a race war? Were you disappointed then? Did you speak up?

I didn’t think so.

You want a wall, don’t you? You want Muslim people deported and banned. You want immigrants to leave our shores. Let’s clarify – just the immigrants who aren’t white. The rest can stay, right? Uh huh.

You hate Mexicans and want them to leave – even if it means splitting up their families.

You don’t care that black people are being killed in record numbers by nervous cops who should never have been given a gun in the first place. It didn’t matter when the CIA said that there were lots of white supremacists joining police departments all over the country and warned that it would be a problem. It didn’t matter to you that they wanted the right to beat and shoot us on sight, for no good reason except that they could. You didn't understand that Officer Bob was your friend and not ours. He was afraid of us and killed us in his fear. But you sympathized with him, gave him a paid vacation and vilified us as habitual lawbreakers and criminals. Thugs, you called us. You ignored our fear and our protests.

No, you wanted us to obey at all times and not run from them even though we were terrified.

All the years we tried to tell you that we were suffering from racism, you responded with amazement.

“Now? In 2016? How is this still happening?”

You tried to tell us it was our imagination, that we were being too sensitive, that we overreacted….basically that it was all our fault. You tried to explain that he was basically a good guy and that racist joke he told was all in fun.

You didn’t believe us.

You were all up in your feelings about abortion and morality and couldn’t support her. While you are damning a woman’s right to choose, did you do anything to help a woman in distress about pregnancy? Did you help a poor family struggling? Did you adopt any of the thousands of unwanted children in foster care? Did you even donate a dime to help foster children?

No. You supported laws that denied families in distress funding from the government. You didn’t want them to get assistance or food stamps or WIC to support that baby your beliefs demanded she have even when she knew she couldn’t support that child.

You knew she couldn’t afford childcare but you didn’t care. You didn’t think she deserved a dime. You didn’t want to help her. You didn’t even want her to have a living wage after she got the job you insisted she get.

Did you care about the millions of families living in poverty? No.

You’re ok, right?

Hypocrites.

You believed all the lies about the one candidate who wanted to help women and poor families. She fought for 30 years to help all the while facing the most onerous hatred anyone has ever had to deal with. She didn’t quit. She stood tall and took it. You hated her while turning a blind eye to the truths about him.

You thought your whiteness should have given you the keys to the kingdom and when the economy tanked you blamed us. Did you stop and think that the guy who owned the company where you worked was the one to blame?

He decided that you weren’t worth the salary he was paying you and realized he could cut corners if he moved to another country where he could pay his employees a fraction of what he paid you.

Were you mad at him?

What about the one who saw a chance to make even more money if he created a company helping American companies move to other countries, cutting their costs and helping them to make more money for the CEO’s.

No, you weren’t mad at him. You elected him governor of Illinois.

You blamed brown people for your loss of jobs. You blamed affirmative action. You didn’t understand that we all deserve a piece of that pie. You didn’t care. You saw every advance by a person of color as taking something from you and your hate simmered. We all wanted the same thing – a decent living for us and our families but you demonized us to make you feel better for your bitter feelings towards us.

Now you want us to give him the respect you denied the past administration. Leaders of the Republican party stood together the night President Obama was elected and conspired to ensure he only had one term and that they were going to obstruct everything he tried to do. They shut the government down. Where was your outrage then?

If you had so much respect for the country and how it works, you should have been enraged. You should have wanted those folks gone.

No. You voted them in office again so they could keep obstructing.

Were you outraged at the disrespect he got in office? Did you cringe when he was called a liar during the State of the Union address or did you silently applaud the classless moron who did it? You know you wished you were that brave, didn’t you? Admit it.

And when all this birther nonsense came up, were you incensed that someone would do this to the President? You know you weren’t. You started to wonder yourself, didn’t you?

You know you passed some of those memes and insults against him and his family in your email and probably posted a few on Facebook. You laughed. You thought it was funny and when there was pushback, you cried out, it was just a joke!

We were being too sensitive. Again.

Now that you have elected a racist, misogynist, proven liar with no experience and with barely a 5^th grade vocabulary to office, you want us to treat him with respect and dignity. The same respect and dignity you denied President Obama for 8 years.

You see, it isn’t that we hate him so much though most of us do. It’s that you elected him knowing how he was and you shared his feelings. He speaks his mind, you said. He said what you didn’t have the nerve to say is what you meant.

There were several incidents of white people emboldened by his hateful rhetoric who thought they could walk right up to us and insult and attack us. They said that if he was elected they could get rid of us. They threatened us if he didn’t win. They walked around with guns trying to intimidate us. Did you care? You probably didn’t even see the videos.

“I don’t like stuff like that! It’s probably staged!” you said as you hurriedly passed by it.

You wished the black people you knew were not so focused on race and that we could all just laugh together at the videos of what your cats were doing. This other stuff just bothered you and you didn’t want to deal with it.

You didn’t have to.

We do. It’s part of our reality.

You thought our protests against police brutality were wrong and that we should be grateful we were allowed to live and work here in this country that hated us so much that they passed laws to make sure we couldn’t live where we wanted, work where we wanted, love who we wanted and do what we wanted.

Oh, you fussed, that was a long time ago! It’s not like that anymore. Things have changed.

Yes, there has been some movement but not enough and this is true for women as well as people of color. We remain woefully backwards in those areas.

We are angry. We are hurt. We are disappointed. You elected a man who stands for everything we don’t.

What about the peaceful Muslims who live here? My brother is a Muslim and he lives in the South. I fear for him every day.

What about the gay people who only want to live in peace together as a family?

What about the poor families who struggle to survive on a minimum wage job?

What about the senior citizens who have to live on the pittance of Social Security each month?

What about the hungry families?

What about people who are homeless because there is practically no affordable housing? How is a family living on $7 a hour supposed to pay the skyrocketing rents these days?

The gentrification that is driving poor people from their homes so that rich white people can build luxury apartments with their Starbucks and Trader Joe’s next door?

What about the gutting of the Civil Rights Act that allowed gerrymandering and closing of driver license offices so that people of color would have a harder time getting the identification so that they could vote? Or the polling places closed so that it would be harder for them to even get to vote?

All these things are what we are concerned about and this new president doesn’t give a damn about. And what hurts is that all you that voted for him apparently don’t care either. Your vote for him was an affirmation of his policies and let us all know where you stand with us.

Some of you want to act shocked that we feel this way. You don’t want to hear this. You want us to be submissive and not speak of our pain and hurt.

Our grandparents had to do that. They feared lynching and loss of their livelihood and more if they spoke up. We don’t fear that. We are tired of being gracious and forgiving. We are going to give this man the same respect you gave President Obama. You just have to deal with it.

You don’t want to lose friends? You have. And unless you understood the things your black and brown and gay friends feared, you weren’t really their friends anyway.

You want us to give him a chance? When he already let us know what he thinks of us and what he wants to do?

They are already salivating at finally being able to dismantle a law that granted insurance to millions of people. Without it, people will die. I’ll say that again:

PEOPLE WILL DIE.

Do you care? No. You just didn’t want a penny of your money helping someone less fortunate.

And you wonder why we are angry.

We will not lie down and take it anymore. This is the America you voted for. You wanted a change – now you have it.

Enjoy it!

Not My President, Not My America

2016-11-10T10:16:00.004-08:00

What kind of sanctimonious hypocritical mealy-mouthed unrealistic foolishness is this?? Do you really understand why people like me are so angry and hurt?

Let’s analyze this.

This candidate ran on a platform of racism, misogyny, xenophobia – oh, yes the big words. Let’s say it like he would – this campaign was based on hate and anger and fear.

I didn’t think so.

You hate Mexicans and want them to leave – even if it means splitting up their families.

No, you wanted us to obey at all times and not run from them even though we were terrified.

All the years we tried to tell you that we were suffering from racism, you responded with amazement.

“Now? In 2016? How is this still happening?”

You didn’t believe us.

Did you care about the millions of families living in poverty? No.

You’re ok, right?

Hypocrites.

He decided that you weren’t worth the salary he was paying you and realized he could cut corners if he moved to another country where he could pay his employees a fraction of what he paid you.

Were you mad at him?

No, you weren’t mad at him. You elected him governor of Illinois.

If you had so much respect for the country and how it works, you should have been enraged. You should have wanted those folks gone.

No. You voted them in office again so they could keep obstructing.

And when all this birther nonsense came up, were you incensed that someone would do this to the President? You know you weren’t. You started to wonder yourself, didn’t you?

We were being too sensitive. Again.

“I don’t like stuff like that! It’s probably staged!” you said as you hurriedly passed by it.

You didn’t have to.

We do. It’s part of our reality.

Oh, you fussed, that was a long time ago! It’s not like that anymore. Things have changed.

Yes, there has been some movement but not enough and this is true for women as well as people of color. We remain woefully backwards in those areas.

We are angry. We are hurt. We are disappointed. You elected a man who stands for everything we don’t.

What about the peaceful Muslims who live here? My brother is a Muslim and he lives in the South. I fear for him every day.

What about the gay people who only want to live in peace together as a family?

What about the poor families who struggle to survive on a minimum wage job?

What about the senior citizens who have to live on the pittance of Social Security each month?

What about the hungry families?

What about people who are homeless because there is practically no affordable housing? How is a family living on $7 a hour supposed to pay the skyrocketing rents these days?

The gentrification that is driving poor people from their homes so that rich white people can build luxury apartments with their Starbucks and Trader Joe’s next door?

Some of you want to act shocked that we feel this way. You don’t want to hear this. You want us to be submissive and not speak of our pain and hurt.

You don’t want to lose friends? You have. And unless you understood the things your black and brown and gay friends feared, you weren’t really their friends anyway.

You want us to give him a chance? When he already let us know what he thinks of us and what he wants to do?

They are already salivating at finally being able to dismantle a law that granted insurance to millions of people. Without it, people will die. I’ll say that again:

PEOPLE WILL DIE.

Do you care? No. You just didn’t want a penny of your money helping someone less fortunate.

And you wonder why we are angry.

We will not lie down and take it anymore. This is the America you voted for. You wanted a change – now you have it.

Enjoy it!

When I Grow Up

2016-09-18T19:00:00.001-07:00

When I was a little girl, I used to lie in bed at night and wonder about a lot of things. I was one of those kids who daydreamed a lot. I thought a lot. I was trying to figure a lot of things out and one of those things was about race. So much didn’t make sense to me.

I was a child during the Civil Rights struggles. I remember seeing those “White Only” and “Colored” signs. My grandparents lived in the South so I often had to travel down there to visit family. I loved it. The South, that is. I loved the weather and it was so beautiful down there. My family lived in Florida so I got the best of it, I thought.

I’ve lived in the South for a lot of my adult life and I still love it.

We took the bus sometimes, which was a lot of fun for a child. It was a great trip from Illinois to Florida. There were a couple of times that weren’t fun though.

Once a racist bus driver made my Mom get off a bus in Ohio because she only had a bus ticket for herself, me and one of my brothers.

My other brother was only about 3 and he sat in our laps or in a seat if one was empty. They had told her in Chicago that she didn’t need one for him so she hadn’t bought one. He not only put us off the bus but he told the other driver for the bus we were going to transfer to that he shouldn’t let us on the bus. She was trying to cheat Greyhound and it was up to him to make it right.

Actually, it was something meaner and nastier, but you get the drift.

So my poor Mom had to call someone back home and get them to wire her money for a ticket and we had to sit in Ohio for hours waiting for it to happen.

And then there was the time in Daytona Beach that my Mom and Aunt Bootsie got off the bus to get us some food. They had to go to the “Colored” window to order it and could not sit in the restaurant like the white folks. They didn’t want us kids to have to deal with it so they left us on the bus and subjected themselves to the hatefulness they had left the South trying to avoid.

While they were getting the food, a white couple came and sat in our seats. When they asked them to move, they declared they didn’t have to. They were white and they could sit where they wanted.

Wrong answer.

Mom and Bootsie were not the ones.

And, in fact, neither were the other white riders on the bus who all went after the two old rednecks. When the bus driver came back, there was all kinds of yelling and cursing going on and when he realized what was what, he told the couple they had to get off the bus. My family had been in those seats since Chicago and they couldn’t just sit where they wanted.

They called him a nigger lover among other things and wouldn’t get off the bus even though they had moved, so he called the police who came and told the couple they had to go. I recall that they didn’t threaten to arrest them, just told them to get off the bus, which they did.

I later wondered if it had been a black couple sitting where a white couple had been, if they would have been so nice about it.

Other trips were on the train and in the car. I loved the car trips. I vaguely remember the ones when we couldn’t use the restrooms in the gas stations in the South where we bought gas. Or we couldn’t eat in the restaurant we had seen billboards for because they didn’t serve black folks. On those trips, Mom cooked lots of food and we had coolers with stuff to drink and that big potty in the trunk so we could squat on the side of the road if we had to. Yeah. Fun, right?

But most trips we were able to go to restaurants and use bathrooms even if we got dirty looks.

But I remember seeing people getting hosed and beaten by cops and seeing them sic dogs on kids like me. I remember hearing that Dr. King had been assaulted in Chicago for protesting. I saw all this on television as I watched with my parents. I can’t even imagine how they must have felt.

I still think about the hate I saw on the faces of the people in Little Rock and Boston who didn’t want their children to go to school with children like me.

And I remember Selma and the March on Washington.

I cried a lot when I saw things like that. I didn’t understand.

Why did people hate people like me because of our skin? Why was that such a lightning rod? Why was it so bad?

It didn’t make any sense to me. It wasn’t like we were given a choice. We just grew up and one day somebody called us a nigger and we didn’t really know what that meant so we asked our parents.

They got that look, that crestfallen, pained look that meant they were going to have to explain all this to us so that we would be prepared to deal with it the rest of our lives.

They had to tell us that we couldn’t expect to do a lot of things or go to a lot of places and that many people just hated us. That word was something bad that they used for us and we would hear it all of our lives.

So we had to grow up knowing we could never trust everyone. Some people just wanted to hurt us and we had to learn to avoid them. And I have to say that the police were some of those that we could not trust. I know that’s tough for white folks to understand but it’s true.

Ask any black man about his interactions with the police even if he is a fine upstanding citizen. He’s still suffered at the hands of an overzealous and often racist cop. They are NOT always the good guys.

My parents didn’t want us to grow up in a segregated area like they did. They didn’t want us to be humiliated and despised like they had been so they moved up North so we wouldn’t have to face it. They thought we would have a better life living up North.

When it happened up North you could see how hurt they were. They didn’t want us to grow up in that kind of hate. They had wanted us to live in a better world.

They didn’t know that place only existed in Star Trek. I didn’t either till later on.

But when I lay in bed pondering all these things, I consoled myself by thinking things would get better with the passage of time. People would see that we weren’t bad or deserving of the hate and that we would all kind of get together and fight the hate and have a good life.

I had white friends and black friends and I thought we would all just have fun together. But some of my white friends said they had friends who didn’t like black people. Not many, but a few. And I had black friends who asked me why I had white friends. How could I hang out with crackers. Didn’t I know they hated us?

Wow.

I knew some of my white friends’ parents didn’t like them being friends with black kids. You know when you can’t go to their house but they came to yours. Or when their parents look at you like you grew a third eye when they saw you.

There were lots of little things and I still wondered about them as I grew up. It still didn’t make any sense to me. I knew we were all more like than a lot of people even thought about. I knew I wanted the same things they did. Why did they dislike me for that?

It just seemed so crazy to me. I wanted people to get along and learn to love each other. I knew that if we spent time together we learned that we were pretty much the same and that things could just be cool. I tried hard most of my life to get people to see that. But I had faith in the future and I really believed it would be better.

Now that I am older and wiser, I still lie in bed and wonder the same damn things. Instead of getting better, t seems to have gotten worse. Every day I go online to read numerous stories about people who confront people and call them names because they are different from them. They don’t want to live with them, go to school with them, go to church with them, party with them, date or marry them.

They hate people for being black.

For being Hispanic.

For being Asian.

For being gay.

For being bisexual.

For being transsexual.

For being a Muslim.

For not being Christian.

For being open minded.

For not being open minded.

For being Jewish.

You get the drift.

WHY??? WHY??? Why people???

Why are we still nursing all these hate?

Maybe we haven’t grown up yet. Maybe we never will. I don’t know. I just know we only have 200 or so more years till Star Trek so we have work to do if we are going to have that brave and beautiful future like Gene Roddenberry saw for us all. We’ve fallen behind.

Way behind.

I don’t have the answers. I wish I did.

I just know I almost get sick these days reading all those articles about so much hate. I read what people post online and I want to weep. I don’t do it much anymore because it is just too painful for me.

I still want to hope. It’s getting harder but I want to believe that things will get better.

Somehow.

Somewhere.

Someday.

The World Without Prince

2016-04-22T10:24:00.001-07:00

I didn’t think this day would come. He’s younger than me and he has always lived clean and healthy and full of his faith. I figured he’d be around singing those songs with a devilish smile and still making us feel kinda raunchy no matter how old we all were. He was like that.

I guess I took it for granted that he would be there. I thought I’d be 70 years old still going to Prince concerts even if they were small affairs in clubs. You know, the unhooked kind. I was all right with that. I was all right with almost everything Prince did.

You know, I feel sorry for people who just don’t seem to love or feel music the way I do. I am aghast at these folks who ask why we mourn these musicians so deeply. We didn’t know them, after all, they say. They are just musicians. I just shake my head.

Creative people make the world we live in just that much more tolerable.

We need to look at the architecture to see where we have come from. I mean we lived in huts and caves in the beginning and now look what we have? Look at the bridges and buildings and be amazed at what we have been able to do to make our planet that much more livable.

Art has brought us more magic than we ever dreamed. We have beautiful soul stirring paintings and sculptures and drawings that we cherish and love through the years. Just go to museums and art galleries and see what we breathe life into that captures our minds and souls.

I think writing and music roll hand in hand a lot. I mean we have lyrics that we will never forget set to music that takes us to another realm of reality. But as a writer, I understand what that really means. It’s not easy to put those words together and make them mean something that everyone can feel as much as you do.

My hat is off to people who can create the music and then find the words to pair with it and make it another entity altogether. That can only be described as magical. When

we have people who can do that, of course we look at them as special. They seem to find just the right words and music to touch our hearts and evoke all sorts of emotions in each of us. That is not an easy thing to do.

When that one musicians finds that place inside you – when they tap those feelings and bring them rippling to the surface – it’s wonderful. It can be painful, it can be joyous, it can be almost orgasmic or it can make you laugh. And the really great thing is hearing that music brings it back to you every time. You can hear a song you loved 30 years ago and still feel the same way when you heard it the first time. It becomes a part of your life, doesn’t it?

Prince was a magician. He was so many things rolled into one that it seemed unreal. I mean he could be funky as all get out, then he could be romantic, he made us get up and dance, he played it like the blues and then turned around and rocked the damn house.

He sang and he danced and he spun around on stage and there were only two other humans that had that same gift. We were lucky enough to have all three of them among us at the same time – the Godfather of Soul, the Hardest Working Man in Show Business, the man who moved like no other – James Brown.

I think of the T.A.M.I. Show when he hit that stage and folks had never seen anything like him. They didn’t know what to think. Mick Jagger mourned that he had to go on after James Brown. Nobody could dance like James Brown. My man surely had “the good foot.” And he did it to death.

Then we had Michael. You know who I mean. Michael Jackson of the shy smile and the movements that set peoples’ souls afire. Remember the first time you saw him do the Moon Walk? I do. I still watch that video in amazement. Or that lean in “Smooth Criminal.” Lord, yes, he was special.

And there was Prince. Unlike either of the others, he could pick up that guitar and make it talk to you. When he hit the stage in those high heels, he turned you inside out. Wherever he went, we went there too and we loved it and we loved him. We knew him just like he knew us.

These musicians reach down inside themselves and pull up their emotions and their thoughts and feelings and bravely share it with all of us. We know their joy, their pain, their angst, their fears, their hunger and their wonder. We know it cause we feel it too and we wonder how they knew how we were feeling too. They share themselves in a very intimate way and we love them for it. We feel close to them because we know they must feel close to us to touch our souls the way they do. We go to their concerts and we scream and laugh and cry and hold our hearts because we feel that connection more than ever when we see them and we know they feel us too. It is a wonderful feeling, isn’t it?

Prince shared his heart, his soul, his mind and his magic with us and we adored him. We didn’t mind when he got down to that part of us that was kind of nasty and hot and erotic. He was just putting words to how we felt too. So ok, some folks got upset and offended. Most of us knew just what he meant and it was all right with us. I mean, who among us hasn’t looked at someone who set our blood boiling and thought or said, “….you sexy motherfucker.”

You know you did. Don’t lie.

So we took him for granted. We just assumed he would be here with us. I remember he said he had enough music saved to keep us going for years and years and I was satisfied that he would be a part of my life as long as I lived.

Yesterday all that came crashing down. We didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t. I screamed when I read it, but at the same time, I knew it was true. I had been worried since I had heard he had been sick and they had taken him to a hospital in Moline, Illinois. I knew he would never not perform unless something was really wrong and I figured something was. I hoped he would still be there.

This year has been exceptionally unkind. We lost Natalie Cole and David Bowie and Glen Frey and Maurice White really close together. We have been staggering and sad for most of the year. We are losing our musical icons far too quickly this year and we are afraid and angry.

So no, I was not ready to lose Prince. I pulled out the program from the last time I saw him and looked at the pictures. I thought of the one time I was in his presence. I was backstage at the Essence Festival in New Orleans.

It must have been 2003 or 2004, I’m not sure which year. Anyway, I was walking along with friends and we stopped to talk to someone and I felt the presence of someone looking at me from behind. I turned and there he was, in all his Badness, wearing skin tight black pants and a tank top with a shirt over it.

I am used to being in the presence of musicians – I have in one way or another all my life, so I quickly gathered myself and smiled and said, “Hello Prince, how are you?”

He gave me that not quite naughty smile and said, “Hello baby, I’m fine, how are you?”

I said, “I’m fine, thank you.”

His eyes took the slow tour up and down my body and that smile got even more naughty and he said, “Yes, you are. I can see that, baby.”

You know I walked around with the big head for a long time. How often do you get someone like Prince to not only give you The Eye, but tell you that you are fine? Yes Lord. My life was complete.

But yes, I loved Prince. I loved a man who dressed whatever way he wanted, purple jackets, white lace shirts, skin tight pants with buttons down the legs and high heels. I loved a man who wore his hair like his crown. He wore his mascara and he walked like he owned the whole world.

What did it matter that he was short? Who cared? He might have been small in stature but he was huge in our lives and in this world.

He did just what he wanted to do and we might have joked and laughed but we loved him. I knew no other man that could pull off wearing pants with cut outs showing his natural ass.

And did he show them who he was at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame playing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps?” He rocked it like a boss and then threw that guitar and walked away leaving us all in awe.

There was so much to Prince and we loved it all.

And now he is gone.

We will live and we will go on but we will sit down and hear “Little Red Corvette” or “When Doves Cry” and we will smile and sing along and we will think of the man with those beautiful eyes and that shy smile and that devilish demeanor and we will still love him.

He is, after all, our Prince. And so he shall remain. Go in Peace, Prince. Rest in Paradise. You will always be a part of us.

Not Your Friend

2016-04-06T11:35:00.002-07:00

Everybody Isn’t Your Friend

I was walking my dog down the street one day not long ago and we passed someone who was walking too. She didn’t speak to me, or really even acknowledge me but Lola was trying to get close to her and I pulled her back, saying, “Lola, stop, Everybody isn’t your friend,” and we kept walking.

A few steps later, the woman caught up with me and asked, “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?” I asked.

“That everybody isn’t your friend. Why would you tell your dog that?”

“Because everybody isn’t and the sooner she figures that out, the longer she will live.”

The woman’s face was red, “That’s a terrible thing to teach her!”

“It will save her life,” I retorted, “she won’t approach someone who could do her harm.”

I walked away from her.

There was a lot more that I wanted to say but I knew better. That woman wasn’t ready to hear the truth.

I am the only black person who lives on my street on my end of town. I am living in a little redneck town in North Florida. I’ve lived here before so I know how it is.

The people who are nice are really great. They are thoughtful and sweet and kind and will do anything for you. I love this place for that. I have had people reach out to me and show me incredible kindness that I will never forget.

But I have also seen people glowering at me when they saw me walking. One called the police reporting someone suspicious but luckily, the chief of police is a neighbor and he knew who I was and he told her to calm down.

I have seen the Confederate flags flying and I have seen the people who really hated the fact I was married to a white man who happens to be Jewish. I know where I stand here.

I hadn’t thought much about that phrase for a while, but I remember that my mother told me that when I was small.

“Everybody isn’t your friend, Brenda. Don’t talk so much. Don’t talk to people you don’t know,” she said.

When I was 5 or so, I was a little chatterbox and I talked to anyone and everyone who would indulge me. Mama was afraid something would happen to me and she gave me that warning several times in my life.

When we moved from Chicago to the town where I grew up, she reminded me again. I had learned that one already.

Mom had had my ears pierced when I was 6 or so and when we moved, I was the only little girl on the playground with pierced ears. I had been wearing a pair of gold hoops for years and never thought about it. I also was wearing thick glasses because I am severely nearsighted.

I was standing in the schoolyard one day when a couple of little black girls approached me. They started asking me questions and it was clear they weren’t being friendly. I was still trying to make friends and fit in but these girls were clearly hostile to me. They made fun of my glasses and my earrings and the way I spoke. I finally blew up and slapped one of them so hard her lip bled. They left me alone.

I knew then for sure that everybody wasn’t my friend. And I knew it wasn’t always a racial thing. Sometimes it’s just rude and stupid people. Sometimes it’s jealous, insecure people. And sometimes it’s just people who are downright mean.

But many times, it is racial. I know very well I have crossed paths with people who looked at me and wanted to hang me, burn me, beat me or drag me behind their car or truck, just because I am black. I know they hated that I am articulate, that I am smart and that I am attractive. It’s not what they believe I should be and they hate me for it.

I go where I want to go and I say what I want to say. I have never let anyone dictate the way I should live or what I should do. But still, I have always been cautious with people.

I rarely speak to people unless they speak to me first. I wait to see their reaction to me before I react to them. I know I stand back and watch people first and that while I may appear aloof and distant, I am really reserved and cautious.

I’m not walking up to someone with a smile so they can call me the N-word. I’m not going to give them the chance to insult or denigrate me at least to my face. I keep my distance and I wait till I think it’s safe.

I’m that way with men too. I am probably even more cautious with men than most of them like. I don’t want a man knowing where I live or what my phone number is until I want him to.

When I talk to men online, I have a set routine of how I want it to go. Many don’t like it and I don’t care. I am taking care of myself. If he sends me a message and I think I might like to talk to him, I respond. If that works, I will give him my email address and we can either exchange emails or we can chat online. If I still feel all right with him, I will then give him my number so that he can call me. And I mean it just like that, so he can call me.

If we still feel like it’s right, then and only then we can start to plan on when we can meet face to face. That can happen in a week, maybe 2 but often it takes longer. I have met too many men who instantly want to call me or text me.

What happens if we don’t hit it off or if I don’t like him as much as he likes me? He can call me or text me when I don’t want him to. I don’t want that so I am careful about how I proceed with that. I don’t want to meet him right away. I want to feel him out so I can see where his head is. He should feel the same way. We both should be careful we don’t get involved with someone who is dangerous or unbalanced.

I’m just as careful meeting someone face to face. I don’t want to pretend I like him or want to be with him because I am afraid of him. I know a lot of men can’t stand to be rejected and will turn mean and violent so I keep a wide berth. I rarely meet anyone eyes when I am walking down the street. I know that some men totally misinterpret friendliness for flirtation and I don’t want to go there.

So don’t bother telling me to smile when you see me. I am not going to smile unless I want to. I don’t want you all in my face unless I invite you there.

So maybe I am too careful. It could very well be. I don’t doubt it. I am sure I have offended people by being that way. But I know I have remained alive and safe because of it.

So no, everybody isn’t my friend. If you don’t like that, I am sorry.

Just imagine if Emmitt Till had known that.

What about those girls that Ted Bundy lured into his car?

Or those boys that John Wayne Gacy killed?

I’m glad my mother taught me that. I’m sorry that most black mothers have to teach their children to be cautious like that.

I’m sorry that women don’t realize that they have to be more cautious with men.

I’m sorry that we have to teach children not to talk to strangers and not to trust people they don’t know.

We live in a world full of hate and anger and danger. We need to be more afraid of the people we meet. Realizing that everyone isn’t your friend can keep you safe.

What’s wrong with that?

Can We Talk?

2016-04-06T11:29:00.000-07:00

Has there really been more racism? Or was it always there and it was just on the DL? Are more racists emboldened because of their anger at our first African American president? Or was it there and nobody said anything?

I don’t know the reason but suddenly you can hardly read the news without somebody getting caught on tape, an open mic or writing something racist and hateful. Racists seem to have their own little world on Twitter and post stuff that would raise the hair of the person with the toughest hide. It makes you wonder – do they really hate me that much? What did I ever do for them to hate me like that?

When I was a young woman back in the Disco Days, I actually thought we’d somehow get past all the racism of the past. I thought the Civil Rights movement and the Black Power movement had taught us to look past all that. I thought more people heard what Dr. King said about the content of our character.

I’m going to make some folks mad, but oh well. I guess I have a right. I thought when some of the Greatest Generation passed on that they would take their racism with them.

Now before you start screaming, keep this in mind: that generation was the one that insisted that black folks walk down the street with their eyes down. They were the ones who called black men “boy.” They were the ones who took pictures of a lynching and stood there proudly posing with the evidence of what they had done. They were the ones who killed the 3 civil rights workers in Mississippi. One of them killed Emmitt Till. One of them bombed a church (!!) and killed 4 innocent little girls.

Those white women spitting hate at poor little Ruby Bridges? Yep. Them too. All that at a child. A little girl. And we all know what a little black girl is worth now, don’t we?

Bull Connor was one of them. So was George Wallace and Strom Thurmond. The Greatest Generation didn’t want to serve with black soldiers. The military had to be segregated for them. They were the ones that would not allow black soldiers to eat in the same mess hall with them – but fed German POW’s like they were guests.

They didn’t want to treat our veterans with any measure of respect after they came back from serving in WWII. Some of them beat a black vet to death because he got on a bus through the front door instead of the back.

Yeah, those people who mistreated my Mom and Dad so badly that when they left the South, they never wanted to go back.

That’s who I’m talking about. You know who they are – the so-called Greatest Generation.

But it seems they taught their kids some lessons about hate and discrimination and those kids taught their kids too. So it’s pretty clear this problem isn’t going anywhere any time soon.

I don’t have any illusions about it anymore. Racism is just as much a part of American culture as baseball and apple pie. I keep hearing about folks talking about these being post racial times and that things are so much better now. Really?

So how can a black woman who shot warning shots at a man who had been brutalizing her get arrested and charged and given a sentence of 20 years? She didn’t shoot him. She shot warning shots. But a white man shoots an unarmed teenager that he had been harassing and he walks around a free man right now.

If a young black man commits a crime – even a victimless crime – they throw the book at him. They have to get him off the street. He’s a menace. But if a white boy kills four innocent people, well, we don’t want to ruin his life. He made a mistake. People do. Besides, he’s so rich he didn’t know right from wrong. Let’s just give him probation. Uh huh.

Inner city men are to blame for our problems. An educated black woman is called an “ape.” I could go on and on but I won’t. It’s enough to make you really depressed and sad for what’s to come.

If we try to discuss it, folks accuse us of playing the race card. I guess we aren’t supposed to say anything about it. We should just forget it, right? Get over it. Things are better.

No. No, they aren’t.

I always knew that many white people talk one way when they’re with us and it’s completely something else when they are together and we aren’t there. But when you hear some of the comments that have been recorded or you see the venom in some of the posts on Facebook and Twitter, you begin to wonder.

You look at folks you know and you wonder what they say about you. You wonder if that person who is smiling in your face really thinks that he’s better than you simply because he’s white. It widens the gulf between us.

Oh dear God, there is a police car behind me! What does he want? I didn’t do anything! You struggle to get your license out and you speak slowly and you don’t make any sudden moves because you know it’s very likely that he will shoot you even though you didn’t do anything.

You’re black, after all.

I used to have a lot of hope. I guess I have looked at too much “Star Trek.” I thought we’d be moving towards that kind of society but we aren’t. We’re going backwards.

I wish I could wrap this up with some answers or solutions. I don’t have any. I wish we could talk to each other about this without blaming, getting defensive or anger.

I look at interracial relationships and the beautiful children they create. I have biracial cousins and 2 beautiful biracial nephews that I love madly. When we get together, family wise, we have become a blended family of both races and I love that. I think maybe I’m wrong and that it will be better.

Then I read where a councilwoman in a town in New Jersey said that certain changes in her town would make it into a “fucking niggertown.”

In the words of Marvin Gaye, “it makes me wanna holler, throw up both my hands.”

I just don’t know. I think we’re doomed. Racism keeps us from being great. It keeps us from being united and being one people – Americans. And I don’t think much of anybody cares.

And that hurts.

What We Are

2014-12-06T14:53:00.001-08:00

I've been more reclusive these past few years than I ever have been. I am normally friendly and open with people and I make lifelong friends easily. I like talking to people. Well, I used to. It hasn’t been that way lately.

I’m used to discussions about race. I kind of like them actually. I like it when white folks and black folks can sit down and discuss a subject without ducking and running or backing off when the going gets tough. We see the world in two different ways most of the time and the only way we can understand each other is to talk about it. So it can get uncomfortable. So what? If you get past that part, you can find that we are more alike than not.

I used to think that too.

Most of my reclusiveness has been because I have been battling a severe bout of depression. I know there are some who don’t believe that depression is real. I have them in my family. But most folks know that it is real and that it can be crippling and physically harmful. I feel like I am coming out of it because I am feeling better about a lot of things. I understand who is in my corner and who is not. I know who I can reach out to and who I’d better leave alone. And I’m feeling stronger on my own two feet most of all.

But I’ll be honest; a lot of it is because I don't want to deal with some of the difficulties you have to face now. Like when I get a friend request from someone I don’t know on Facebook, I am hesitant to accept it. I used to think it was just folks eager to make new friends but I learned my lesson about that. I haven’t had to block/delete too many people but by far, the ones I have have been over our different political views. I've had a few I had to cut loose because of inappropriate sexual comments, but mostly it’s been because they hated that I am a liberal.

I friended a man I’d been talking to and he saw a post about the President on my page and he went completely insane. He spewed hate and vitriol and wouldn’t listen to anyone who tried to quietly talk about it. He ranted and raved and called us names and made silly accusations until I had no choice but to block and delete him.

I will never forget a post I saw from one man who said he hated black men (but he loved black women) and he expected his mate to agree with him on everything and turn her back on her blackness. I told him that I don’t date conservative men and he smugly told me that the majority of white men are conservative and that I needed to change my attitude if I wanted a date.

In all my life I don’t think I have ever dated a conservative and I’ve dated a lot of white guys. A lot. And if I did cross paths with one who was, we usually didn’t get past the talking to each other point. But the fact that he thought most men were as controlling and patronizing as him was amazing to me.

So yes, politics and race have really been difficult for me to digest lately. Do I think there is a rise in racism? No. It’s always been there. It’s just that some folks are in total denial as to what it means and refuse to get that some of their comments, opinions and gestures are racist.

“It’s just a joke!” “I didn’t mean it that way!” “You’re playing the race card!” That’s all a load of hooey. I think a lot of folks need to really look into their hearts and what they really think and even if they don’t like what they see, they need to own it. That’s the only way they will overcome it.

I similarly don’t associate much with political conservatives. We just don’t see the world the same way at all and the gulf between us is way too deep to overcome easily.

I don’t like to argue. I don’t see where it makes much sense. You rarely can change the other person’s mind so what’s the point? You say what you say to me and I either agree or not. Same with what I say. If we can agree to disagree, ok. But I confess I will pull back from a person once I know they think that way.

I remember when it wasn’t like that. I remember when we could say, “Ok, you’re a Republican and I’m a Democrat. Our votes will cancel each other out.,” and we’d laugh and keep it moving.

But then came Rush Limbaugh and his divisive speech on his radio show. Karl Rove and his “ratfucking.” (His word, not mine.”) Lee Atwater and his campaign against the Democrats. Fox News and their never ending war against sensibility. And then the Tea Party.

Let’s not forget the Bombastic Blondes, Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham. All of them spewing lies, half truths and hate, all aimed to those folks who have never been around anyone of a different color for more than 5 minutes in the line at the grocery store.

You know, those folks who live out in the rural areas. They look at the news and soak up seeing black folks as criminals, “thugs,” they like to say. The media gives them a lot to think about and they make up their minds pretty quickly. They don’t like anybody who isn’t like them. They go to church on Sunday and praise Jesus and then turn around and treat “others” like crap. That’s one reason why I avoid religious folks too. Like they say, I have nothing against God, it’s his fan club that I can’t take.

So now their enemies are people of color. People who left their country to come here and find a better way of life. Oh, not the ones from Europe! Just the brown ones from Mexico or Haiti and places like that. Gay people who only want the right to live as married couples and to adopt children and have lives full of love. People who are poor and can’t afford to feed their families, or can’t afford decent healthcare.

They turned out to vote against anything that helped those folks they consider their enemies, even if it meant to vote against measures that would enrich their own lives. I just don’t understand the reasoning.

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t hate white people. Not at all. I date and married a white man. But I know this – and maybe it’s unconscious on my part, but I don’t really have anything personal to do with folks who tend to be racist or conservative. The men I date pretty much think the way I do. They are open to understanding how black folks feel and to what makes us hurt. They might find a discussion about race uncomfortable, but they will brave it cause they want to know why I feel hurt.

I also co-created a group against racism over 20 years ago. I wanted to have a forum where folks could come together and talk and get past all the ugliness. Eracism has become a popular vehicle in New Orleans and I am proud of that.

I know a lot of people were disappointed with the response of some of their white friends after Trayvon Martin. After Michael Brown and now after Eric Garner. We feel like our lives don’t matter and that we have targets on our backs. There have been many black girls that have been murdered or gone missing and there’s little or no media attention. There can be a video that proves the man was unarmed and pleading for relief but was killed anyway and the grand jury says it was justified.

Of course we feel there is no justice for us!

And then you get the ones who want to sit you down and talk down to you as if you were stupid and explain that your eyes didn’t really see what your eyes did and that it was totally justified to kill that child/girl/man because that officer/person was frightened for their life. You know how scary big black men are! And those tempers that you black women have! Tsk!

I have been thankful that I haven’t had to engage folks like that in any meaningful discussion. I’ve read their posts and commented a few times but I always saw the futility of it. They are too wrapped up in “what is right” to see how we feel and we are too wrapped up in our pain and outrage to understand where they are coming from.

I used to pray that if I had a child that he would not be a boy. I know how this world regards black boys. They are cute until they are about 8 or 9. Then they are loud, threatening and must be punished. That’s about the time white folks start getting afraid of them. They get punished at school more than similarly loud and boisterous white boys and are often pushed into special education or disciplinary schools and often get labeled for the rest of their lives.

I know they get pulled over by policemen for little or no reason and they are twice as likely to be shot reaching for their wallet – or pills – than white boys.

I know there are young black men in prison who are innocent and have been falsely accused and railroaded simply because they are black. And I know there are many who are sleeping in their graves for the same reason.

I didn’t want to be sitting up at night wondering where my son was, waiting to hear his key in the lock, or to hear his laughter when he came home. My nerves couldn’t take that.

I have nephews and grand-nephews that I worry about now. So far we have been all right but I keep my fingers crossed.

I am similarly perplexed at the black folks who blindly agree with them that we have too many thugs and welfare queens and that we’ve been led down the yellow brick road by the liberals and that we should turn to the conservatives. The very ones who consistently vote against our well being and make patently horrible racist remarks about us…yes, we should suddenly decide to agree with them. That would be a no. Never. I’m not going to ever celebrate when a black person who is a Republican wins anything. NEVER. They don’t represent anything that I am or care about so why should I be happy? Just because they are black?

And then the comments, “…it’s not about race…”

You know what? Let’s be honest. We live in America. EVERYTHING is about race here. You can’t escape that. Not many people look at black people and see them as merely people. And then there is the truth of white privilege. Folks can deny it all they want but it is the reality of the world we live in.

You know why so much hinges on race? Because folks don’t want to talk about it. They don’t want to admit to their true feelings or they are in deep denial about them. We can’t talk about it because black people are so raw and hurt and angry and white people are terrified of our rage. So we all walk around muzzled trying to ignore the 800 lb. gorilla sitting in the middle of the room.

We need to have this discussion. We need to take the gloves off, sit down to the table and be honest with each other. We need to get it out in the open. We need to beat it. We need to know the ones we can trust and the ones we can’t.

They need to know that for the most part, we want the same things they do. We think the same way they do about a lot of things and they need to stop seeing us as some foreign presence living among them here. We are all Americans and we need to look at each other that way.

Just as Americans. That’s all.

How hard is that?

“She Loves You…”

2014-02-09T13:20:00.000-08:00

I still get that twinge when I hear the guitar at the beginning of “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” I’ve been getting that twinge for 50 years and it’s never gone away.

I was 13 years old when the Beatles came to America. We needed them so badly! We’d been through some kind of collective nightmare and we needed something to bring us out of it. They were the perfect cure.

Three months before their arrival, President John Kennedy had been murdered in Dallas. We were still reeling from that. We couldn’t fathom how that had happened and it seemed that it had been rainy and gray and dark since that day.

I wasn’t really aware of it, but things were escalating in Vietnam. I had heard the name but what folks were really talking about in my circle was civil rights.

Black folks had just about had it. We were sick of having to step off the sidewalk, ride the back of the bus, not be able to vote, not be able to eat where we wanted, all that stuff that folks take for granted.

There were protest marches and folks getting hosed and beaten and like other little black kids at that time, the image of what had happened to Emmitt Till had never left my mind. I think all our parents made us look at that so that we would never underestimate the hatred we faced or what it could do to us.

My parents were both Southern and they had grown up with Jim Crow’s foot firmly on their necks. They moved to Illinois so us kids wouldn’t have to face that same thing and we pretty much hadn’t.

But anyway, things were pretty ugly for us in the USA right then. Not to mention our music had taken a turn for the worse. Suddenly we were listening to numerous songs about kids that had been killed. We called them “dead teenager” songs. Johnny Tillotson and Brian Hyland and Bobby Vee were tops on the charts then.

Oh yeah, that’s when my favorite song “The Monkey Time” by Major Lance came out. That was the first record I bought. The R&B was sounding good. The pop music not so much.

Things were even cloudier in my little world. My Mom and Dad had been fighting a lot. Mom had never been really happy about moving from Chicago to Galesburg and we went back every chance we had. Mom started getting sick and even more moody than usual and one day, they sat us down and told us that she had to go to the hospital and that they were taking her to Chicago. Weren’t there hospitals in Galesburg?

No, they said, she needed a special kind of hospital and she had to go there. I remember the tense and quiet ride when we took her there. We kids sat in the car while they checked her in. We didn’t know what was going on and we were playing around like kids did. Dad took us to see his brother Opra and we ate White Castle and then we went home.

We asked how long Mom would be gone and nobody really told us. She was still sick they said. We went up there to see her once and I remember the blank eyed look she gave us. No hugs or anything. A wan smile and that was all. Now I realize she was drugged up but all I remembered then was that she didn’t seem glad to see us even though we missed her.

I woke up one night in a pool of blood. I didn’t know what to think had happened. Mom had always been very secretive about her period. She hid her Modess pads and while I had kind of peeked at the box, I wasn’t really sure what they were for. Mom had believed that old wives’ tale that if she was late developing that her daughter would also be. She didn’t start her period till she was 17 and she assumed the same would happen for me. No. I started that fateful night in November, alone and scared.

I got up and wrote a will leaving my stuffed animals and three 45’s to my brothers and I went to school in tears.

Later that day after I had bled through my clothes, I went to the office and the school nurse realized I didn’t know what had happened and she sat me down and explained it to me and gave me a starter package with some pads and that hideous belt we had to use to wear them.

She called my father who called a friend who took me shopping for my “big girl” stuff and I came home feeling a lot better knowing I wasn’t going to die.

To compound life, my grandfather died. I had loved my Grandpa Jackson. He was a smart remarkable man with a great sense of humor and he could make you laugh even if you were so down you couldn’t see straight.

And then Dallas.

It seemed the whole country was as depressed as I was. The only thing that made it better is that my Mom came home from the hospital the week after Thanksgiving. We had a late turkey dinner and it seemed things were going to be ok and then the worst news of all for a 13 year old girl.

We were going to move.

We had two junior high schools in Galesburg. Junior high school was 7^th, 8^th and 9^th grade. If you lived on the east side of town, you went to Lombard. We had lived on that side of town since we moved there and I had finally settled into going to Lombard. It had been tough going. I was still rather an outsider and I was kind of brainy and I didn’t fit in with any of the local kids that much.

When you’re a kid like that, not fitting in was possibly the worst thing that could happen to you. I was just beginning to find myself and understand that being different was really all right. But now I was going to have to go to a different school and go through all that all over again.

I was going to have to start the new semester at Churchill Jr. High. That was where all the “rich” kids went. And I couldn’t walk to school like I had been. I had to ride a school bus and that meant I had to walk 4 or 5 blocks to the bus stop. I didn’t really know anyone at Churchill. I was broken hearted. I cried like a baby my last day at Lombard.

And so, halfway through my 8^th grade year, we moved to a bigger house on the other side of town. And it was during that time that I first heard “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”

It didn’t sound like anything I had ever heard before. The guitar was different. The vocals were different. The words were not about some kid dying in a car accident or breaking up after a summer love.

It was a happy song, a lively song and it made you feel good. I couldn’t believe it. I was caught off guard by it but I smiled and I was singing along with it.

When I went to the record store to buy it, it was in a black and white cover. 45’s had covers then and this was perfect. Those four guys were sitting together, smiling, holding cigarettes, wearing those gray suits with the black trim and shirts and ties. Their hair was longer and hanging down to their eyebrows. No more of those tall pompadours with the duck tail in the back. They had long bangs and it looked great.

They were all so cute but I couldn’t take my eyes off the one on the left, the one with the big bright eyes and the smile and he was holding a cigarette in his hand. His name was Paul McCartney. My poor little heart started pounding.

I was in love.

I didn’t think that perhaps I shouldn’t be falling in love with a long haired musician from England. Or that he was white and I was black. That didn’t enter my mind. All I knew was that I was in love.

I played that record over and over and put the cover on a stand by my bed so I could look at it as much as I wanted.

I took it with me my first day at Churchill. I needed the distraction. I felt lonely and out of place those first few days there. I had showed the record to some of my black friends who looked at me like I had grown a second head. Why was I listening to that “white” music and looking at those white boys?

I wondered why I was enthralled and why they weren’t. It was one more thing to make me different than everybody else. I couldn’t say why they got to me they way they did. They made me feel good. I hadn’t had much that did that for me so it was a welcome feeling.

I was just starting to notice boys and that was a definite problem for me. The boys were not noticing me. And I realized something then that would be with me the rest of my life – the boys I was noticing were white boys. I didn’t really want to go out with any black guys. I wanted to be with white boys.

Uh oh.

I had never seen any interracial couples then. Logically, I knew folks had to be crossing that line but I had never seen it and it really didn’t happen in that little Midwestern town I grew up in. That was just not done in the early 60’s. So I kept my preference to myself.

I didn’t know till later that the Ronettes had been on that plane with the Beatles when they first came here. I didn’t know that Phil Spector was there too, keeping a close eye on his wife in case she was tempted by one of those beautiful British boys. I didn’t know that they had to wait till the Beatles had deplaned before they did so it wouldn’t be an incident. And I really didn’t know that George was dating one of them. They were all mindful of where they were and kept it cool.

I saw the picture of George sitting with them and read that a reporter had asked them if they would go out with a black woman and they looked at him like he had grown a third eye and said of course they would!

My heart leapt out of my chest. I realized at that moment that there were white guys willing to go out with black women and I just hadn’t met them yet. While I knew I didn’t have a chance in hell with any of the Beatles, it opened a door for me. Somewhere there was a guy who would not be ashamed of me or think he was better than me.

I wasn’t pretty enough for the black guys and the white guys would never have considered me for a mate. That was all right. I wasn’t going to stay in my hometown all my life. I was going to leave and go see other places and other people and somewhere along the line, I would find someone whose mind and heart was open to someone like me.

I was no longer ashamed or afraid to admit what my preference was. I didn’t care if folks didn’t like it. I liked it and that was all that important to me. So I was a black girl who liked rock music and liked rock musicians. That was who I was….and who I am.

The Beatles helped me find myself and accept myself. I will always love them for that.

So yes, she DOES love you….yeah, yeah, YEAH.

A Very Merry Christmas

2013-12-24T12:28:00.001-08:00

I grew up in Galesburg, Illinois. It was a big change from Chicago where I had been born, but I got used to it. I didn’t realize it then, but it was quieter and safer for us and a far better place to grow up in.

We weren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination but we never wanted for anything and my parents always saw to it that we were happy and loved. They raised us so that we didn’t see being black as being anything different or less than anyone else. We were taught to believe that we were just as good as everyone else. We lived in integrated neighborhoods and we always had black, white, Asian and Hispanic friends.

Back in the early 60’s, our Christmases were very much like the one in the movie, “A Christmas Story.” I think one of the reasons I love that movie so much is that it reminds me of my own childhood.

One of the first Christmases I remember fondly was right after we had moved to Galesburg. I had taken longer to learn to ride a bike than some kids had and when I did learn, I was all excited about asking Santa to bring me one. Yes, my parents told us that Santa Claus was real and we believed it for years. Just like most other kids did.

On Main Street, in front of W.T. Grant’s, each year, a little house was erected and for us kids, it meant that Christmas was indeed on the way. It was Santa’s House! The house would go up and the streets were decorated with big candy canes, reindeer and elves and all the stores in downtown Galesburg with all the fancy window displays looked like a wonderland to us kids. And then there was always the big Christmas parade where Santa would arrive and all our hopes would begin.

Our parents would take us to talk to Santa and it was the highlight of the season for us. The Sears and Roebuck store on Main Street had a side entrance there and during Christmas, it was full of toys and my brothers and I used to love going there to look at all the great toys while our parents made payments on their account and probably bought some of our presents and managed to smuggle them to the car without us seeing them.

There was a really neat blue bicycle there that I had my eye on and I had asked Santa if it was possible I could have that bike for Christmas. I’d been a good girl, so there was no real reason why I couldn’t.

We put up our tree and we always decorated the house and we were happily looking forward to Christmas. But just before Christmas, they told us that we were going to go to Chicago to spend the holiday with our aunt and cousins instead of staying at home.

I’d had this disappointment before. A few years before this, we had been preparing to have Christmas in Florida with our grandparents. I really did love going there and especially at Christmas. I had lots of cousins there and we could play outside with them and the best thing was that the fruit was ripe at that time of year. Grapefruit trees lined our grandparents’ home and there were pineapples on the other side. There were orange and tangerine trees, as well as lemon, lime, guava and avocado trees too.

My uncles and Papa would go fishing and we’d have a great feast for Christmas dinner so being in Florida was fun! Even after we were older, we still loved it. There is something magical about spending Christmas day at the beach with family even if it was a bit too cool to get in the water. It was still much warmer than it was in Galesburg!

But we had packed our bags and sent our boxes with presents on to Florida on the bus ahead of us and the night before we were going to leave; my aunt in Detroit went into labor and had a little girl. We were not going to go to Florida. This time, when we got on the Greyhound, we went to Detroit, not Florida.

I was so upset! All my gifts were in Florida! I didn’t like going to Detroit. I didn’t have anyone my age to spend time with so I was often alone. It was no vacation for me.

My uncle felt sorry for me and had asked a family up the street that had little girls if I could spend the night with them and they agreed. They all rustled up some last minute gifts for me but though it was kind of fun, I still missed the Christmas I would have had had we gone to Florida.

So here I was faced with this change of plans again. This time I saw my parents pack the car with presents but I didn’t see anything big enough to be a bike so I swallowed my disappointment and got in the car and we set off for Chicago.

Halfway there, my Dad started asking me what I had asked Santa to bring me. I told him I had asked for a bike. He kidded with me for a moment, but then he reached in his pocket and handed me a picture.

It was a Polaroid picture of our Christmas tree with that bicycle under it! My bike! And I was on my way to Chicago, leaving my precious bike at home. But it sure made Christmas fun and I was happy despite everything – and I knew my bike was waiting. I couldn’t wait to get home!

But a later Christmas became the standard for our family. The traditions we set that year were the ones we celebrated every year after that.

Mom and Dad wanted a new stereo that year. They both enjoyed music and we always had a nice record player and they played a lot of music of all kinds. I think that is why my brothers and I all have eclectic taste in music. But anyway, Mom went to Lindstrom’s to get a stereo.

Us kids didn’t go to Lindstrom’s much. We preferred the Platter. Jim at the Platter was way more up on the current music and he carried the rock and roll and soul music that we liked. We always likened Lindstrom’s as the place you went to get Lawrence Welk and Mitch Miller. You went to the Platter to get the Beatles and James Brown.

Lindstrom’s also sold appliances and such so Mom got this big stereo in a cabinet. We were really thrilled when it was delivered. We’d never had one that big! I remember she said she didn’t want one with the television in it because if the tv went bad, you were stuck with the big cabinet, but it was all right if it had the radio and record player in it.

Because she bought it at Christmas, the sales man had thrown in a bunch of Christmas albums. They were mostly compilation albums with songs like “The Christmas Song” by Nat King Cole (which is my all time favorite Christmas song of all time), and songs by Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, Brenda Lee, Burl Ives, Andy Williams, Perry Como and many others.

We thought that was pretty cool but the thing that really amazed us was that stereo had lights in speakers that lit up in rhythm with the music. We were floored! We thought Mom was really great to score something like that.

That year when we made the traditional trip to the attic to get the Christmas decorations, we did it with the music playing. We always had a real tree that Mom and Dad bought from the lot out on Grand Avenue. We used the same tree stand and the angel on top of the tree was the same one they bought the first Christmas after I was born.

Our house had big wooden columns in an arch that separated our living room and dining room. We had a long plastic strand of plastic that was supposed to look like a Christmas ivy garland with candy canes and we hung our Christmas cards from the links in it. We put a big wreath on our front door and had silver garlands around the windows and we stenciled reindeer, elves, Santa and such on the windows.

We decorated the tree with the brightly colored bulbs, the strands of lights and “icicles” – silver strands that we loved. Mom was breeding Siamese cats during several years of our lives, so we had curious cats who would often knock the tree down or break the bulbs. It wasn’t unusual for us to have to patch up the tree a couple of times before Christmas.

We popped popcorn and strung it to go on the tree. We baked cookies and Mom made pound cakes, sweet potato pies and she even made fruit cakes for our relatives. Mom’s pound cakes were special. She baked them from scratch and she put twice the butter in the pound cake and they were so rich and delicious that they were usually the first to go.

Her fruit cakes were legendary too. She used rum in the batter and when they were finished, she put them in cans and poured more rum over them and sealed the can. Every few days before Christmas, she poured more rum over them.

When she took those cakes to Florida, they were a big hit with our family. By then those cakes had enough liquor in them to knock people out. Uncle Peter liked the Claxton fruit cakes she brought, but those homemade ones were devoured!

Since we lived in Illinois, we looked forward to having a white Christmas. We used to have a phone number that you dialed to get the Time and Temperature and if it hadn’t snowed, we would call every hour to see if the temperature had dropped enough for it to snow. The years that it didn’t snow until Christmas Eve were special ones. Funny we aren’t so crazy about snow now.

Our Florida relatives always sent us big parcels with presents from our grandparents and aunts and uncles that we really looked forward to. But we really loved the second box. You remember those big round bushel baskets? Ours came full of oranges, tangelos, tangerines and grapefruit and bags of pecans.

Mom made sure we all had red or green sweaters or hats, scarves and mittens. Bless her heart; she never made us wear those ugly sweaters with reindeer and Santa on them. Friends came over bringing gifts and we went visiting doing the same thing. It seemed to me that people were way more generous then than they are now. Or maybe it was just that they had money and things were cheaper than now.

Christmas Eve was the time our parents started cooking. Mind you, our father was a chef and Mom was no slacker in the kitchen either. Our friends loved to come eat with us. Dinner was usually a feast with goodies such as turkey and ham or a big pork roast with dressing, collard and/or turnip greens with rutabaga or turnips in them. I love raw turnips and rutabaga, so Mom would have to watch that I didn’t eat most of it while I was slicing it for her to cook. Once it’s cooked, though, I don’t want it. Strange, huh?

Usually, the cookies and cakes we had baked before Christmas were gifts so we baked more for us to have with our dinner so we often went to bed with all those delicious scents floating in the air – the tree and all the baking and turkey roasting and how happy that made me.

All this time we were playing all that wonderful Christmas music – Bing singing “White Christmas,” Andy Williams “The Happiest Time of the Year,” Perry Como “No Place Like Home for the Holidays,” and Johnny Mathis “Sleigh Ride.” I love those songs to this day.

We would put our presents under the tree before we went to bed and Mom and Dad would wait till we were in bed and put our gifts there too. They would always buy the biggest candy cane they could find and put it under the tree. The custom was, the first one of us who woke up got the candy cane. I don’t remember a Christmas I didn’t get it.

Christmas morning, we got up and opened our presents together. Mom and Dad would make a nice breakfast and we would all drink hot chocolate together and we would call family members in Chicago, Detroit and Florida or they would call us and we’d watch Christmas shows on television till it was time for dinner.

This was Christmas every year for us until that year when we were going to Florida and Daddy didn’t want to go with us. We didn’t understand that. He always went with us. He liked to go because he liked fishing there with our uncles. But this year, we couldn’t talk him into it. He’d been rather moody and cranky lately and Mom thought he was just being contrary so we went without him.

I called him Christmas day to wish him a Merry Christmas and I was shocked that he sounded sick. My father had never been sick in my life. He had never even had a bad cold. I was so alarmed that I cut my trip short and I flew home to see about him. My Dad was dreadfully ill and we found out later that he had cancer and we lost him seven months later.

Brian’s son Daniel was born a few months before he died but we didn’t get to see him till after he was a year old. Eddie’s son Terrence was born 5 months later, right before Christmas.

We had never been apart at Christmas and there was a huge void in our lives. We tried to make the best of it, but it just wasn’t the same.

The next few years were a little better. My brother Brian had more kids and we ended up celebrating more for them than for us. And we all started moving away from home.

I went to Florida to live and Brian moved to Normal, Illinois. Mom had said she was going to come to Florida that Christmas and I was happy that I was going to see her, but she didn’t get there and I was depressed. I had never had a Christmas without my Mom.

But three days later, a blue Ford van pulled up in my Grandma’s back yard and in it was my Mom, my brother and two of my nephews, not to mention some of Mom’s menagerie of cats and dogs. She never traveled without them. I was the happiest girl in the world that day.

Things happened over the next few years. Eddie and I both went back to college. He went to Southern Illinois University Carbondale and I went to the University of Miami. We both came home to celebrate with Mom.

Our mother died in 1994. We stopped going home. We started making our own Christmases where we were. My brothers had married so they were with their families. I was living in New Orleans.

I eventually married too, but my husband didn’t really observe Christmas since he was Jewish. We exchanged gifts a few times but even that stopped after a few years. I didn’t even want to hear Christmas music anymore.

My brother Eddie and I ended up living together again a few years ago. We moved in with one of my friends. All of us had left our spouses and we thought living together would help us all. Our Christmases were nice little affairs. We had a little tree and exchanged presents when we could.

Eddie and I found a music station on our cable television that played the Christmas music we grew up with. We thought about how lucky we were to have had the beautiful and happy Christmases we had as children. We grew up in a small town with small town ideals and it was just the right time for it to have been uncomplicated and sweet. We had wonderful loving parents and they gave us customs that we think of all the time.

And so now, Christmas approaches again. We listen to the music and we smile and share stories. We will be with some family members and we will have a little one – Eddie’s first grandson – to celebrate with. We will share stories of the Christmases we knew and perhaps some of those customs will live with the next generation of our family.

We want them to have a Christmas filled with love and laughter like we had. That perhaps is the best gift of all.

Is This All There Is?

2013-11-21T19:42:00.002-08:00

I just had a birthday. It was just like every other day in my life lately, except for a lot of greetings from friends and family. I sat at home in my bed, on my computer or watching television or sleeping. For one thing, I haven’t felt well for a few days. I have a viral infection of some kind and I’ve been under the weather.

But mostly, it’s because I can’t afford to do anything. I haven’t worked in over three years. I was getting unemployment for a while but that ran out. For several months, I had no income at all. I was humiliated, terrified and angry.

It’s not because I don’t have the education or the experience or the skills. I do. But I just happen to fall into that group of people who seem to suddenly have been shut out of the job market. I’m over 50, but not yet of retirement age. I’ve sent out more resumes than I can count. I had two interviews, perhaps 4 calls of interest and that is all in the past few years. Nobody is interested in hiring someone like me. I finally stopped sending out resumes because the only responses I got were the rare thanks but no thanks letters. Most folks didn’t even bother to respond.

I wonder what they think we are supposed to do? We want to work. We need to work. Many of us had jobs we enjoyed and we love the contact with people. While I did not like the supervisor I had at my last job and I thought some of the policies were rather archaic and ridiculous, I did like working with the students I taught, even if they weren’t the ideal students.

I like being of service to people. I love helping people improve their lives. I like making a difference. I learned a long time ago that it’s not about me – it’s what I can do for others that makes working worthwhile for me. It’s hard for me to feel useless and unable to do what I love.

I admit I don’t like the prospect of getting to work. I live in Chicago and going to work will more than likely consist of a lengthy ride on public transportation, something I don’t really like doing.

While it wasn’t a problem for me for most of my life, I was diagnosed with lupus a few years ago and it’s work for me to get up, get dressed, walk to the bus/L, wait and then ride for nearly an hour to get to work. I am already exhausted by the time I get there.

The best thing for me would be for me to have a telecommuting position but getting those is like finding the goose with the golden egg. And I am really looking forward to leaving Chicago.

Looking back, coming here was not the best thing for me. My health has suffered since I have been here and things in my life have gotten progressively worse each year that I have been here.

I desperately want to leave here but I cannot leave just yet.

And when I do leave, where will I go?

What will I do?

How will I survive?

The past year, it was probably better that I didn’t work. My youngest brother came to Chicago a few years ago to get help with his failing vision from severe glaucoma. He was going to classes to learn other skills so that he could continue to work despite his limited vision.

While going, he began to notice he was extremely fatigued from the trip to his classes each day. It got harder and harder for him to walk a few blocks and he soon realized he had to stop going. He kept saying there was something wrong with him and I didn’t know what to think so he was going to a doctor. It took a year or more to discover that he had multiple myeloma and amyloidosis.

He began chemotherapy immediately and six months ago, he had a stem cell transplant. He has been recovering and I have become his caregiver. My brother and I have always been close so it was no decision for me to make. I knew he needed me and I wanted him to be better. He is still extremely weak and fatigued even though he is getting better so I still keep things in order for us as much as I can.

We have had a rough few years. He couldn’t work so he had to apply for social security disability and when he got it, they immediately began to garnish student loan payments and child support. He’s never been one to shirk his responsibilities, but he went without work and was unable to pay support. His ex didn’t bother to find out what was going on, but stomped into court demanding her payment and so it was deducted. He was forced to live on what was left, which wasn’t much.

Lucky for him, his student loan debt was pardoned and he was living in a house with me and another roommate where we split the rent three ways.

When I lost my job, I had health issues that needed to be addressed and was trying to keep my treatments going despite my dwindling finances. I was also responsible for some of the payments for our household and that was getting harder for me as well.

Our living arrangements got dicey as well, Our roommate had various relatives moving in and out as well as friends and that made things different and not always in a good way. And then we discovered that our landlord had not been paying the taxes, mortgage or water bill for the house we were renting from her.

We were struggling to keep the rent paid and we were late sometimes, but we always managed to get her most of the rent each month if not all. We didn’t know how long we’d be able to remain in the house and that caused even more tension.

During this time, my estranged husband had a health crisis and had no one to assist him, so I went to Florida and stayed a month trying to get him on his feet. I did it because he had been in my life for several years and I couldn’t in good conscience leave him alone and ill. All I wanted was for him to get better. Just because we couldn’t live together anymore didn’t mean I didn’t care what happened to him.

Back in Chicago, we struggled to try to keep the home we had been living in for four years. We tried to work things out with the landlord and then when the house was sold, with the new company that bought it. It was soon clear that we would have to move and so we began looking for a place to live.

It was going to be difficult for us to find a place to live with my roommate, her family and my brother and me and our assorted pets. We knew we would have to split and look for things on our own and so we did. We both managed to find apartments with the help of family.

We are paying more rent that our apartment is worth and we are living in a dangerous part of town. We have struggled with assorted and varied issues with this apartment since we have been here but we know we are lucky to have found a place with our limited income and in such a short period of time.

We also knew we didn’t want to sign a lease and stay here two years. We planned to move back to the South as soon as my brother’s physicians release him from treatment. We didn’t realize just how extensive that treatment would be but he has done very well throughout and it looks like we may be able to leave in a few months after all.

But as I said before, where will we go?

We want to go to Florida. We both lived there at different points in our lives and we loved it.

Do we want to live near our family? Do we want to start a business in a building owned by a family member?

Or do we want to live in North Florida and find something on our own, away from them and the continuing drama that our family property has created?

And then we could go to Georgia and live where his son lives.

But would we be a burden for them?

And when will we be able to go?

And how?

Neither of us can drive that much. And we don’t have that much money. We can get a truck and go, but again, where?

We have a lot of thinking to do.

I can’t help but wonder what is in store for me. I’ve been taking care of other folks and putting myself on the back burner. I was doing what I should do. I would do it again. Some of my friends have commented that I deserve so much for the care I have given others but I didn’t do it for repayment or for compliments. When I love people, I love them. No questions.

But is my life over as I knew it? What kind of future can I look forward to? Will I have to exist on the meager funds I receive each month for the rest of my life? Can I find a job that I can do despite my chronic condition?

I am a writer and I write on almost a daily basis. I give my work to some bloggers to use and I get lots of positive feedback, but I also need to get paid. I have work that I want to include in an anthology and I can’t seem to get a publisher interested in my work. (Yes, it’s a bit racy. I write interracial romantic/erotica as well as social commentary.)

I would love a writing job. It’s what I do best and what I love. I keep hoping I will find something that will work with my schedule and so far, no go.

I want to do more. I want to be able to hold my head up and go shopping and have something to discuss with people. I want to be social again and to get out and mingle more than I do.

I am youthful and I don’t look my age. Despite the fact I have a few chronic conditions, I have them under control for the most part. The one thing I am fighting is severe depression. The difficulties of the past years were eventually more than even my strong constitution could bear. I withdrew, sat alone with my thoughts and pain and refused to share or show how I felt. I realized that something was wrong and sought help and for a while, I was feeling better but the struggle has been harder than even I realized.

While my husband and I are still married, we have separate lives and I am happy with that. We haven’t lived together in over five years. I wish him happiness and I hope he can find a woman who can bring him peace and joy. I know I am not that woman regardless of what he thinks. We can be friends, but that is all. I can’t give him what he needs, nor can he give me what I need.

I thought I had met the person who was going to bring me that joy but I was sadly mistaken. He was not there for me when I needed him and while he says he loves me, it is obvious that he will not be able to be there for me and will not be the one to give me the peace and happiness that I want so badly.

Am I too old to find someone now?

Am I too picky about the ones who seem to be interested?

Do I really know what I want or want I don’t want?

Is my life over as I know it?

Will I ever find a man to love me and to hold my hand and tell me that it will be all right and not need me to bolster his insecurity or give up who I am to keep him happy? Will I meet someone who will love me as flawed as I am while I accept his flaws?

I ask myself these questions almost daily. I try not to get depressed about it and sometimes I catch myself fighting back the tears. I’m afraid sometimes and other times I’m just angry.

I worked so hard all my life and I really tried to make things better and this is all I ended up with. I get angry because I deserved better than this. I had such high hopes for my life.

I did not ever think I would end up like this.

And how much would I have done different if I had known it would be like this?

Each month, as I make the required payments I barely have enough left to be able to eat and perhaps buy a few of the little things that make life worth living – a bottle of perfume here or there, some lipstick, a pair of shoes, things like that. Going out to dinner or drinks with friends is out of the question.

I wake up every day and do the same thing. Yes, I am blessed to be with my brother. I was afraid I would lose him for a while. The rest of our family is too far away to be able to help me when I am tired and ill, so I have to get up and do what I can – go to the store or do laundry or help him get with his medicine or clean the house. There is no help. It’s all on me.

My brother is a great cook and sometimes he prepares wonderful meals for us. Unfortunately, where we live, the stores don’t have the level of produce and meat that we are used to. And we don’t have the money to buy them anyway. We were receiving food assistance but that got cut from $400 a month to $32. That barely buys a meal.

We enjoy being together and we sit and talk over our morning coffee each day. We sit on the steps and watch the world pass by. We watch television almost all day long. It is our only form of entertainment.

I go with him to all his appointments for his treatment. His medical team says I am a wonderful form of support for him. He is my brother. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I spend a lot of time online. I have many friends and I manage to reach out and talk to lots of people there even if I get down sometimes at the news and the state of things in the world we live in now. It can really be depressing sometimes.

I’d love to be able to go shopping at the MAC counter and get a makeover and buy some new makeup. I’d love a shopping trip to get some new shoes or a new dress or a great pair of boots or one of those military jackets I saw in last month’s Vogue.

I need a new phone. I had to give up my IPhone and my expensive carrier and the phone I have isn’t worth the plastic it’s made of. I need to be able to buy a new one but I don’t know when I will be able to do that. I’d love a tablet also but…well, again, I don’t know.

Is this all my life is ever going to be?

Struggling to pay this or that and just watching life pass me by? I’ve done so many things right and yes, I’ve done a few things wrong. I’ve struggled with money all my life and never managed to get things the way they should have been financially.

I went to graduate school hoping it would improve my career and all it did was burden me with a massive student loan that has been troubling ever since I got out of school. I did not ever have a job that rationalized the debt I had to assume. If I had it to do again, I would have stopped with my B.A. and I would be out of debt now.

So many things and so many questions!

Is this any way for a smart, talented, vibrant and wonderful woman to live out her life?

It seems it’s all I have left to look forward to.

The Cover of the Rolling Stone

2013-09-13T20:41:00.001-07:00

Everyone has their undies in a knot over the cover of the Rolling Stone this week. The Boston Bomber, the young kid from Uzbekistan who bombed the Boston Marathon is on the cover. People are screaming far and wide about it. Walgreen’s won’t sell it. It’s a big hoopla over it.

I don’t understand it. Or maybe I do. But I don’t see why his picture shouldn’t be there. Is there something going on I don’t know about? I doubt it. He’s newsworthy of course. But I will tell you how I see it.

It’s all part of that double standard. Let’s say for instance, that he and Trayvon were both walking down a street together. And let’s imagine that George Zimmerman and his handy gun was there watching them. I don’t think I need to tell you which one of them George would be watching. Which one he’d be angry about and which one he’d suspect of being up to something. Which one would he accost?

So while he’s making poor Trayvon’s life miserable, our cute little Bomber Boy goes on home unmolested. He can go meet his brother and the two of them can discuss their plans and keep working on their homemade bombs. Nobody suspects them of anything. They look just like everyone else around, for Christ’s sake. What could they possibly be up to? And if they got in trouble, golly gee, give them a break! They have their whole lives ahead of them! No reason to ruin their lives for a silly adolescent mistake. Boys will be boys right?

Unless they’re black.

So Trayvon fights back. The unknown, unidentified white man attacked him and Trayvon fought back and our neighbor hood watchdog killed him. The cops thought it was ok. I mean, he didn’t belong in that neighborhood, did he? What was he up to?

Meanwhile, Bomber Boy and his Bomber Brother refine their plans and get what they need and nobody suspects a thing. Everybody thinks they are great kids and nobody has any idea that they are the ones who were up to something. They are the ones who should have been followed. Did anybody talk to them? Ask questions? Think their behavior looked suspicious? Of course not!

They’re just like us!!!

So while George Zimmerman goes to court, it is really Trayvon who is put on trial. He shouldn’t have been on that street. He should have gone along with a strange man accosting him. He shouldn’t have fought back. He should have allowed the profiling to go on. He shouldn’t have wondered why a man would stop him. All he was doing was walking down the street, talking to a friend on the phone bringing home his iced tea and a bag of skittles. Eight robberies had taken place there in that area. Of course he was up to something.

Robberies. Not bombings. Nobody was killed. Nobody was maimed. It didn’t even get national attention. But folks were scared and so he had to be stopped.

He’s NOT one of us!!

And now Zimmerman goes free. Trayvon’s parents grieve his death. Sentient people the world over wonder why it happened that way. Racists smugly clutch their guns and try to convince everyone they were right after all. That kid was a thug. He asked for what he got.

But now they can’t stand to look at Bomber Boy on the cover of the Rolling Stone. He looks good. He looks like a boy they’d let their daughter go out with except for the fact he did toss a bomb that killed and injured some people. They had no idea that boy wanted to kill as many of them as he could.

Seeing his picture reminds them of their mistake. They would have defended that boy to the end of the earth. They don’t want to have to look at every young boy like him and wonder if he’s all right.

After all, he isn’t the one you have to watch. He isn’t the one you follow, you harass and arrest.

The black kid with the hoodie, the skittles and the iced tea.

HE”S the one who was ‘up to something,’ right?

And that’s why you killed him.

Talking About Race: “It’s All So Vexifying…”

2013-09-13T20:36:00.004-07:00

I remember it was a warm day and I was sitting in the dog park near my apartment on Camp Street. My dog Molly was running about and I was just sitting there on the fountain thinking and watching Molly play with some other dogs. There weren’t many people in the park and it was kind of quiet and I was just sitting there alone with my thoughts when a young girl came and sat near me.

We didn’t speak for a while. I was lost in my own thoughts as I usually am and she was squirming and kept getting up and down and I remember being mildly irritated as she was disturbing my near meditative state with her fidgeting.

I really hate it when people can’t just sit down and be still. You know, just sit there, be quiet and be still. It makes me feel so much better when I do it that I figure it has to work for other people too but unfortunately, there are those who just can’t sit still.

Anyway, I had my notebook with me as I often do and I was taking notes here and there about the weather, how I felt and what I saw. The girl was young and kind of cute in a frivolous way. She had curly hair, though I didn’t write down what color it was. And she had this kind of irritating nasally loud voice. She had come to the park with a couple who had a dog, but they were far more interested in each other than they were in her and it was obviously pissing her off.

Every once in a while, she would yell something to them or get up and go say something to them and it was plain to see they were trying to ignore her.

But there she was, not too far from me, fidgeting and popping up and down and being loud. I didn’t want to go home yet and there weren’t too many other places to sit so I hoped she would either leave quickly or be quiet. I recall she was looking at me, and that I was wondering what her problem was when she finally said, “Your skin is very pretty.”

I am sure I said thank you. She asked me what I used on it and I told her that I didn’t really use anything, I just kept it clean and wore simple makeup. I was wearing MAC at the time and I told her about the regiment I had been on for a while.

She gave me a strange look and said she had wanted to try MAC, but she couldn’t afford it. I didn’t know what to say to that and so, I didn’t respond. She asked me what I did for a living and I told her I was the public information officer for the housing authority. She didn’t know what that meant and I told her I did public relations. She asked if I had gone to college for that job and I remember being irritated but answered her calmly.

“I went to college but not for that job.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Yes, I did. I have a degree from the University of Miami and I got my Masters from Southern Illinois University Carbondale,” I replied.

“Humph. Well, I didn’t finish college so I suppose I can’t get a job like you did.”

“You can always go back,” I said.

“I haven’t met too many colored people like you,” she said, peevishly.

I turned to look at her.

“What does that mean? And I prefer if you address me as black, if you feel you need to address me by my skin color,” I told her.

“I don’t know too many who went to college or ones that speak like you do or have a high paying job like you do.”

I thought about the bills I pay and chuckled at her assumption I had a high paying job. I also thought if I didn’t answer, she would leave.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to call you people,” she went on.

My hackles began to rise. “You people….” always does it.

“Are you colored or black or Afro whatevers? At least I didn’t call you a nigger like my father always says. I don’t know what I should say.”

“Why does that matter? We all have names. Use them.”

“I suppose now you are all pissed off with me,” she said, “cause I didn’t call you what you wanted me to. This race thing is all so vexifyin’. Ya’ll make it all so hard nowadays. I never know what to say. I was just trying to talk to you.”

And then she got up and left.

I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to go back to my thoughts but she had clearly put a stop to that. I was just a bit angry and wished that she’d been brave enough to continue the conversation but I knew that she had seen that I was mad and she left to escape the cursing out she was probably going to get.

I like to think I’m peaceful and want to teach folks but the truth is, sometimes my temper gets the best of me when I’m around stupid people and I end up just cussing them out. And I was headed for that with her.

I would have liked to explain to her that we were offended and tired of people who saw our skin color and came to all kinds of conclusions about us. Why couldn’t she have sat there and started a decent conversation with me? It was obvious she had some notions that were wrong and hurtful. I would have liked to have straightened that out.

She was angry and resentful and she had brought that out in me as well. I felt bad about that.

I wanted to tell her that college was important no matter who you were or what you did. She needed to know that there are a lot of very intelligent black people who did indeed go to college, who do speak quite well, and who have better jobs than what you usually see in Louisiana.

I remember getting on the streetcar in the morning and seeing the armies of young girls in uniforms going to their jobs as maids in the hotels downtown and in the French Quarter. I thought about all the young black men I saw sweeping streets, bussing tables, shucking oysters and doing otherwise menial jobs.

But I also thought about the past few mayors of New Orleans who were also black men. The lawyers and reporters and instructors that I knew that were black people. The world was changing albeit not as fast as I would have liked.

And yet we still had people who thought like that young girl. There was so much she didn’t know and so much she could have learned if we had talked a little more.

Talking about race really is “vexifyin.”

What Happened to the Men We Knew and Loved?

2013-09-13T20:31:00.001-07:00

Few words bring a chill to a woman’s heart like “Honey, I don’t feel so good!”

For most of us, the thought of having to nurse a sick man is one of the worst things imaginable. Sometimes they are worse than babies.

Consider this - when a woman gets a cold, she goes to the store and buys some Nyquil and Dayquil and Kleenex and lemons and orange juice. She goes home and has a cup of tea with honey and takes the medicine hoping she will feel better so that she can go to work the next day. It doesn’t occur to her to stay home because of a cold. Work is more important. And for a single woman, there is no choice. She has no other means of support so she has to go to work.

But a guy? He will get a case of the sniffles and will lie in bed, his nose red, his eyes swollen and is suddenly incapable of going to the kitchen to get his own orange juice. He will suddenly become a whining sniveling patient in need of care.

So suddenly, your workload is increased. You have to get up early and get the kids off to school, get ready for work and bring him his tea and orange juice and explain how to take the medicine so that he will feel better. He will look at you and say, “You know I don’t like to take medicine.” That means he wants you to stay home from work and nurse him.

Yes, there are few things in life more awful than having to take care of a sick man.

But it goes deeper than that. Somehow, a lot of men have become as needy as a two year old. Where is that macho Alpha male we kind of like?

He’s become that lazy, whiny, angry pissy ass man that you want to take an iron skillet to. He can’t accept responsibility for anything he does. It’s always somebody else’s fault.

If you catch him cheating with another woman, does he apologize and admit he couldn’t resist and that he was acting like a boy? No.

YOU didn’t dress sexy enough. YOU were too busy with the kids and you didn’t pay attention to his needs. YOU spent too much time at work and you ignored him. YOU didn’t give him sex when he wanted it and the way he wanted it.

It wasn’t his fault. He is a sex addict. He has a behavioral problem.

He didn’t lose his job because he never got there on time or because he refused to take direction. It couldn’t be because he wasn’t working hard enough. It wasn’t because he told off his boss for asking him to do something he didn’t want to do.

“That bastard never liked me. He knew I was smarter than him and he was threatened. He’s a dumb bastard anyway. Why should I work for him?” Or “That bitch hates men. She thought I was going to get her job and she’s a lesbian anyway.”

And if you got tired of his whining, insecure childish ways and left him wow! You were never happy. He couldn’t please you. You nagged and complained all the time. You made too many demands and wanted too much and he couldn’t take it. He was happy with you but he just couldn’t seem to make you happy. You were just a bitch anyway.

It’s never his fault.

Some of my friends and I were talking about sex not long ago. All of us had encountered men who didn’t seem to have a clue about how to please a woman in bed.

“He didn’t know how to kiss. He came at me with this wet mouth like a big fish or something. No technique. It was like he just sucked my face into his mouth and I couldn’t breathe.”

“He was a lazy bastard. He claimed he had a bad back so he only liked it when he could lay there and I had to get on top of him and do all the work while his lazy ass just laid there. Who wants that?”

“He couldn’t find my clitoris if I had painted a big red target on it.”

“The whole thing was over in less than five minutes and all I got out of it was a wet ass and I had to sleep in the wet spot. It never occurred to him that I might want to have an orgasm too. He got his and that was all.”

“I told him what I liked and he just ignored me and did what he liked.”

“He said if I loved him I wouldn’t make him wear a rubber.”

You know what I mean.

They don’t want to take us on dates anymore.

“Why don’t we just hook up?” or “We can just hang out.”

Instead of being a couple, you can be friends with benefits.

All that means is instead of taking you to dinner, they just want you to come over to his place, have some pizza, watch a movie and have sex. You understand there’s no strings, right?

You aren’t the only woman he’s seeing and you are just having fun.

He doesn’t remember your name so you are “boo,” or “princess.” He may even have two or three cell phones so that he can keep all of you compartmentalized.

And you better not ever answer or pick up that phone!

He doesn’t have to woo you or court you or even treat you with any respect. He can call you bitch or ho and you get excited because he seems to like you. You think he’s fun and exciting.

And if you do happen to get pregnant, does he stick around to help you with the baby? Nope. He’s off seeing another woman. YOU got pregnant, so you can handle the kid. He didn’t want a child anyway. (This is the same man who refused to wear a condom when you asked.)

What has happened to men? Where are the big strong masculine fellas that we not only loved but looked up to? We knew those men could make us feel good in bed, they could protect us if we needed it and they loved us. They used to call us and ask us for dates and bring us flowers and candy and call us baby and sing love songs to us and marry us and help us take care of our children.

They used to care how they looked because they wanted to look good to us. Having sex with us was something they dreamed about and worked hard to get in our favor so that we would say yes. They tried to be charming so that we would want to be with them. They used to look in our eyes and touch our cheeks and we would melt.

They used to be men.

Where did they go? What happened? Will they be back? What do we do in the meantime?

Do they know how much we miss them?

Do they know we loved them?

Losing You

2013-04-15T21:08:00.003-07:00

I knew some white girls who exclusively dated black guys back home. I didn’t think much about it. Since I dated white men, it didn’t matter to me who dated who. I figured it was all good if we just all dated each other and didn’t worry about what color we were.

But I noticed something that did bother me. A few of those girls came from little towns out in the country and once they started dating black guys, suddenly when they talked, they sounded more black than I ever did. What was that all about?

I expected to hear “,,,gurl, let me tell you…” or “….no he didn’t’!” from the black girls I talked to. Not from the white ones.

I finally asked one of them why she felt she had to change the way she talked. She blinked and looked at me like I was stupid.

“Cause I’m with a black guy. I want to sound like what he’s used to.”

“Chile, please,” I said, “if he wanted a black girl, he’d be with one. He’s dating you so I don’t see why you think you have to try to sound like me.”

“Don’t you speak different with the white guys you date?” she asked.

No, I didn’t, I told her.

And I had to think about that one for a while.

As most black people who live in an integrated society must, I did speak two dialects. I always liked to say I am multi-dialectical. Yes, I do speak one way with my black friends and I do speak another in mixed company. It’s not that I am trying to be white or sound white. I recognize that I have never really spoken with the “ebonic” accent many white people assume we all have.

I did, however, have southern parents and I of course learned to speak from listening to them. The way they spoke was comfortable to me and I felt secure with it. But I went to an integrated school and I had white teachers and they made sure I did not say “dem, dose and dat” I said them, those and that and always have.

I did have a lisp, and truthfully, I still do but I know how to control it. I had years of speech therapy to correct it. Most of the time, my “sss” roll off my tongue effortlessly. But when I am angry or upset, that “sss” sound does become more of a “th” sound.

My parents were on the job about it too. If my brothers and I got lazy and mispronounced a word, they would stop us and spell the word the way we said it.

Example: “Look, Mom, he’s buck naked….” only it didn’t sound like that.

Mom would glare at me and say, “Buck nekkid? B-u-c-k n-e-k-k-i-d?? Don’t you know how to speak?”

Or “Ooo, look at that!” Which would sound like “lookadat!” That would really get her goat. She would spell it to Dad who would give us the look and say we sounded like ‘field hands.’

I explained to them that I knew how it was supposed to sound and I knew the right way to say it but if I was at home, I wanted to be able to say it the way that felt like home. I didn’t make those mistakes when I was out and about. When they recognized we did know the difference, they were all right with it. They were concerned that we would be held back in society if we didn’t know how to speak correctly. And so we learned.

I didn’t think much about the way I spoke for years until I was in college. I was having a discussion with a white friend and a black friend came up and I turned to her and spoke to her and then she left. When I looked back at my white friend, he had this look of amazed puzzlement on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“When you turned to talk to her, it sounded like you were speaking a completely different language. I didn’t understand a word you said,” he said, still staring at me with a very strange look on his face.

I hadn’t realized I had done that. It was such a second nature to me that I had never really paid any attention to it. But I became aware of it and knew it was true.

Part of me wanted to say, “You weren’t supposed to understand it.” There was that desire to have a conversation that white people didn’t get. Something of our own, you know.

But what it really was came from a desire to conform and belong. Most of the black people I knew did not speak the way I did. They accused me of being too proper, of putting on airs, of ‘ackin’ white” and other such rubbish. I wasn’t. It was the natural way I spoke.

If I was going to get along with black people, I was going to have to speak the way they did and so I used the dialect I was used to using at home with my parents.

And if I was going to get along with white people, I would have to speak English the way it should be spoken. It’s a fine line that most black people have to walk. Many of us learned when we were young that we had to be multi-dialectical in order to succeed. We had to be able to conform to the crowd we were with.

For some of us, like me, it becomes second nature. We go back and forth all the time without missing a beat.

Look, the way black people talk is rhythmic, musical and colorful. We have a way of describing things that is instantly understandable even if you have never heard the term before. And the way we speak becomes part of the daily lexicon.

Sounding black has become cool. And a white person who uses the terms we do almost always elicits laughter. Remember “Bringing Down the House” with Queen Latifah and Steve Martin? Eugene Levy stole the movie and had us all in hysterics with some of the things he said in scenes with Queen Latifah.

So in that case, for conformity, yes, speaking a different dialect is acceptable.

But I do not change the way I am for the men I date. I speak the way I speak and when I have been with a guy for a while, I have lapsed into my “Sistaspeak” with him. And every one of them has loved it.

They knew it meant that I was comfortable with them and knew I could be me and say whatever I wanted to and I wasn’t making a difference because of them. They took it as a form of acceptance and perhaps it was.

And this goes for this weight thing too. We have gotten in a total kerfuffle about this. Here’s the deal:

Black women are built different from white women. Yeah, we have the same basic equipment, but there are subtle differences. We tend to be a bit rounder than white women. Our thighs are rounder, most often our butts are and we can carry weight better than they can. A black woman can weigh more than a white woman and look just as good as she does.

Now let’s be realistic. There is an epidemic of obesity in our country. Way too many of us are overweight. We love our 72 ounce Cokes, our super size fries and those big Hershey bars.

We do.

Admit it.

Not enough of us like to exercise and we sit at our computers or at our desks at work and we don’t move around like we used to.

You know it’s true.

It’s not just black women who are overweight. White women are too. And yes, black AND white men. So let’s not make this thing all about us because that’s not true.

The truth is we all look better when we are not overweight, regardless of our race or sex. Men like to look at women with a trim waist and long shapely legs. We like to look at men with buffed bodies with a six-pack. So let’s not get our undies in a bundle if someone says he or she prefers us to be in shape. We ALL look better when we’re in shape.

Being fat is not sexy. It’s not attractive and it’s not healthy. Too many black women have let their weight go and still want to slide into a skin tight dress and 6 inch heels and think they should still be able to “pull” the best looking men.

Yes, there are exceptions to every rule but it’s not the norm. Most of the time, the big girls who think they are sex kittens will find that people are laughing at them behind their back. People can be cruel to fat women.

White men like women who make them look good. If a sista wants to date white men, she needs to look good for the one she wants. But mostly, she needs to look good for herself. That’s true no matter who she dates.

But for someone to say that all white men like skinny women and expect for black women to all be skinny is a damn fool. There are a lot of plus sized sistas walking around with white guys who love that big booty more than anything on this earth.

And yes, there are a lot of white men who like skinny athletic women and God bless ‘em. If that’s what he wants and you know that’s not you, pass him right on by. Leave him for the skinny woman.

And trust me, I’ve had more than my share of fat white men drooling at me. No thanks. While I don’t expect all the men to look like Gerard Butler, I am not turned on by men who look like John Candy. At. All. A few extra pounds is fine. Chris Farley is not.

A man who loves you loves all things about you – even the way you speak and especially the way you look. He knows there are things different about black women and it is perhaps because of those things that he loves you.

The biggest mistake a woman can make is to lose herself trying to please a man. Who are you when you are trying to be someone else? You’re not the person he fell in love with and you are not the person you are. You soon become uncomfortable because you are pretending. And you find you are in a relationship that doesn’t work because nothing is real about it.

I realized a long time ago that I had to be me and if that is different, so be it. I was not going to change for anyone. I didn’t care what anyone said. I will speak the way I want. I will dress the way I want. I will move the way I want. I will dance the way I want. I will sing (off key) the way I want.

All those things make me the unique being that I am and you either accept me or you don’t.

It’s all the same to me.