Tuesday, January 20, 2015

A Letter To Baby Caeli

As you kind of figured out, I am your daddy and I love you, just as your mommy does and always will. There will be a lot of new things to see and people you’ll meet when you get here like grandmas and grandpas, cousins, aunts and uncles, so I’ll try to keep it short.

I want you to know how special you are and what a blessing you are to us from God. Just like you, we were babies once upon a time and I’m sure Gigi and Grandma will show you the pictures of Mommy and Daddy when we were babies like you. More than just our baby, you are God’s baby and it is up to us to teach you all of the right ways to be more like baby Jesus and less like us. You are our first child, so I want to get this right for you.

I want you to know along the road trip called life, we have your back. If you’d rather play lacrosse than the trumpet, I’m fine with that; same thing if volleyball suits your fancy.

I want you to dream on like Aerosmith and achieve all of your goals beyond your wildest dreams.

My hope for you, dear child of privilege, is to afford for you the best of our offerings. I don’t mean only material things, but you’ll be able to connect in ways to make this place better because of your presence.

My desire is that by the time you’re a grown-up, you don’t have to kick down doors to prove you belong.

You can be anything your heart desires – a doctor, a lawyer, a pastor, a basketball player, a programmer, a teacher, the governor, the President of the United States – and I’ll be as proud of you as I am this day.

You’ve given us one of the greatest honors we can ever have: to be your father and mother. As I’ve said before, your daddy and mommy love you in words unspoken and want only the best for you. One day when you’re older, you’ll see this letter and hopefully grasp how ecstatic we are to be your parents.

With all our love, Mommy and Daddy


The Third Monday in January

Nationwide, the third Monday in January marks the observation of Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday as a national holiday. In my home state of Arkansas, it also honors Confederate General Robert E. Lee. How either man is observed is subject to whom you talk to and your view of the larger world:  one is a hero, and the other a traitor. You know where I stand on this one. One man gets a federal holiday signed into law by a very reluctant Ronald Reagan; the other has monuments all over the South and as far north as Winsted, CT (how do I know? I used to live there – mine was also the only black face for roughly thirty miles or so) and a treasonous spirit, yearning for the South to rise again while people whistle Dixie and don the Stars and Bars.

The third Monday in January is why we need to learn our history.

Instead, some students who should be in school are at home or roaming malls aimlessly with ill regard for why they are released from their studies. Their parents – whom you would think would know better – treat the third Monday in January as a shopping holiday. Yeah, I’ve gotta run to JC Penney today for the sheet sale today. I hope they have five hundred count pima cotton, if not better. In those locales that prefer Lee, Civil War reenactments seem to be the default thing. Obviously, those homogeneous centers of bad behavior wish to retain that small mentality; it seems anti-intellectualism rules the day. Even when it reaches the upper levels of state government, that brand of tomfoolery is shrugged to the side as if it had been rote and routine for the past two hundred years. See Secretary of State Mark Martin. Why has no one in Arkansas called for neither his resignation nor a public apology is beyond me. Maybe this is a byproduct of the Republican Party takeover from November. But, this is my home state – the place where segregation has never really died instead taking on newer, more covert forms. Don’t believe me? Look at where you work. Look at where you shop. Spend a day at your kids’ school.

The third Monday in January is a day of legacy.

In elementary school, we learned to recite the “I Have A Dream” speech, what happened to Rosa Parks when she refused to yield her seat, the Little Rock Nine, and how King sacrificed the final fifteen years of his life to ensure black America would have equal rights and the opportunity to vote through his advocacy of nonviolence. Even in the 1980s – and I adore all of my K-5 teachers – I certainly picked up more at home because my parents put in the time for my brother and me to become conscious, schools were not really doing much because of the MAT-6 standardized testing was upcoming and maybe the material was not as readily available as a double click on the tablet today. From middle school onward, the questions concerning race and a greater in-depth study became landmines to be avoided. While we were living through the Million Man March, the release of modern classics such as Malcolm X, Boyz N Da Hood and 2Pac’s All Eyez On Me, and the Rodney King and OJ Simpson trials, the schools trotted out King as a historical relic instead of correlating current events with the Civil Rights Movement. Honestly, I probably would not have received the same insight, as I was the only black student in many classes from the eighth grade to senior year of high school thanks to my advanced course schedule. But it would have been nice to catch real-time discussion beyond the book.

The third Monday in January means there is still work to do. Excuse my improper grammar, but we ain’t done.

While we have advanced past a lot of the blatant racism out there – Mena residents notwithstanding, as evidenced during Friday night’s high school basketball games in Arkadelphia – there is still work to do. True, we are better as a society and have come a long way as our children are living proof, but many improvements are inconclusive at best. We may witness a parade, an Alpha Phi Alpha – sponsored step show, live in an integrated neighborhood, drive a nice car, get love at Whole Foods, etc. but the events in Sanford, Cleveland, Ferguson, New York, Colorado Springs, and numerous cities speak to the contrary. I’m pretty sure the greatest thing the Civil Rights Movement gave us was not the opportunity to have sex with white women and live to tell about it.

Well, what how about the bought-and-paid for politicians of both parties, with the help of some law enforcement officers and Fox News criminalize and magnify any misdeed a black person makes as genetic attribution? (For those who have never heard the saying, it means blaming the sum of a group for the actions of one person. You’ll see this again during Black History Month via Facebook and within AD&AD.)No matter how much education is obtained, what titles are added to our names, how assimiliated we feel we have become, there are still people who view us as the help or worse, the N-word. We still face challenges out there (ex. education inequality, medical discrimination, an ever widening economic chasm) that remind us that we ain’t done.

The third Monday in January is one to reflect, yet strive toward achieving King’s dream.

Twenty years ago, the Million Man was a resounding success in part of how much of an impact the black dollar has on the American economy. Civil rights is not a finished issue – ask any gay person – but America treats it as such, claiming the movement as the solution to three hundred years of second-class citizenship and crass racism. Today, I’m sure you will find the real King marching toward justice for Mike Brown, Eric Garner, and Trayvon Martin. The mass-marketed King – the one that gets pushed upon us by the media – is a feel-good fairy tale designed to lessen the man’s impact and make certain Americans feel solace in their treatment and insincere forgiveness. For all of his flaws, which the Lee crowd will gladly promote his serial affairs (hey, if your life is threatened daily, why not try some things? I’m not condoning adultery, but I do understand in that case), the real King took his lumps and publicly suffered for 22 million people to have a better quality of life.


What is the third Monday in January to you? 

Sunday, January 4, 2015

A Band Geek's Uprising

Some of you saw us marching band members in the same light as Jim Rome does – and probably still do. If you weren’t out there in the summer heat practicing fully laden – instruments, flags, auxiliaries, etc. – or sloshing around on muddy high school and college fields every Friday night or Saturday, then you may need to read this. Even our athletes who played on Friday nights picked up their sticks and horns to fall into cadence! Keep in mind this upbraiding does not include the hours, I mean YEARS of practice time to perfect our craft in front of 7-10,000 people who largely cheered our labor. Those of you who loved us, supported us even in those dark hours (or in my case, sophomore year in high school – I wasn’t part of the Showband of Arkansas at Henderson), or shared in the bandsman’s struggles to practice or play with our victories in competition, this is for you.

Why does the band dork insult still live in this day and age?

Far more of us were impacted by choosing an instrument as preteens and joining the marching band than could possibly step out on the gridiron. Why would the coaches want a then-runt (I barely weighed 100 lbs. in the eighth grade, when athletics seemed to matter more) who strained to hoist a water cooler when I could easily join an organization that valued my talents, heart, and effort? For me, playing the trumpet was twofold:  I would blow like the great jazz icon Louis Armstrong; and the State Farm Battle of the Bands between Grambling State and Southern University held annually in New Orleans the day after Thanksgiving. It would be years later when sadly, I finally acknowledged that my feet would not cooperate with the rest of my body. Yeah, I have no rhythm. That year, I honestly wanted to quit – and I think everybody knew it. How could the remaining six periods of the day go so well for me when first period was such a hellish experience? Admittedly it did erode my confidence. I could play all of the notes to their corresponding tempos sitting still or in the stands, yet when it came to moving and playing at the same time, there was an inexplicable disconnect with my feet and my mind. Could it have been a result of growing so quickly (seven inches one summer) that I had no control of the body regarding its direction? Any count, I felt the searing glares of every angry eye and heard every snide comment about and toward me every time we stopped practice. Did it sting? Yeah, but I made it through the year. In addition to the twenty pounds of homework I was already working through on a nightly basis, I had to march at home for half an hour to get to a place of not being such an embarrassment to the organization. Like Cathy and Elmo back in 1994, Jim Rome’s snarky comment in one to belittle the contributions band members bring to the table. It nearly worked then, but not now.

Being a band dork (Rome’s words, not mine) afforded me a number of advantages that would have been unrealized otherwise.

·         Travel. Everyone circled the road trip dates because they were the ones we were released early from class. In the old days of AAAA-Central, we were assured of shows in El Dorado, Mountain Home, and Rogers along with that dastardly town called Russellville and the Little Rock schools; if the football team qualified for the playoffs, there was always the possibility of hitting the highway to another city.

·         Camaraderie. Even then, I always walked to a different beat – ask my Day One brothers Justin or Brandon. Although all 150+ of us came from different worlds and past experiences, there was always someone to share conversation, homework, valve oil, slide grease, music folders (no mouthpieces – keep your own germs to yourself) with as well as the fun times and relationships away. If no one else legitimately had the hook-up at the Taco Bell on 3rd and Oak streets in the mid-90s, I will tell you the Wampus Cat band did.

·         Discipline. To make the formations and have a successful season, marching band members needed to be disciplined. I don’t mean getting chewed out daily, but you knew your role to keep the show moving without a hitch. In our arena, that meant paying attention to not only the directors and drum majors, but also the person next to you; not doing so would leave you in the wrong position. If we were stuck behind the horses during the Christmas parade and their fresh manure, we trekked through it albeit very carefully; those uniforms have to go to the cleaners sometime. Why else would we spend seven or more years of our lives practicing for that great moment? To fall flat? Band members understand that there is no NFL for us after college – and for me, high school was my high-water moment musically – yet keeping a steely-eyed focus on our best effort is what we aimed for. Sidebar: Over 90% of our band maintained a 3.0 GPA my senior year in some very difficult courses and circumstances. How would a shock jock claim such brilliance?

·         Serious effin’ life skills. While some people became high school band directors, professional musicians, etc., being a band geek has led the majority of us to become far more aware of the world and eventually productive adults. While not being an “official” section leader, my intangibles over the years went way beyond where my two left feet would take me. For example, one of the greatest concepts I understood is to live in the moment yet be prepared to enjoy the fruits of the labor. During contests, you watched – if you were able – and even hooted for the competing band because you wanted that treatment reciprocated. Upon the sweetness of victory (we were first division all three years in All-Region and won the UAM Invitational in ’94) to the bitterness of defeat (not getting to repeat at Monticello the following year, and finishing after Mountain Home twice); keeping it all in perspective was the greatest takeaway for me. Even not retaliating against the racist Cabot fans who threw cigarette butts at us marked a character-defining moment that we would not back down from anyone.

Being a band dork, Mr. Rome, has shaped me into a pretty well-rounded, balanced gentleman. While I was never able to bench press my own weight or make Sportscenter-worthy bone-jarring hits, I would like to think the world was perhaps made a little bit better by an scrawny black trumpet player with two left feet hidden somewhere around the 30 yard line overcoming stage fright and shrugging derision from the bell of my horn.


Sunday, December 21, 2014

Hold On, We're Coming Home

Look and see, for everyone is coming home. Your sons are coming from distant lands; your little daughters will be carried on by the hip. Your eyes will shine and your hearts will thrill with joy. Isaiah 60:4

Last year, Drake released a hit song and video titled “Hold On, We’re Going Home”, which he rescues a woman from an angry mob of kidnappers while reassuring her that they would eventually be going home. The lyrics below underscore the significance of home:

                        I got my eyes on you
                        You’re everything that I see
                        I want you heart, love, and emotion endlessly
                        I can’t get over you
                        You left your mark on me
                        I want your heart, love, and emotion endlessly
                        ‘Cause you’re a good girl and you know it
                        You act so different around me
                        ‘Cause you’re a good girl and you know it
                        I know exactly who you could be
                        Just hold on we’re going home
                        Just hold on we’re going home
                        It’s hard to do these things alone
                        Just hold on, we’re going home (home)

About this time every year, we hear and retell the Christmas story and I’m sure you’ll hear it again sometime today, if not before Thursday. What I would like to focus on is Joseph’s homecoming to Bethlehem from his current home in Nazareth. In those days, Caesar Augustus imposed taxes based on where you (the husband, man of the house) were from, not where you currently live. Every man returned to his hometown upon decree to be counted in the census. Joseph brings a very pregnant Mary to Bethlehem for this reason (see Luke 2:1-4). To make it easier to understand, imagine me packing up my wife and driving back to Conway to be counted in that city’s census after being away for so long. Since I (technically) haven’t counted as a fulltime resident since the late 1990s, it would be tough to uproot my life simply to be counted in the city’s population. However, we are to give Caesar what he is due. [Sidebar: I was in Arkadelphia in 2000 and Benton for the 2010 US Census counts. Conway is just the town I grew up in and where my paternal lineage lies.] More so, try walking forty-eight miles from our neighborhood to Friendship with someone who could have very well been ready to give birth and definitely wanted off her tired feet. Joseph was also commissioned by God to undertake the arduous journey – certainly he didn’t know the child Mary was carrying would be our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. After a period of time of fulfilled obligations to Caesar in Bethlehem, they returned to Nazareth (2:39); no word about grandparents or how the in-laws took to Joseph and Mary’s extended stay. Since he was a carpenter, I’m sure he could always find work to provide for his family.

Strange parallel:  My father is a carpenter by trade and mother stayed at home with my brother and me throughout a significant part of my childhood. While we have heard Jesus had siblings, He and I are both firstborn boys.

Isaiah implored the Israelites in Chapter 60 to look around them and see that everyone is coming home. Today, we fly, drive, hop, skip, jump, sail, walk, roll, etc. to be home for Christmas just to be back in a native setting. As much as I try to tell myself that Bryant is home because we bought that plot of land and have established roots in the city, the holidays remind us that home is where the heart is. It’s why as a customer service manager who worked Christmas Eve in college I quickly sprinted to my white Mercury Topaz to enter Interstate 30 and embark on that two-hour trip home. It’s why we scurry to Big Mama’s house and church for ham, dressing, a feel-good message from the pastor, and our babies to give us the same joy their grandparents shared not that long ago.

One day, we are all going home. It’s hard to do these things along – just hold on, we’re going home.


Wednesday, December 17, 2014

I Can't Breathe, You Can't See

Preface: I know that the majority of law enforcement officers are honest, hardworking good people who are out to make a difference every day. To the great officers out there that I interact with – even occasionally – thank you for your service in making our world a better place than we found it. As a former teacher, I know what it is to have your chosen profession questioned daily and lumped into one band of stereotypes. However, we do have some rogue cops who for one reason or another think they are above the law or have an inferiority complex that has never been truly dealt with who do sully the profession. This post (as with all of my other blogs) are derived from my experiences, hopes, wishes, desires, and more toward a more authentic equality than a colorblind system that tends to avoid the pursuit of justice. If you don’t see color, then you certainly do not see a Henderson State-educated 36-year-old husband, friend, co-worker, neighbor, etc. as much more than another big black man with a deep voice.


Order rooted and maintained by fear, intimidation, violence, brutality, and incarceration is both cruel and immoral. Justice is order’s intended soul mate yet serving justice is twice as hard as doling out fear. Black America knows this better than anyone else with our twice-as-hard spirit: the one of having to work twice as hard to even be considered, and often our reward is a menial prize that we still have to fight tooth-and-nail for. If we’re satisfied with just getting in the door, then we’ve lost our way. More so, having a few dollars, a house on the hill, and being seen on television nightly does not mean the race is over; instead, each can be considered a deterrent  thanks to the predatory nature of greed and power. While there is nothing wrong with being able to provide a better lifestyle than the ones we were afforded, do not let the titles and little bit of power fool you into thinking this is what equality is about. If that is the case, then we have lost our resolve to take the road less traveled a la Robert Frost and our complacency will cost us dearly.

The legal proceedings and maneuverings that have sparked protests in Ferguson, Sanford, New York, Cleveland, and throughout our nation all expose our monumental failures to build and protect the gains of our parents, grandparents, and countless relatives won during the civil rights era. We know that not all of the evidence presented in every case was legitimate, as are each grand jury’s members truthful or representative of the communities they were commissioned to serve. What price are we willing to pay for our children and next generation?

Toward the end of his life, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. envisioned a Poor People’s Campaign – a connection for the working-class with the African-American twice-as-hard spirit designed to defend civil-rights legislation from inevitable backlash. He visualized the poor, vulnerable; the downtrodden unifying to uproot the political seeds deigned to grow income inequality. Sadly, he was murdered before it came to fruition.

Unfortunately, we are unaware the People’s Campaign was Phase 2 of a four-step civil rights movement and further lost in the woods about Barry Goldwater’s emphasis of Law and Order being the bedrock of pushback toward civil rights.

Law and Order – the American political strategy of choice of the past fifty years – did not put Goldwater in the White House. Historians know that he got his ass handed to him by President Johnson, losing every state but Arizona, but his emphasis is what brought President Nixon to the Oval Office and former actor Ronald Reagan the California governorship in 1968. It also justified Nixon’s War on Drugs, harsh sentencing requirements (crack offenders were locked up twice as long as cocaine violators), the dehumanization of black offenders, the Mulford Act of 1968, and the preference of order rooted in fear and punishment. Law and Order also provided America’s mass incarceration. As a result, the ten years of progress have produced at least a handful of useful laws that have been thwarted by fifty years of legalized mass incarceration and inequality.

This is segregation by incarceration (SBI), pitting the police vs. the African-American community. No flyers, no press conferences for those who opposed the end of an American apartheid system in Jim Crow, none of that. Segregation was not about to lie down and concede defeat and pledge support for racial equality. Its newer and not-so-evil-looking strategy was to take down the blatant whites-only sign and trade them in for strategic enforcement of criminal laws that pack poor people behind bars and inevitably break up the traditional pathways to upward mobility.

SBI is much worse and corrosive than Jim Crow ever was. One unintended benefit of Jim Crow was it forced black people to build and rely on our own economic, educational, and social systems. SBI is like diabetes – a silent killer with no benefits. It extinguishes hope and in effect, litters society with a multitude of grown-up boys who become parasitic not only on the affected families but also the areas they live in. In short, segregation by incarceration has left African-Americans distrustful of law enforcement via decimating the black family structure and placing a cultural rot that prison culture and black culture are synonymous.

Once capitalism got into the incarceration business, lawmakers and states began racking up profits in untold dollars without mention of the lives damaged in the process. Most states have private prisons which are often run more shoddily than the worst state institutions in their heydays, and now even corporations have thrown their hats in the ring employing people in the most dangerous situations all in the name of saving money to have a cheap labor force! Where do people get picked up? On the block, that’s where. The drug war has constructed an environment conducive to prison life and the yards; think about the codes of silence imposed.

Why did the gangs accelerate in growth in California in the 1970s and ‘80s? Why was gangsta rap born in Los Angeles?

Because Ronald Wilson Reagan planted that seed of Law and Order in California first.

Aside from Bernie Madoff, what happened to the white-collar thieves and corporate thugs whose greed nearly destroyed the national economy and put a standstill to the 2008 presidential campaign? Most of them have their jobs and some are lobbyists to the same lawmakers who turned a blind eye to their looting. Worse, Senator Rand Paul (R-KY) has made a link that loose cigarettes are worth more than a black man’s life – and this is what the Republican Party is trotting out for President in the next cycle? In an act of bipartisanship, even our original “first black president” Bill Clinton instituted draconian three strikes and mandatory minimum sentencing guidelines as a measure to get Southern whites on board with Law and Order. Look below and read the LBJ comment and tell me if this is accurate.


I can’t breathe, but you can’t see.

America is still a place where race trumps self-interest, where the middle-class and poor have more in common with each other than the one percenters we keep voting in. Just as Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson does not speak for all black people, I would surely hope Rush Limbaugh and Tom Cotton are not representative of all white people. I’ll trade you Charles Barkley and Ben Carson for Phil Jackson and a pack of Ramen noodles (I jest), but you get the point. To maintain a perceived superiority, some people are willing to lie on the grenade of unfair justice in order to claim they are the chosen ones.

Why do you not see? Is it because your rose-colored glasses are tinted to a prescription that only limits to those inside of your immediate world? What about lumping all people unlike yourselves to a neat little box (ex. my black/white/gay/Asian/Hispanic/atheist/fill-in-the-blank friend)? Or does it not matter because it isn’t in your homogeneous villages?

Justice is not blind – history has proven that through the posthumous pardons and blank apologies. America is not.

Open your eyes.  

 

Making Forward Progress

When my wife and I moved into our house, we found a way to either work outside or inside to make changes to the home weekly for the first year we lived in it. Not long after I had mowed the grass one summer evening, our neighbor Tim walked across the grass and remarked that we were always doing something to make the property look better. Homeowners know where I am going with this one:  it is a combination of community pride and helping property values rise. Perhaps I was thinking about the New England Patriots’ training camp and ensuing preseason schedule when I replied, “man, we’re just making forward progress.”

As believers in Christ, we should never be satisfied to stay in one role thinking we have reached the pinnacle of spiritual success rather continue to “grow in the grace of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ” (2 Peter 3:18). Jesus does remind us in John 15:16 that we are chosen to go out and bear fruit. As a result of healthy growth, our spiritual fruit continues to grow throughout our lives. Our Lord is the vine, we are the branches. As long as we grow together, we will bear lots of good-tasting fruit.

In a move of forward progress to become more like God, we can be content that He who began a good work in us will continue it until it is completed upon His return.

Friday, December 12, 2014

The 2014 Thank-You Tour

At the beginning of the year, my sole resolution was to make one post to my blog per week, and for the most part that has been successful. Some topics have been fun while others were heart-wrenching, and they’ve even allowed for a Bible verse or sermon text and accompanying notes from my pastor. Thank you for reading, commenting, and otherwise keeping it mature; if I do not directly shout you out, it doesn’t mean any less of you. You’re all supremely wonderful souls!

• Obviously, thank God for keeping me around here for this long. He’s not done with me yet and in His will, 2015 will be greater.
• Chastity for putting up with the nights when those creative juices go wild and I just have to write. Thank you for being such a great wife, friend, compatriot, and (future) mother. I love you in words unspoken and actions beyond my comprehension.
  • News sources for pushing many of my prompts. You would think ABC, CNN, CBS, NBC, Fox, Al-Jazeera, etc. would be the sole sources; special shout outs to Facebook and Twitter for showing an up-to-the-moment insight of reality that tends to be unheard even if it isn’t what we are accustomed to.
  • My family for reading – and sometime critiquing my work. I’ll try not to make it so obvious next time, but living among you is a bonus.
• The Mount Zion Baptist Church family for some of the activism posts in mission-fulfilling work. Sunday after Sunday (and Wednesdays and Vacation Bible School), it’s both an honor and privilege to be a part of the community – and not holding my Bryant residency against me.
• Thanks to Noel, Rickey, and Sylvia for reading everything and bringing the competitive banter that makes AD&AD better. When I get paid, it’s on like Donkey Kong!
• Thank you Rineco for the time to think, pray, write, and being my bread and butter. Many nights all I have are sports-crazed co-workers and eccentric supervisors to deal with, but all 300+ of you are appreciated. What was originally going to be a six-week situation has become 2 ½ years of relationships and continuing opportunities, so thanks for keeping income toward my house.
• Thanks to all of my neighbors for making our block such a great place to call home. I owe each of you barbecue, so come on out anytime – not just when the blue tent is open.
  • Thank you to the friends I have gained and lost, for everything has a season. To all I missed on the shout-out column, thank you anyway for being you.

That should do it. God bless, I’m out.