From the Rooter to the Tooter

"Trying to insert the suppository felt like sex with a woman for the first time." 


As Bernie Mac use to say, "Ok America!" 


The holidays are in full throttle and we are out eating until our hearts' content.  All my life, in sum, I have enjoyed the holidays with the food and sports on TV.


In these middle years, I am totally unprepared for the next phase of life.  Take into account the unfortunate discomfort of hemorrhoids.


I simply did not want to except that I need to do anything about it.  I'm not talking about surgery.  It's the simple discomfort that comes with eating too much spinach and honey cashews.  While cooking, I decided to compulsively eat cashews as I waited for the turkey, Italian sausage dressing, macaroni and cheese, spring salad, and chicken empanadas to finish.  From an old family tradition, I learned to wait to eat all day only to snack on berries and nuts to make it through the day.  


This Christmas/Kwanzaa holiday, I suffered from the glutenous consumption of fibrous foods that led to my hemorrhoidal irritation, burning, and inflammation.  I tried to go on a bike ride and soon returned home since I could not sit without a hostile, burning discomfort.  Anytime I went to the bathroom, I am not proud to mention the fact that the porcelin thrown provided me no comfort. One more visit to the late night drug store resulted from a final shameful battle royale of wills between my desire to not need medicine and roughing it.


Roughing it meant untold hours of discomfort and no telling how much more pain would be endured. I mean, there are limits any man should endure for some distorted ideal of manhood.  You know, exit only signs and all that jazz.


Well, I buckled down and decided to make the leap of faith.  So, I went all the way and got the ointment cream, suppositories, and wipes.  Like any real man, I wanted all options on the table.  I failed to read the directions out of pure ignorance or maybe arrogance. 


When I arrived home, I stood with my pants down, cheeks wide open, and my eyes concentrating on the application directions of each product.  I read the propaganda advertising the least evasive anal cleansing wipes.  


I did not notice something that I overlooked on the directions for the ointment wipes. The directions on each of the hemorrhoidal products read that the wipes were optional.  They read, "If possible," or "if practical."  The writers surely understood the gravity of the circumstances of people in need of their product and did not want to put them through further terror and inconvenience.  So, they understood that these wipes may not do a damn thing but cause more pain and suffering.  It was neither possible nor practical to wipe for many.  I, however, went ahead if nothing else because cleanliness was closer to godliness. Those damn wipes did nothing noticeable for me - they felt like an old rusty SOS pad on my soft baby cheeks.


Got to a fork in the road trying to decide between the ointment cream or suppositories.  The more intimidating suppository option did not give me peace after reading the directions. I read the ingredients and saw this product was made out of 85% animal fat.  Really, animal fat pushed into my rectum.  Then, the suppository was shaped like a bullet encapsulated in an aluminum case. Really!


The ointment cream provided the other option that seemed less provocative but less effective because I wanted this hemorrhoid to be stopped at the source, the root, deep inside where it all started.  So, I went with the suppository.  


Trying to insert the suppository felt like sex with a woman for the first time.  I couldn't find the hole to save my life for at least a minute or two, fumbling and breathing hard with hands on one cheek and other hand full of greased fingers from animal fat in the suppository.


When I finally found the hole, I frowned with malcontent and noticed how it slipped in.  As my rectum took in the suppository, I took a big fat gulp.  


Not a pretty sight to say the least.


Once I found my inner sanctum, I went to the cream and applied as directed. All I could think about was what happens if I pass gas before the suppository dissolves.  Then, my butt cheeks had that greasy feel to them. Next I felt a lump in my throat and bad taste in my mouth, which were probably some psychosomatic response to the suppository.  


I tell you because if you have not experienced this unsavory event, you should be more prepared then before.

Tiger Woods: No. 1 Nigger in America

After speaking to a family member today, we talked about the interesting fall of Tiger Woods.  However, when you really think about it, Tiger has risen to the top of the all too popular Top Nigger spot.  


You may recall this competition last being celebrated during the series of Michael Jackson sexual scandals or during the OJ Simpson trials. It's a delightful time when Americans find some famous Black man to take down who seems to have some affinity for White people.  


This is how it goes.  


Beloved by the majority of America, the star experiences wide spread appeal and celebrity. Although they may experience unparalleled fame compared to any other entertainer, politician, or sports figure in history, trailblazing a new era in entertainment, breaking down seemingly impossible barriers, and welcoming a wave of newfound racial appreciation, they comparatively share an experience of ambivalent support from other Black people.


Like OJ and Michael Jackson, Tiger Woods was embraced with timid warmth even after the black community initially rejected or is rejected or made to feel abandoned in the face of growing mass White appeal.  Like any good mascot, each magical negro including Tiger Woods experiences years of greater than God fame with exaltation and praise poured on  deep and wide.  


Eventually, the black community, while disappointed, finds of way to quietly accept and patiently waits for the prodigal son to return. The black community does not wish him harm.  Rather, educated pessimism has taught many that the fall from grace will come, come soon and come hard.


The funny thing about Tiger Woods is that in 1997 he experienced public racism after Fuzzy Zoeller's fried chicken comment  after Fuzzy got his ass beat and Tiger went on to win The Masters golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia. Like clock work, black leaders came to Tiger Woods' defense and expressed outrage for such off color comments.  We also learned about charity work and contributions to the community teaching inner city children golf and promoting golf to a new generation and community never breached by the upper class, almost all white golf community of the past.


Some of us knew the fall would eventually occur, this fall from grace.  We probably all wished that it did not have to be this way, but many others have accepted it as, dare I say, par for the course.  The fall from grace in such a way makes it incredibly hard to return back to the world's stage.  OJ and MJ fell from grace and only Michael seemed to make it back safely after hiding out for several years.  


With his death, Michael Jackson lives as a reincarnated, super being, god-like as only he could.  His influence so strong, MJ's death brought back the Jacksons for a possible musical tour and TV series.  We learn and have some reserved comfort knowing that the fall from fame eventually comes, because we also confidently know  that it does not destine one to perpetual disgrace.  In death, as with MJ, a black person can experience the same undying favor.


The fall from grace or fall into disgrace was not always something you could make a triumphed return.  If you fell from grace, it guaranteed that you would not return. Over the years, we have learned how to make a graceful return to the world's stage.


One of the almost absolute requirements for the come back requires the unwavering loyalty and acceptance from the black community.  When OJ was on trial, black people had his back from the get go - even when people said MJ was a pediphile, possibly raping children after their parents left them alone with him.  Even when there was outrage about the massacre of OJ's wife and the accusations of MJ's life with underage boys, some within the black community dismissed it as lies and baseless jibber jabber.  Without loyalty, maybe blind, the black community could never stand by and watch while these horrific charges were leveled on our sons.  


Even when they are not loyal to the black community, as a whole, black people faithfully pull the prodigal son back off the stage, lick their wounds, and pray that all will be well. They showed us that even we can blaze past racism and make a real difference in the world.  Fearlessly, they showed us how not to be afraid of whitey.  Like Jack Johnson, the first black heavy weight boxing champ, they showed us how to laugh in their face, beat them at their own game with money, influence, and smarts.  


We learned to appease white slave owners in years past that you can play the role of a fool, but you know how the saying goes, "My momma didn't raise no fool."  Like Muhammad Ali's "Rope-a-Dope", playing possum, or when we saw Ray Charles playing, "country dumb," in his biographical film, Ray, black people coped with challenges however small or large to find a way to conquer adversity.  We secretly hoped that it was a big game, something "they" created to distort the truth, conspiracy to tear them down, or the truth perverted for their benefit.  Even if the accusations we true, we did not have to like everything about them to celebrate with them. In the end, they accomplished something we could celebrate collectively and could never have it taken away.


Now that Tiger Woods is falling from grace, I wonder who he will run to in his time of grief.  Many people probably don't give a damn, some are so horrified that something like that could ever happen, others probably thought nothing of it, while even others see it as inevitable considering his circumstances - billion dollar man whose has conquered ever barrier - there's nowhere to go but down.


I welcome the time when Tiger will rise around out of the shadows, wounds sufficiently licked, maybe stronger, more resilient than before, smarter, more cleaver than even he thought he could be.  He might look like Sofia (play by Oprah Winfrey) from The Color Purple, wore out, beaten down, and on his last leg.  Similarly to her, we might also see him come out of that dark place, scared but not dead, alive and well.


I hope for the rebirth, a second half because it really is not over.  And, even if it is, it sure was nice while it lasted. If he goes away quietly, it's all good.  If he comes back like I think he should, he'll return maybe bigger and blacker than ever before.  I think he has nothing to prove and everything to gain.


What is potentially unique about the fall is the ugly head of racism that sooner or later rises above in each of these situations where the public seems to have a primal desire to protect the victim. In the case of OJ, his beautiful, oftentimes abused, wife.  With MJ, all those poor incident boys.  Now, with Tiger Woods, there is his wife, innocent victim more than willing to come after him with a five-iron.


With the fall from grace comes the unsavory title of No. 1 Nigger in America.  

The Blind Side - Seeing Past It: The Movie

Went to see The Blind Side a few weeks back.  Found myself in the same awkward situation that I've been in over the years after the premiere of popular movies like The Blind Side.


The Blind Side was at best a slightly above average movie with the cliché scenarios of a Black kid named Michael Oher being saved by a White family.  It also had the same magical negro phenomenon.  Like any good Black character popular in many films, we soon find out the mystical powers of this woefully overplayed, quiet giant. 


The film is set up as if this African American young man knows little if anything about football.  He's big, strong, and everyone calls him Big Mike.  By definition, he must be taken in a charity case.  But, the writer-director knew fatuous sympathy was not enough for his audience to feel compassion for this poor black character.  Yes, he's poor, uneducated, maybe dumb, big and underprivileged. However, the audience needed something more.  


The magic is learning that he is actually smarter than it seems with a strong body and character beyond comprehension.  The White family that eventually takes Big Mike in finds him walking in the cold with a short sleeve shirt on the side of the road alone and hungry.  So, okay, this family has to be given credit for taking a stranger in.  However, if it wasn't for a charismatic young son from the White family that befriended him, it is more than likely that he would not have been considered harmless by the "adults."

I must digress here because the relationship between the big, amazingly disarming Black man and the creative tongue of a preemie child playing the son of the parents who eventually take Big Mike in requires attention.  Remember The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?  Finn and Jim seemed to be illustrated in The Blind Side.  

So, you might say, what is wrong with that?

Not much if you believe that a young elementary aged boy can lead a nearly grown man through life.  Yes, they are friends and eventually become family.  However, I am not inclined to believe that any man would follow behind a young boy in the way it is portrayed in the film.  At least in Huck Finn, they shared poverty, little or no education, common goal to escape the South, and Jim Crow.  None of those pieces existed in the film but they found of way to replicate the same dynamic and commonalty regardless.

Is there something to be said about any family taking in a young man, clothing him, providing shelter, feeding him emotionally and physically, and providing opportunities that he could not easily come by without their intervention?  Of course.  I do not care to see another film that down plays the truth and replaces it with nonsensical crap.

Although a gentle giant, we find that Big Mike needs direction that only the White family is able to provide.  His gift to the family is his kindness and sense or need for a family, past trauma requires that he protect others in his family at all cost.  The isolated young man quietly sits in waiting for his adoptive White family to respond to the celestial call to come together and be a family.  He teaches them to be a loving family in exchange for shelter, learning the subtle details of football, a full-time tutor, and a house you might find in the lifestyle of the rich and famous upper middle class. His strength of character brings the White family together collectively around their new mascot.  On the field, Big Mike is discovered to be a monster, kind but ferocious in ways not imagineable. 


I recommend you read the book,The Blind Side: Evolution of the Game, which The Blind Side was based. It avoids the mimicry of the movie.  Albeit that it will take time to read a good story and learn the truth.  However, if there was going to be a movie made, the producers, writers, and directors for it would have been better served to use reality to tell the human story instead of replacing it with short sighted bullshit.

Woods vs. Woods

Now, I'll be the first to say that the circus around Tiger Woods' supposed infidelity has far outworn its appeal.  I'll also admit that it does not seem clear what transpired the day Tiger ran into the tree near his home.  Some stories say that his wife used a iron golf club and smashed in the window of their SUV.  When the SUV Tiger was driving crashed into the tree, she was also credited with getting him out and getting him medical help.  Of course, these details have not been totally confirmed.


The focus of this whole thing has been Tiger's behavior, confirmed affair with at least one woman and alleged affairs with two other women.  Private matters that need attention is a minimum requirement it seems to me.


But, wait one got darn minute!


If it is true that his wife came after him with an iron golf club, then something is wrong.  And, no one is talking about it.  WTF! 


If the table was turned, the media hype would be even greater.  Black man running after a White woman with a damn iron club. Can you say, "OJ!" 


If that is wrong, why is it no one seems to bring up this other fact.


Okay, let's assume Tiger was wrong, committed a violation of his promise, his commitment to family, an unsanctioned transgression against the moral code of what our society holds dearly.  Okay, I got that!


What I do not get is the tacit acceptance that running after your husband with a iron club is okay.  If it was true and Tiger actually was hit with the club, charges could be filled with the police.  Which of course makes me wonder who Tiger was protecting after the incident - himself or his wife?  


Of course, there is his reputation and business that was tarnished.  This persona includes his wife and her behavior just as much as his behavior.  Unfortunately, it seems we can accept her behavior because for some reason it is sanctioned as tolerable under the circumstances.   


I think it would be wrong regardless of who was the philander in the situation.  Elin Woods is potentially as responsible for what went down as Tiger would be.  We have not even gotten into what was going on between them that may have led to the infidelity in the first place.  Each person in a relationship or couple have to take some responsibility for what goes down even when it is clear the less-the-human perpetrator, like Tiger Woods, bares primary responsibility.


So, I ask?  What responsibility does Elin Woods have in all this?  More than people seem to be willing to acknowledge . . . 


Another point, who the hell is Elin Woods anyway?  She is an ex-Swedish model who was working as an au pair for a golfer colleague while on tour.  What the hell does she bring to this package anyway?  


Don't get mad! Just asking.  


Elin did not deserve anything of this.  I'm just wondering what could be going on with them.  I wonder what it is like for someone like a Tiger Woods who is with a woman who seems to pale in comparison in so many, many ways.  Just a thought.

Morehouse Man in a Dress

Morehouse College, based in Atlanta, Georgia, is a male, historical Black college, whose aim is to " produce academically superior, morally conscious leaders for the conditions and issues of today, whether “today” is post-Civil War or turn of the new millennium." 


In an attempt to build Renaissance men and to "get back to the legacy" of Morehouse leadership, the Morehouse College administration has supported the revamping of their dress code.  The code no longer permits students to wear the pants low on their ass, wear shades or hats inside buildings, or wear do-rags on their campus.  Additionally, they no longer want to see men dressing as women in response to a group of young gay men cross dressing on campus.


What the media sometimes fails to mention is that it has been long rumored that Morehouse College ran rampant with gay and bisexual men on the down low since I lived there in the mid-90s, if not before.  I do not know if that is rumor or truth.  However, it may reflect concerns about honest heterosexual male development along with a strong since of homophobia any time a group of men commune with one another on a male only college.


When it comes to sexuality, sexual orientation and affection, I probably have most difficulty keeping with old adages that do not benefit our community such as the one Morehouse supports.

One part of the African American community includes LGBT individuals like it or not. Until we can wrap our minds around this issue instead of keeping firm on short-sighted beliefs that lead nowhere, we will continually have the same problem of negating the needs of our LGBT brothers and sisters. We cannot no longer excuse their exclusion when they are a vital part with a meaningful contribution as any other segment of our community.

Our own President Obama who most African Americans support because of his politics and background, I’d like to believe, would not support this measure from Morehouse. Additionally, although a number of African Americans probably do not see any problem with Morehouse’s policy on “principle,” I do not support any principle or policy that does not encourage critical thinking, academic freedom, and exploration of ideas even if contrary to our own.

I do not think Morehouse’s policy and ideals of the Morehouse man are broad enough. Their position may serve a vast majority of African American men; however, I believe it abandons too many for the sake of meeting some outdated standard that will not prepare them in the long-term for a world economy we must be prepared to manage and navigate successfully.

So, this ill of having to explain why men wear their jeans around their ankles and why men dress as women are the least of my problems. I have found that my children and children in general are quite capable and have the mind to understand these issues only as well as I or we are willing to approach them fairly, truthfully, and without malice. If I do not understand the behavior of people, I do not pretend to understand or offer a perspective based on sophomoric ideals. It is just as important to know when you are not competent to speak on an issue as it is to know when you are competent to speak intelligently about an issue.

It is also important to say that I cannot be an expert on every issue. It is a meaningful role to acknowledge and share with our youth and children that we may not understand, but it is important to learn what you can. It may mean stepping out of our comfort zone, opening our minds to different ideas, and exposing ourselves if not our children to new circumstances so we can better understand. Morehouse’s policy goes against those very ideas of exposing, exploring, and imagining things previously beyond our comprehension. I expect with time that they will change their policy in the interest of meeting the needs of all the Black men they intend to serve.

From President to Mascot

Similarly to how Malcolm X felt about his white classmates electing him class president in elementary school for his academic accomplishments, I wonder if President Obama is simply a little pet to be marveled and put on a pedestal to be looked at in wonder.

After watching the fastest man in the world, Usain Bolt of Jamaica, beat all comers with the fastest time ever in the 100 meter dash, I remembered the exciting feelings I experienced from running track back in the day. Admittedly not a direct connection, but I then thought about Jesse Owens and somehow ended up thinking about Malcolm X. Images of Malcolm X,Usain Bolt, and President Obama came to mind. Then, there were the town hall and birther events from the last few weeks.

It has taken me several weeks to process and think thoughtfully about these collection of events. However, as I celebrated Usain's victory jumping around my living room, I sat down and remembered the chapter Malcolm X's autobiography eloquently illustrated about being a mascot. Is President Obama and Usain Bolt's herculean accomplishments still just anomalies and exceptions to the rule for how many white people view black Americans?

No, not for many. Well-meaning white people appreciate and also celebrate these accomplishments as fellow Americans and sports enthusiasts. So, in many ways, they experienced the events similarly to me. Really no difference, right?

Actually, there is a difference. My difference is having to think about whether these accomplishments are actually taken seriously. Meaning, all to often, these kinds of culture champions can be experienced collectively as heros, but simply as exceptions to the rule.

I am trying to illustrate that President Obama and other notable black Americans (althought Usain Bolt is Jamaican, he is part of the popular culture in American sports) can have these successes as limited distractions. What is the average white Americans' common experience with black Americans and culture? Most white Americans have little or no regular contact with African Americans. In general, most white Americans admit to attending predominantly white schools and living in mostly white neighborhoods. Even after leaving school for a brief reprieve of charity work fulfilling community service in a diverse community, they return to their communities of like-minded, mostly white communitites at work, places of worship, and comfort zones.

A good portion of white people, open minded to an ever changing world, live day to day isolated from non-whites. I argue that this isolation limits many white Americans because getting to know non-whites requires full participation in a world that may be very unfamiliar and different than the one they were raised. Of course, white Americans can live without having regular contact with non-whites if they choose and will live what I imagine to be fulfilling lives. There is an opportunity for a far more. The point of expanding our friendships and community is to move society forward, respond to difficulties more effectively, and avoid the cruelty of the past. The vitality of our country is founded on this idea of bringing people from various backgrounds together. Oliver Wendell Holmes said, "Man's mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions." As we move forward as a community, greater exposure to different people unavoidably leads to change. The kind of change we experience is contigent on a willingness and openness to differences.

Intimacy with others is more than dating a series of black men or women, attending an occasional cultural event, or celebrating cultural holidays at the office or school. It requires intimate involvement with individuals and communities of color at home, work, in places of worship, or even places of solitute. It will require going to other places of worship, residing in a more mixed neighborhood, and working amongst diverse colleagues. Many people of color also choose similar isolation amongst their own. I would suggest the same kinds of limitations are likely to be present. However, for many people of color, it is impossible to escape intimate involvement with white America because of work and/or education.

Evidence suggests that there are various advances in society, but in general there remains the subtle and sometimes more obvious forms of discrimination, racism, and prejudice. Of course, having a black president will not eliminate racism, but don't we all remember when mainly white pundits and others suggested that electing a black president represented that we were living in a post-racial society. We went from calling former President Bill Clinton the first black president to actually having a real black president.

With the so-called birther movement, Glenn Beck calling the President a racist, as someone who hates white culture, and some of the comments made by folks organized by FreedomWorks showing up at town hall meetings, post-racial seems more than a bit premature. Of course, some will say that the media had a lot to do with bringing these behaviors to the forefront - maybe more than it deserves. I am not convinced of it because Glenn Beck and his ilk, who find his comments entertaining at best or prophetic by another class of a traditionalists, represent that portion of the white American culture who are fearful and irrational in the their understanding of the world. Racism and prejudice have never been rational endeavors, but they are powerful in their influence and subtle metamorphsus.

I mention this issue of racism, Usain Bolt, President Obama, Glenn Beck, and all this to say that Malcolm X touched on something very important for many African Americans. We can be captains of innovation, lawyers, pop star kings and queens, doctors, and even President of the United States, but for some white Americans, these accomplishments will only be exceptions to the rule. The primary expectation is to see and perceive the world contrary to evidence suggesting otherwise and fear, loathing, and irrational worry about black people is unwarranted and not prudent.

Similarly to how Malcolm X felt about his white classmates electing him class president in elementary school for his academic accomplishments, I wonder if President Obama is simply a little pet to be marveled and put on a pedestal to be looked at in wonder. As our little mascot, President Obama goes about the country celebrated and damn near glorified as the savior of the American dream to being vilified and made into somekind of evil incarnation of the Satan's seed.

Don't believe me, there are some justifying this nonsense using the Bible to prove the president is the lighning fall from heaven, Satan - the antichrist (Luke 10:18). Without going into the details, here is a link to this kind of foolishness: Obama as Satan.

Are you feeling sick and tired of this bull? I hope so. Does it seem like craziness that needs to be ignored? Probably. All I am illustrating is the absurb nature of the stuff coming out of the wood works. This is not the majority of white Americans or a even a huge portion. But call it paranoia, I do think it comes from an irrationality of some well meaning people out there willing to offer it for reasonable consideration. It taps into an unconscious, latent and, yes, irrational fear of the world that seems out of control and directionless.

When people feel lost and out of control due to finances or other worries, immense change or upheavel, or a foreboding feeling of the end, they attempt to come up with rational, logical explanations based on sensible foolishness when taken to their conclusion. Instead, those intelligent explanations fail to tap into the emotionality that comes with serious change and difficult challenges. Out of frustration or from ideology, other options are given greater consideration - oftentimes more than they deserve.

The process is not always one you see working itself out in plain sight. Rather, it is one that plays itself out when seemingly well-intentioned people come up with the craziest shit to explain away events, circumstances, or people and why things are as bad as they are. Like when Rev. John Hagee, the mega church evangelist said, "God caused Hurricane Katrina to wipe out New Orleans because it had a gay pride parade the week before and was filled with sexual sin." They are the private thoughts and banter of friends of like minds unwilling to see the world from another perspective, comforted by an alternative knowledge, and backed by ideology and superstition.

This issue is more complicated than I am willing to express here. I'm touching on an idea that came and went. It will return, I know. Maybe it makes you think just a little more about how far things have come.

Healthcare Reform in America

If you have been paying attention for the last several weeks, you should have come across the political stories about the "birthers," Skip-Gate, and the first latina appointed to the Supreme Court in the United States. I'll admit that maybe these stories maintain a prominent role in my mind, experience, and perspective because the collection of events reflect the ever changing American landscape - at least the one I look at everyday.

We have a black president, a latina in the Supreme Court, women in important roles of Secretary of State and Speaker of the House of Representatives. Each event is ceremonial and historical.

For the second time in a generation, the health care reform debate rages on.

I've had somekind of healthcare since before I can remember. Even if there was a time that I did not as a young child, I did not know it consciously. I do remember visits to the doctor, mother having surgery, and my brother's complications at birth. All these events required healthcare. Maybe my parents had good jobs, government medical services, or military benefits allowed me not to worry about these things growing up. Another privilege it seems. So, who is this universal healthcare debate really about? Who is needing it and what do they look like?

Since the debate made its big return to the scene, questions about racism and prejudice are being offered on both ends of the spectrum from liberal progressives to conservative traditionalist. I'd presume the average American is caught between the cross hairs trying to make sense of all of it. Maybe many would rather put their heads into the ground and avoid the conflict as many rather do in general. For those of us courageous and duty-bound enough to try and gather our wits to understand the challenge, I offer one simple consideration: What is the real face of poverty in America?

I am not going to pretend to know this dynamic issue thoroughly. I did experience poverty for a time and, like many Americans, sometimes feel a few paychecks from the poor house. But, these are past experiences, fears, and lamentations when, in fact, I am lower middle class, highly educated, and a beneficator of the American dream my ancestors fought and died for me to receive. I am not under any illusion that all the treasures of life cannot be taken or lost at any point. I also enjoy the reasonable expectation and rumination to believe that when I rise each morning that I can eat, sleep in comfort, be resigned to the fact that my neighborhood is relatively safe, and create a bubble of security, even if irrationally constructed, keeps me inside safe and free from worry. That is a privilege that I received.

Of course we have our neighborhood homeless, working poor, unemployed, single-parents, people of color, and mentally disabled. Of these groups, I cannot tell you whether one group is better covered by our current healthcare system than the next. I cannot tell you what group gets a better shake because of existing federal or state government or charity program. I am neither an expert on the matter nor really care to be actually. I do want to be informed enough so I can let my representative know what I think is important for the future of the country.

This I believe - I believe in an America who promised me freedom and justice regardless. I believe in a parent being able to care for their children and having the means throughout life to be the difference and make a difference. I believe in a world compassionate enough to support and encourage those less able and maybe even unwilling at times to live up to their God given talent. I believe that people have been bestowed with a treasure inside that no person, circumstance, or injustice can steal away because it was placed there by a God who treasures and loves you unconditionally. I believe that treasure is inescapable and cannot be signed away or stolen from others to increase one's portion. The treasure is with each of us not because we deserve it but because despite our greatest efforts to disprove others including God, we are worthy of it - inherently worthy as one of God's creation, a child of God. That treasure is love.

From this position, the face of poverty I know before I pick up a book, research on the Internet, or look for the advise of my wisest confidant that it is you, me, the man behind the counter at my local grocery store, or the lady walking down the ally trying to take a shortcut home. It could be anyone really. I do not know all of these individuals, but I know they are part of my family and yours, friends, the fortunate and unruly, peaceful and reachedly unjust, stranger and familiar alike.

If I really knew any of these people who I can assume on some level care and cry as I do worrying about a child or close one's future, lust for a time when their worries might subside enough to give them peace, and, even if only once, wished for something a bit better without being greedy, then I might, just might, be able to understand the obligation and promise of their deepest dream.

So, I do believe in universal healthcare just like I believe roads and highways, street lights, gas pipes, public libraries, city, country, state, and federal services should be paid for as a collective. Not one of us can survive without the other. The myth of dogged, rugged individualism is a pipe dream full of wholes, selling the idea that we don't need anyone but our gifts, aspirations, and bare hands to make us whole.

The face of poverty walks and rides across the great expanse we call America and home. Poverty lives in America and in many ways far more present outside our bountries. So, my hope is that people will see this familiar face of poverty and look past the irrational rhetoric, racist townhall-foolery, and emotional banter, which take the focus off the real issues. Because, the real issue is finding a way to avoid suffering through your own private misery watching a parent, child, or other family member or friend battle an illness or disease that can corrupt their mind, body, and spirit - and our hearts. There can be little else more terrible than the worry a parent or child has believing their illness bankrupted financially and/or emotionally their family due to their cancer or other ailment.

I do not pretend to know the answer. However, once we get past all this overexposed Frontierman gibberish found on our nightly news, hopefully we get back to those faces needing healthcare reform.

Black Man's Discount - Spread the Word

Since living in Atlanta, the other Chocolate City, and taking several college courses on African and African American psychology and history including a module or two on Reparations, I came to an epiphany.

Black folk from the street hustler to intellectuals from the Talented Tenth have talked about reparations for slavery. People have fought for reparations ever since slavery ended. However, one of the few successful reparation movements came from the Japanese internment giving $20,000 per surviver after World War II.

Black people have never received reparations. So, as a consummate idealistic, intellectual hustler, I decided to take my reparations into my hands.

Hence, the advent of the Black Man's Discount. I vetted the idea with some friends of mine back in the day. Each laughed initially and thought only my crazy ass would be willing to try it out. At the time when not estranged from my father, I passed the idea by him to see what his reaction would be. He did not provide much, but he laughed. I gathered by making it funny I might be successful. I also did not expect to receive it. It was fundamentally a lofty idea wrapped in charm and poetic license on a well worn idea.

With the confidence of my friends and family, I set out on an adventure. I started during a trip on a popular airline to a conference. Comforted by my department paying for my flight to the conference, I approached the ticket attendant smiling and conversed in idle chatter about the most recent football game and entertainment gossip. In my mind's eyes, I began to consider what first class might be like as a frequent member of coach.

To be safe, I thought that I be best off trying this with someone of the same ilk. Bra' Man there was quite friendly and laughed graciously at my jokes as we bantered back and forth. As the conversation led to the series of questions pre-dating the terror attacks of September 11th, I said unapologetically and with the most courageous tone of voice that I could muster, "Can a brother get the Black Man's Discount?"

Like a mindful sage, Bra' Man sorted through the various thoughts that popped in his mind. He smiled, looked at me with that familiar brother to brother acknowledgment, and hit the magical keys without missing a beat. He said, as he had probably had a thousand times before, "Yes, we have space for you in first class."

Let it be said that the flight was not full at all. So, no one was put out for this friendly accommodation. For a first effort, it was a joyous success.

Being a quasi-scientist, I wanted to test this little theory out. While at the conference, I stopped by the grocery store and invoked the Black Man's Discount. Surprisingly, the Sister at the cash register gave me the candy bar and three drinks for free.

Although the two experiences left me feeling elated, I did not dare try again soon for fear of throwing off the celestial Chi' in the world. But, time could not pass as I was all too eager to try it out again.

When I returned from the conference, I had been worried the whole flight back that I was not certain I had money in the bank to pay for the four days of parking. Actually very nervous, I drove up to the parking attendant. A gentle middle-aged Mexican American sat resolute in his air conditioned palace. I smiled, asked about his day, and secretly strategized about what to say next. Without a thought, but delivered with all confidence, I asked, "Do you think I could get the Black Man's Discount?" Then, I handed him the twenty-five dollars I found in my book sitting at the bottom of my car floor.

Slightly distracted, he held up the bitterly old twenty dollar bill in his hand, viewed both sides to check for authenticity, and handed it back to me. Unremarkably, he said, "It's your lucky day!"

The zeros on the screen outside the kiosk flashed a bright red and the bar rose up into the air. The Mexican gentleman said goodbye as I drove on.

With this kind of success, you might think that I'd slow it down. I did, but not because of success. Rather, utter failure with others made it seem unreasonable. It did not phase me because I found with enough diligence and perserverence that sooner or later with Black, White, Latino, Asian or otherwise the Black Man's Discount paid out.

I'd immediately shared my fortune with my friends and family who were shocked that I experienced so much success. So, I began advising my first client. A young, somewhat naiive White woman, fellow student in a program two floors down.

My friend was not so naiive as distrustful, maybe indignant after learning I had such a favorable experience. So, I advised her of my technique, circumstance by which it might be more successful, and gave her a pep talk to build her confidence.

After about a week she and I crossed paths again. After a slightly awkward exchange, I asked her if she tried our little experiment. She frowned and tore into a story about being summarily called a racist for invoking the White Woman's Discount.

Who said reparations was for everyone.

Years have past since invoking the discount. Periodically to restore my faith in the American dream, I inquire about the discount with moderate success.

My advice to you. Try it out with familiar people. Do not abuse the privilege, because it is a privilege to be respected and not confused with an unjust cause. If you are White, expect that you will experience some inherit limitations. In the end, this little experiment can really turn into an adventure in social justice.

Hello Mother - There U R

Got a call tonight from a good friend from graduate school.

We hadn't talked for some months.  With kids, work, and family, it can be hard sometimes trying to keep your head afloat let alone catch up with even our best of friends.

I could hear it in his voice.  The sound was the kind you hear from your friend unless there is some kind of imminent, foreboding message to share.

So, I called him back immediately, then hung up the phone.  I felt my heart sink overwhelmed with feelings that reminded me of my mother.  She died more than two years ago.

The deep sense of loss I still feel since her passing can be deafening at times.  The whole world stops with memories and flashes of lost emotions about things long past.  Stone faced, I sat in my room alone as I heard the voices of my children in the other room.  For a moment, I imagined that my mother once sat in my place listening to my voice when I was a child with my brother playing or arguing as she received news over the telephone.  

There is a deep sense of responsibility that came over me.  It feels precious and undoubtedly unwanted at the same time.  But, is it responsibility for anything?  No, it is fear.  Fear of knowing what my mother knew when she got those unkind phone calls.

After a moment of indecision, I called my friend who informed me that another one of our friends from graduate school was gravely ill.  Hospice care, specialists, and prayer were all made to order to help conquer death knocking at the door.

It did not matter not one bit that our friend had been sick as long as we had known him.  It did not matter the least that we both knew a day like this might come.  We knew.  Maybe his long time illness prepared us.  Maybe it stopped us from staying close and connected.  Maybe talking to him sometimes reminded me of my mother too often.  Sometimes, it was painful just to talk to him.  It was easier just to send an email or e-card to say hello and wish him happy holidays.

He is my friend and he might die soon.  Early death seems to bring me closer to dealing with the reality of my death.  So morbid it seems and true.  Upliftying messages of hope and conjuring up heavenly voices do not pacify my fears.

Then, my heart and spirit go back to my friend.  My friend on the phone who called me to share the news.  We caught up, talked about babies, life, work, and old times.  It was so good.

When we ended our call, I decided to call my old friend who was ill.  No luck, no one to pick up.

I was partly relieved and disappointed because I wanted to hear his voice but I am certain that I would have cried.  Maybe we'll talk tomorrow when my courage returns.

Until then, good night Mom.  I miss you and love you.

Slum Dog Ain't A Millionaire

How about you? I know that I am irritated each time I hear about this damn Slum Dog Millionaire story.  

I do not know about you, but I want to have ongoing income or substantial income after doing a major movie.  Maybe I cannot buy a house, but I should be able to do well for myself and get other gigs after doing a movie motion picture that wins awards from here to Katmandu.

Well, Katmandu wouldn't be far for the child star from Slum Dog Millionaire, but you get my point.  The child star, who still lives in the slums of Mumbai, India, lives in a crowded shanty town.  

Would you expect to live there any longer.  We Americans feel such an entitlement to live out the so-called "American Dream" in style would be outraged over the mere thought of not cashing out after the major success of a movie.  It's inconceivable!

But, for the Slum Dog child star, he continues living in the slums while the young adult stars who get the glory and fame, live out their dreams in London or whatever in England, and continue their lives as they were before in over-privileged style.

The Slum Dog child star is a part of that under-privileged who keep going as they did before and after the fame and glory of the film.  

It is sad and I am mad.  

Didn't like the damn movie anyway.  Come on!  Broke ass kids poorer than most anyone the average American know with English accents in India and never lived anywhere else.  That's like living in Georgia with a Minnesota accent lbut never been to Minnesota - it cain't happen.  

Where did they learn English and with an English accent?

Now, that is some bullshit!

Laugh with Them

The fasinating thing about our new president is his willingness to laugh with other Americans.  We spent a good portion passively and aggressively pursuing our most recent past president with jokes at and about him.

Admittedly, our former president did have a way of making us smile and sometimes laugh. Unfortunately, it became all too common for him to be the brunt of jokes.

I'll be honest - it was a bit embarrassing.  It does not matter that I did not vote for him and thought his politics were horrible.  He still represented My America.  Liken to Barbara Jordan, I know this country did not think of me and my ancestors when they wrote in the freedoms when writing the Constitution. But, I do believe in the principles and amendments that bring every American into the fold (even if all are not protected still).

The point really is that we have a president for good or otherwise, support or hate, admire or envy, or whatever it may be who we can together and join in the laughter .  Every joke does not need to funny, but you end the day or night having smiled at some of the absurbities of life, politics, and this phenomenon we call life.

Something Like That!

Ok . . . Have you felt like you have missed out on something?  Married men often complain and say, “Yes!  On sex.”

If you asked any child under ten years old, they’d probably miss out on a treat, special toy, time with their friends or family.

When I listened to my uncles growing up, they’d tell stories about calling marijuana, rabbit grass; or other stories about “chasing the dragon.”  For all those old neighborhood heroin addicts they’d known growing up in school from back in the day, people said they were chasing the dragon because after hitting heroin, they spent the rest of their life chasing after that first high that never comes again.

But, that’s not it.  None of these really hit the nail on the head.  It’s surely not an addiction because you had to give it up hopefully sooner or later.  And, practicing and participating in that something does not necessarily cause all the hassle drug addiction causes.  Plus, you’re all grown up.  You can chase down friends, family, boxes of candy, and all you ever wanted.  No, this something is different because you ultimately have control over what you do, but something is still missing.

It is not some lost or unrequited love for another.  It’s not even the frustration you feel for being in a lack luster relationship.  No, it is more private and isolated to oneself.

I’m not saying that all the above is not important.  Rather, I’m remembering all those wonderful hobbies that we use to share with others.  Anyone whose taken a shop class, dance, art, music, theatre, or sports of any kind.  There is something we miss about those hobbies that may have at one point in our lives been more important than life itself long ago.  But, now, it is a past memory – seemingly so distant and easily retrievable when you have the mind’s eye to recall it.

For me, I could not ever really sing well enough to carry a tune far.  Tone deaf as I am, no possibility of recovery. Sports?  Well, I’m in ok shape – kind of rounded like a figure eight. High pockets on the bottom and party keg on the top – big butt and a watering hole for a gut.  Still, I do exercise and manage my weight relatively well.  I just cannot expect to have the body from back in the day. Truthfully, I’m feeling better about that every day. Ok, not really, still working on that, too.

I think drawing, painting, and sculpting with clay is what I’m missing. As beautiful as it might have felt to create what seemed like life itself, it also brought a considerable amount of pain.  The pure anguish that I felt concentrating on the most minute detail would take its toll. 

Unable to manage my frustrations through art or on the field in sports, I gave up my creative outlet to focus on any outside distraction that caused me a far less objectionable nuisance.  

So, after high school, I drew one last portrait for a girl that I thought I might love.  When she did not return my affection, I just gave up drawing all together.  I was fine with getting rejected.  My soul came through unscathed and buoyant, ready for the next opportunity. The unfortunate casualty was my skill for the arts.

Now, when I pick up a pen, pencil, or brush or place my hands in clay, I fumble at it, directionless and unfocused.  Like playing the piano, it seems my skill has run out.  I’d like to get back on top of it like riding a bike, but it feels awkward, clumsy, time consuming, and a formidable distraction from all else.

Then I thought, who else might be feeling this sense of loss?

This sense of loss is like losing a best friend who moved during childhood.  The memories seem so fresh in your mind with visions, scents, and sounds a buzz.  With the slightest disturbance, as if you had been awoken out of a deep sleep, brings you back to a self-conscious reality and the memory slowly slips away. 

You try to remember.  So, you write down what you can.  Yet, as you rush to find a pencil or pen, lost amongst the folds of paper, junk and misplaced shoes, the memory flies away as seagulls do. 

Flapping their wings, you are mesmerized, absorbed in the seagulls eloquence and sense of freedom.  

At that moment, the memory is finally lost.  You promise yourself that next time it happens, you will have something close at hand to write with.  

But, you never really remember.  Disgruntled, the feeling subsides for months, until the next time it comes.  

I miss that something in life.