New Growth

Going Forward: With Gratitude

2011-01-07T05:06:00.000-08:00

Sitting, perched at the start of a transitioning year I recognize that each day is the beginning of a new year; potentially, the start of a new life. The clock and calendar, in an attempt to provide markers that signal our beginnings, designate 12:01 am on the first day of January as our collective annual beginning. They allow us to pass time, aware that others hear the same clock tick and watch the same calendar flip. It’s an illusion that fools us into believing we have brought some order to a universe we had no part in designing or maintaining. Who are we to establish a beginning of time when we have no control of our own physical beginning or end?

We are offended by incongruity and need an explanation for everything when none really exists. Therefore we enter into a social contract that at best, allows us to follow an established set of rules to ensure harmony. Some operate outside of the imaginary lines. We label them criminals and confine them to spaces where they can exist apart from the “law abiding.” Yet we all live just outside the collective boundaries in our personal existence. None of us share identical experiences, supporting the assertion that common sense does not exist, but our need to establish order dictates that we force ourselves into believing it does.

We have no control of time or authority over how others choose to pass it, but we can still attempt to control how we show up. Basing that on how we are perceived by others is certainly permissible, but must still produce some degree of personal satisfaction. The apostle, Paul, wrote in his epistle to the church of Phillipi “I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need,” He could affirm his satisfaction in any circumstance, with secure faith in Christ to make all things possible. I share the same. Faith in my higher power gets me through each day. I learned long ago that I do nothing without assistance.

Going forward I resolve to continue walking in humility, appreciative to the universe for allowing my brief existence in this particular state of consciousness; to be always aware that each moment is a gift and make every action acknowledge the gift. I am grateful to and for the moment, humbled by its awesome greatness to be present for me in addition to countless others. I am shocked and saddened by the audacity of anyone who feels entitled, walking with assurance and not hope that the moment will pass for them. Don’t they realize people who had moments yesterday lack them today? Their ignorance loudly proclaims ingratitude. It’s an abomination committed by so many against not just the moment, but also other gifts from the universe.

I am reminded of experience shared with me by a friend who recently encountered a celebrity. While at concert he noticed the person of note, occupying the adjacent box.

“Excuse me, are you (insert name here)?” his companion politely inquired.

The celebrity, a veteran soap opera actress, pointing to her cotton stuffed-ear, replied that she couldn’t hear and spent the rest of the evening, behaving as though she’d been insulted. It was a crushing disappointment to a fan that had long admired her work. While I respect the celebrity’s right to private moments, it cannot be expected they will occur in a public setting.

The decision to pursue a life in the public eye must include an acceptance and appreciation for recognition, but so often humility departs with the acquisition of fame. The famous should be constantly humbled, not by their greatness for we all possess the capacity for greatness beyond our imagination, but by the fact that anyone notices. To have one’s work acknowledged indicates that perhaps it’s worthy of appreciation and should inspire a worker’s sincere gratitude. A performing artist’s income and longevity rely upon public recognition. When folks stop checking, you are officially no longer hot. It makes sense to appreciate the loyalty of fans who tune in everyday to watch your post-menopausal ass play a blind, pregnant woman. I’m just saying.

Ideally, ours should be a society of mutual admiration and appreciation, but collectively we fail to admire or appreciate the planet for sustaining life. In 2011 we need to get GRATEFUL!

Christmastime is Here: My Christmas Play List

2010-11-29T04:36:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember there has always been music and it has always been synonymous with the holiday season. My heart is lifted the very first time I hear a favorite playing in a department store or supermarket. I will sit with that Yule log as if burning embers will fly from the television set and ignite the rug. Without music Christmas would be a different holiday for me.

To mark the season I have compiled a few of my favorites and made them available for all to download and enjoy. I encourage you to go out and purchase these for your holiday collection. In the meanwhile if you like my list, email me and I will reply with a link to where you can download it.

The Christmas Song – Nat ‘King’ Cole

Aunt Sarah absolutely loved Nat Cole. She could tell wonderful stories of hearing his trio play at New York hot spots in her youth. I imagine she must have been distraught when he died of cancer in 1965 because she would drop the needle on the record and cry as if she’d lost her best friend. Then again, it didn’t take much to set her off. She would cry if she were glad to see you. For years, she never opened gifts in front of the giver. It’s rumored that she would wait until she was alone and cry over the thoughtfulness and generosity of each one. I always think of her when anything from the album plays.

Christmastime is Here – The Vince Guaraldi Trio

I love Charlie Brown’s Christmas. My favorite part is when Linus uses his blanket for a tree skirt. The entire soundtrack is classic. This song is my favorite.

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year – Andy Williams

This is the tune that makes me ignore the hustle and bustle of the season. It makes me more patient when someone cuts in front of me on line or is in “12 items or less” with groceries for the year.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas – McCoy Tyner

This is actually one of my favorite songs to sing. I nail it every time. As a child I always wanted my entire family home for Christmas. My grandparents were always so happy when everyone was together. So was I.

My Favorite Things – Al Jarreau featuring Kathleen Battle

Despite her reputation for being a most difficult diva, I adore Kathleen Battle. I’ve had the privilege of seeing three of her live performances. She’s a perfectionist and it’s apparent each time she opens her mouth. I imagine this session with Jarreau, another perfectionist was something to behold.

Our First Christmas – Maureen McGovern

McGovern has one of the most glorious voices with an insane range. Her holiday collection, long out of print, was a gift to me from my pal, Joey. I have played this CD so that my player no longer accepts it. This particular song is my favorite.

What A Wonderful Time – Yolanda Adams

Bouncy and joyous, this song displays the versatility of Yolanda Adams and presents her in a way she’s never seen; with a large swing band. It makes me want to hear her sing jazz standards in a smoky room. Imagine that!

Christmas Medley – The Swingle Singers

Two of my favorite tunes, Carol of the Bells and O Sanctissima frame this medley by one of the most amazing acapella groups of all time. The second is actually the first song I learned to play on piano.

That’s What I Want For Christmas – Nancy Wilson

I’m a Nancy Wilson fan because of my cousin, Philomena. She introduced us when I was about three years old and I’ve loved her since. Anytime I hear Nancy, I think of Philomena. What a wonderful association.

Medley: Let it Snow, Count Your Blessings, We Wish You a Merry Christmas – The Ray Conniff Singers

This group was a favorite of elevator travelers for most of the Twentieth Century. I believe my grandmother and I picked up this album at a garage sale in Rumson, New Jersey when I was about 8 or 9 years old. It became one of my favorites.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas – Ella Fitzgerald

Presented by Judy Garland in one of my favorite films, Meet Me in St Louis, this song has been covered by just about everyone. I like the way Ella swings it.

This Christmas – Donny Hathaway

It’s not Christmas in any black neighborhood until you hear it.

Give Love on Christmas Day – Ledisi

One of the most amazing vocalists I’ve encountered in my lifetime, Ledisi made me extremely happy when she released her holiday collection.

Christmas Waltz – Frank Sinatra

Another holiday song that I put my own special stank on, Sinatra does it justice and makes me want to sing along.

This is the Season – Rahsaan Patterson

Patterson is another truly gifted vocalist I’ve stumbled upon during my journey. I’m not enamored of his entire collection, but I’ve included two of my favorites.

Caroling, Caroling – Nat King Cole

Silver Bells – The Supremes

My Aunt Jane made ours a Motown household. Not just at Christmas, but anytime the family gathered there had to be some Motor City sounds. You should see her dance to Hitch Hike. It’s a treat.

Sleigh Ride – The Ray Conniff Singers

Last Christmas – Wham

This contemporary song became a classic when it appeared on Music From the Edge of Heaven in 1986. I love to hear it.

White Christmas – Clyde McPhatter and the Drifters

Most folks first heard this while watching Home Alone. Aunt Sarah introduced me to Clyde McPhatter back in the 70s.

Jingle Bells? – Barbra Streisand

Nothing tickles me more than the little Jewish girl singing Christmas carols. This twist on an old favorite is a Christmas classic yet so very Hebrew.

Jingle Bell Rock – Bobby Helms

For some reason I always associate this song with J.J. Newberry in Long Branch, New Jersey. They used to have a lunch counter and uniformed waitresses with updos. Marie, Ms. Pearl and Ms. Gloria were on hand to make your shopping experience a pleasure and make sure you didn’t pilfer from the candy aisle.

Christmas Baby Please Come Home – Various Artists

Some of the most amazing artists have leaned against Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound. Darlene Love leads this song featuring all of Spector’s discoveries.

O Tannenbaum – Nat King Cole

Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree – Brenda Lee

When I hear this song, visions of decorated trailer parks and truck stops dance in my head.

Father Christmas – The Kinks

When I sold trendy clothing with Steven Isaac at Merry Go Round at the long-defunct Seaview Square Mall, built on a landfill in Ocean Township, New Jersey, this song was part of the holiday play list sent from the home office in Joppa, MD. That mall was responsible for the death of Asbury Park, NJ, where we used to do a lot of Christmas shopping way back in the day.

Christmas Wrapping – The Waitresses

Another selection from the Merry Go Round play list.

Wonderful Christmastime – Rahsaan Patterson

Originally recorded by Paul McCartney in 1979, this has become a popular holiday classic. I really like Rah’s rendition.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town – The Jackson Five

Again, Christmas in the hood would be incomplete. RIP MJ.

Santa Baby – Eartha Kitt

Madonna be damned! Here is the originator and the innovator. Kitt purrs this tune like the greatest little gold digger that ever breathed. Even Mrs. Clause had to wonder if Santa tasted this tart on the side.

Frosty The Snowman – The Ray Conniff Singers

I sat and watched Frosty and Frosty Returns the other night on the floor and for a minute thought I was in my grandparent’s den on Sixth Avenue. I wonder what ever happened to that beat up console we watched for years.

Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer – The Temptations

Aunt Jane loves her Temptations. She can identify lead singers and cheers them on as if they are giving a private concert in her living room.

The Chipmunk Song – The Clark Sisters

It’s not Alvin, Theodore and Simon, but the sensational Clark Sisters have fun with this Christmas classic from their new Christmas CD. When they start screaming for Alvin, I always imagine they’re calling Jackie.

Amen – The Impressions

Aunt Jane loves her Impressions as much as her Temptations. I always remember this from the greatest hits album that we had when I was a kid.

Celebrate – John P. Kee

Jesus is the reason for the season and no one can call on him like a Kee choir, especially his screaming sopranos. “Let us rejoice! Let’s Celebrate!”

Emmanuel – Norman Hutchins

I first heard this at Clear View Baptist Church in Irvington, NJ by the choir under the direction of Yolanda Grice (Lil’ Twinkie). I instantly made it part of my holiday must-haves. Thanks David Jones!

O Come Emmanuel – The Clark Sisters

Adeste Fideles – Nat King Cole

A Star Stood Still (Song of the Nativity) – Mahalia Jackson

Mahalia Jackson’s Silent Night: Songs For Christmas, my mother’s favorite Christmas collection was played to death in our house. I wore out two copies by myself. Sometimes my grandmother would sing these songs and I would wonder why she wasn’t famous. She has an amazing voice. I didn’t think anyone but me knew until my cousin, Jeanette, commented.

Mary Had A Baby – Kathleen Battle

I’ve loved this song since Pam Singleton sang it at a Long Branch High School holiday concert in 1980. Kathleen makes me love it even more. The last note sends me right to heaven.

Medley: O Holy Night; We Three Kings; Deck The Hall – The Ray Conniff Singers

Who Would Imagine A King – Whitney Houston

The Bishop’s Wife was one of my favorite holiday movies growing up so I had to love The Preacher’s Wife. Whitney may be no actress, but she sang her wig off on every track.

A Child Is Born/Some Children See Him – Maureen McGovern

O Little Town of Bethlehem – Sister Rosetta Tharpe

Tharpe was willing to cross the line between sacred and secular by performing inspirational music in nightclubs and concert halls. Her style has been characterized as “witty and idiosyncratic.” Though many church folks found her offensive, she never let them deter her from singing the gospel. Here she sings one of my favorite songs to an entirely different melody.

Peace on Earth - Little Drummer Boy – Bing Crosby and David Bowie

Another holiday tradition from childhood was the Bing Crosby specials where he pimped his family and sang with popular artists of the day. This recording is from one of those specials.

Away In A Manger – Nat King Cole

Gracious Good Shepherd – Vanessa Williams

I’ve loved Ms. Williams since she sang Happy Days Are Here Again and was subsequently crowned the first African American Miss. America. Over the years she has continued to justify the crown taken from her over a youthful indiscretion. Her holiday collection is a favorite at my house.

I Wonder As I Wander – The New York Voices

Another song I heard at that Long Branch High School holiday concert, performed by the Madrigal Singers. This vocal quintet gives it jazz flavor.

I Saw Three Ships – Nat King Cole

I'll Go – Ledisi

Go Tell It On The Mountain – Mahalia Jackson

Jesus Oh What A Wonderful Child – Mariah Carey

On this track Mariah sounds like she was born and raised in somebody’s church. That is due to Melonie Daniels, one of her former background singers, who is church trained. Daniels can be heard all over this song.

Joy To The World – Whitney Houston

Ring Christmas Bells – The Ray Conniff Singers

Jesu, Joy Of Man's Desiring – Russ Freeman

From a cantata by Johann Sebastian Bach, this song, also heard at weddings, never fails to create a peaceful mood. Russ Freeman of The Rippingtons plays it beautifully on his guitar.

Do They Know It’s Christmas – Band Aid

The inspiration for We Are The World, a tune penned by Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie and performed by music royalty to raise relief and awareness of Ethiopian famine, Bob Geldof and Midge Ure wrote this song to benefit the same cause.

Do You Know It's Christmas – Maureen McGovern

Someday At Christmas – Stevie Wonder

Another song performed by every Motown artist on their Christmas album, Stevie’s is the best rendition.

Let There Be Peace On Earth (Let It Begin With Me) – Gladys Knight and the Pips

This is my grandmother’s favorite Christmas song. She tells wonderful stories of singing it as a child in Mount Vernon, Georgia.

The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire) – The Arthur Blythe Quartet

I just love Christmas jazz!

Christmas Time Is Here – The Vince Guaraldi Trio

Silent Night – The Temptations

Customer Disservice

2010-11-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

Whenever possible, I like to visit my neighborhood grocer around noon on any given weekday. By that time, they’ve put out the day-old bakery and I can get what I love at a fraction of the cost. Day-old bread toasts the same. I had a wise mother who taught me to stretch a dollar and get the most value from a supermarket, even if I have to bruise my own melon.

So last Thursday found me in my neighborhood at the magic hour. I ducked into Blankety-Blank for a quick peek and hit pay dirt. In addition to bread, there were English muffins, brownies, pies and one-quarter sheet cakes. I grabbed a loaf of multi-grain, a dozen brownies, a blueberry pie and a sheet cake because, for some strange reason, I love store-bought birthday cake.

With arms full I proceeded toward checkout and ran into Ms. Neicy, my downstairs neighbor. We share a fire escape, which each of us has used after letting the door slam behind us without keys. She had clearly gotten her support check because the cart was over packed and hard to push. Since I was in no particular hurry, I got on line with her so we could catch up.

I appreciate Blankety-Blank for a number of reasons. In addition to bakery, they do a similar price reduction with meat and bruised produce. Weekly sales are usually good, they keep the place clean and it’s only a four-minute walk from my house. I also love that they employ people with disabilities as baggers during peak hours. It improves their esteem, provides a sense of purpose and improves the flow of traffic.

As “Jacquie,” the cashier sent items down the belt, Bill, a legally blind gentleman, waited to grab and bag what he could see and feel around for what he couldn’t. As payment, Ms. Neicy presented three crisp Benjamins, getting in return twenty-two cents and a receipt that dragged the floor. She moved down to assist with bagging, not missing a beat in her narrative about the white woman who came to see the vacant apartment across from hers that morning.

“Becky was in the building,” she said, borrowing my terminology.

My bright smile turned to a look of disbelief as Jacquie picked up her cell phone and began to text. I look at Ms. Neicy, who just shook her head. We both jumped when the woman very loudly popped her gum.

“Excuse me. What are you doing?” I asked.

“Huh?” she said, looking at me like I was crazy.

“You could greatly speed this process by bagging,” I said, condescendingly.

“Sir, you can step down to express,” she said, impatiently and continued to text.

“Perhaps, but they can’t,” I said, acknowledging the line behind me.
“He likes to do it himself,” she motioned her head toward Bill, “and it IS why he’s here,” she said, rolling her eyes, earning what she was about to get.

“I’m sure he does,” I began. “He clearly takes HIS job seriously and he’s here to help the flow, not be your personal assistant. His presence does not change your job description”

“Look, sir,” she said, finally taking her attention from the phone, “you don’t work here and have no right to tell me how to do my job.”

That’s when my mouth and brain disconnected.

“No, I don’t work here, but I spend money here and that makes me more important. On some level you do work for me. I realize it’s not the best job, but had you better prepared, you might be doing something you enjoy.”

That’s when she got loud.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she screamed.

“Is there a problem?” the floor manager appeared from nowhere and began bagging before completing the question.

“Shawn, this man is trying to tell me how to do my job… you need to tell him something.”

“Or what…?” I asked, genuinely curious. I quickly explained to Shawn the situation from my perspective.

“I told him he could go to express or customer service,” she interjected.

By that time, Ms. Neicy’s groceries were bagged and in the cart. Shawn told Jacquie to ring me up, but directed the others in line to the next register. Bill stepped over to bag for that cashier. Jacquie was HEATED and threw my receipt in a show of protest. That’s when she was ordered to apologize and take her break. She stormed off without mumbling a word. Today, I'll check to see if she still works there.

Halloween Etiquette

2010-11-02T21:21:00.000-07:00

The older I get the more certain things annoy me. I hate calling a customer care center, only to reach someone with no clear command of the English language. Similarly, colloquial speech in professional settings also grinds my gears and I really can’t tolerate when people (myself included) ignore signs; not just directional symbols, but also the actions and behaviors of others. Keener observation would improve our lives exponentially, but that is another blog entry.

My current state of aggravation stems from my recent Halloween experience. It is probably my least favorite among all the holidays for a myriad of reasons. Unpredictable weather probably tops my list of most obvious reasons. The northeast already experiences all four seasons in one day, but autumn, like spring, which I call transitional periods, can kick up unpredictability several notches. As days grow shorter, limiting our exposure to the sun’s warming rays, we are seldom treated to a steady descent in temperature. Instead October 31 can find itself on any line of the thermometer. This year, the night temp did a nasty nose dive.

The more subtle reason for my lack of enthusiasm can be traced to early childhood when my grandparents’ utter disdain for the day became clear. Hard-working, extremely proud and unfamiliar with the ritual’s historic significance, all they saw were children begging, which was unacceptable.

“If these children want candy, we can afford to buy it,” my grandfather would grumble. It didn’t take long for me to embrace and adopt their attitude. While my preteen peers walked through the better neighborhoods, ringing bells, I gladly stayed home and watch television.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve also discovered society’s dependence on sugar and struggled with my own addiction. No doubt the childhood Halloween candy binge has produced a number of diabetic adults. I am a huge advocate for healthier snacks and applaud those who opt to hand them out in place of candy. However, those homes develop a reputation early in the day and experience a huge decline in foot traffic.

This year I was particularly disturbed by the disproportionate number of teenagers in poorly-planned, hastily constructed costume, soliciting treats. Not only were they too old, they were also aggressive and rude. While out getting some last-minute items for my own costume, I noticed several businesses along Church Avenue in Flatbush (Brooklyn, USA) handing out treats. While I think it’s a great way to thank their patrons with children, I have to wonder if it’s a wise business decision for establishments that sell candy to give it away. One creative Chinese take-out joint gave fortune cookies, which I thought was great.

“Who the #%*@ wants a fortune cookie?” yelled an ungrateful, poorly-costumed teen. From the bulging sack he held, it looked as though he’d been shaking down folks all day. I know if I’d found him on my door step, I’d have to wonder if he came for the Snickers or my DVD player. Of course Michelle Obama can flash a beatific smile as she passes out candy to a group of carefully-screened children, but how wide would that smile be if she happened upon Shaq, dressed as a Crip?

While I don’t believe Halloween is strictly for children, I do believe trick or treating is and if there is a question about whether your child is too old, here is a general rule of thumb. If they can no longer fit the children’s costumes in your local Walgreens, it is finished. Give up the ghost.

For The Graduate

2010-06-23T08:35:00.000-07:00

Blessed child,

I commend and congratulate you on satisfying the requirements of your high school to obtain your diploma and be accepted to college. I am extremely proud of you, but also grateful to God because I know what it took for you to reach this point. Not just on your part, but also those working on your behalf. You may never fully realize all the prayers and hopes that carried you from the womb to this moment.

Please accept with love the small gift I've sent to mark this occasion. It should by no means indicate the value I place on your accomplishment, but please know as small as it is, It doesn't come without sacrifice. Make sure you send me your address when you get to campus. Periodically, I will send a little blessing. Again, it won't be much, but it will come in handy. The occasional five dollar bill, sealed in a security envelope, by any one of my aunties kept me in clean laundry for three years.

I would be remiss if I didn't send you off with some sage advice from an elder. You are surrounded by and covered in love. We send you off to college with only the expectation that you accomplish the goal before you. I also expect you to make lifelong friends, take advantage of every opportunity for travel and have lots of fun. You may even have a boyfriend, but don't let anything deter you from the path set before you. It is not unusual for a woman to meet her future husband in college and many a candidate may pass your way, but accept this challenge. Think of a man that in your mind exemplifies a woman's ideal and raise the bar even higher. Allow a man to rise to your standards. Don't sink to his.

You may have needs and desires (make sure they're yours and not his... or hers. I don't judge... lol), HANDLE YOUR BUSINESS. You understand the implications and risks of unprotected sex. A baby is the least of your worries. You could die. Protect yourself and the life that so many have worked hard for you to have. While you won't die, an unplanned pregnancy can really throw you off course, making things difficult and uncomfortable. If it should happen, I support whatever your decision, recognizing your right to choose. However, also remember choosing a few simple items at the pharmacy can save you a lot of aggravation. Steering clear of temptation altogether is an even better look. Let me put it like your great-great auntie if that will help...

“If you ever let any of these nasty boys touch you, you will stink and everyone will know what you did and think you're a whore.”

Okay... maybe not, but it used to work on the middle school girls. Just weigh all your decisions, recognizing your life hangs in the balance. I pray that doesn't create too much pressure. Along with that here are some other tips that will lead to a pleasant and productive first year.

Be yourself, but know you are a work in progress.
With your roommate(s) decide what kind of environment you want to live in. (I suggest you designate your room a sleep and study zone)
Establish good study habits. Don't seek distractions until you do.
Be nice to people, even if they're not nice to you.
Smile a lot and make an effort to always remember names.
Network and meet people in positions to help you (march yourself into the President's office and announce you'd like to introduce yourself)
Become friendly with the people in Admissions, Financial Aid and Student Affairs. They can make or break the entire experience.
Don't go home every weekend
Don't eat too much. The freshman 15 is real and your back porch does not need an extension!

More will follow as it comes to me, but remember I love you and am here as a resource.

Godspeed!

The Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal pages 72-84

2010-06-12T06:36:00.000-07:00

The Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal pages 58-70

2010-06-10T03:25:00.000-07:00

The Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal, pages 50-57

2010-06-10T01:03:00.000-07:00

The smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal, pages 40-49

2010-06-09T15:52:00.000-07:00

Got Me Some Angels Watching Over Me

2010-05-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

I clearly remember the first day I tied my shoes without any help. My mom had struggled for weeks with lessons of looping and pulling. Each day I would try, become frustrated, and she would come to my aid. Then one day she decided I would not leave the house until I got it right. I walked around the house all day with no shoes on. Then I heard my aunt toot her horn, which signaled a ride to the grocery store, Monmouth Shopping Center or Atlantic Superama.

I threw on my Buster Brown brogans and raced for the door, laces flying. I even got outside, but Dobby got ahead of me, blocking the car door. Also anxious to go, she waited for me to do what she knew I could. After a few fumbled attempts I got it right and on her face I saw a look of relief, pride and satisfaction. To me, it was a look of love. I imagine she wore that look the first time I used the potty and took my first steps; each time I performed a function that signaled independence.

On March 17, 2009 my dear mother slipped into eternity, leaving me to navigate life without the benefit of her physical presence. On this, the second Mother’s Day since her departure, I pause to reflect on what an amazing gift she gave me. Though she gave me life, that selfless act was not her greatest gift. Any female with functional plumbing can produce a baby. They do it every day and some walk away from the bundle, like any load of soiled laundry, which is the kindest, most loving act some can perform.

The truly great mothers (like mine) stick around long enough to leave their children with something that comforts them and enriches their lives, even when Mother is gone. Mine gave me the gift of friendship and taught me to be a friend to others by recognizing, treasuring and caring for the special people we encounter on our journey. She had a heart as big as all outdoors and gave of herself without hesitation, but there were so many others.

I grew up surrounded by mothers… a village of them. Because women dominated my family, Mother’s Day was a very festive and busy Sunday filled with calls and visits. As far back as I can recall, the preceding days were spent in dime stores, purchasing thoughtful trinkets that were always received with exaggerated joy and sincere appreciation. I’m sure they giggled amongst themselves at the dishcloths and useless bric-a-brac, but they made me feel like I had given diamonds. Over the years, the number of calls, visits and trinkets purchased has dwindled as so many special mothers have transitioned. I pause to celebrate a few who continue to nurture and guide me.

I called my great-aunt, Zora Auntie (ant ti’). Most of my family did, even her sisters. She was a pioneer… the first in our family to join the Great Migration from the South. Her residence at 26 Grant Court in Long Branch, NJ was a way station; a portal through which so many passed on their journey to increased opportunity and prosperity. I was only three years old when she passed. My most vivid memories are of visits to her Plainfield apartment when she was dying from cancer. Even in her illness, she was kind, gracious, appreciative, and there was always something good to eat in her house. We had so little time together, but her impact on my family is so great, that I am affected. I cherish her recipes for Banana Pudding and Pineapple Upside-down Cake, but wish I could have learned to make her famous dinner rolls.

On Sixth Avenue in Long Branch, there was a pink bungalow where Mattie Watkins provided daycare for a generation of children whose parents worked outside of the home. Her care extended far beyond professional boundaries and the traditional workday. Though not related, we called her Aunt Mattie. Our front doors faced each other and her home was an extension of my own. I could sit in her kitchen and expect to be fed, march up her stairs and fall asleep and get a good spanking, just like I could across the street. Though I was raised a Baptist, I was allowed to accompany Aunt Mattie and her family to the Refreshing Springs Holy Temple Church Of God In Christ, where I learned to cut a step and worship God in the beauty of holiness.

Aunt Frankie was my great- aunt from New York. She visited us on summer holidays and always arrived with gifts. She sent the first birthday card I ever received by mail and never failed to remember the day. When we visited her apartment on Long Island, she would put out a sumptuous spread replete with entrees and appetizers. I relished her chopped chicken liver pate and learned to prepare the tuna egg salad she served on thin water crackers. She was elegant and regal, belying the fact that she was merely a domestic. She taught me to walk proudly despite my circumstance, always exercise discretion, and be gracious.

Above the garage behind the house where I grew up, lived my sweet and sensitive, great-aunt, Sarah. Her contribution to my character is unquestionable. Entrusting her nine-month old son to my grandmother’s care, she left home, seeking a fortune she willingly shared with any family member in need. Her generosity is as legendary as her ability to save and stretch a dollar. She loved to dance and on many a Saturday night she would fire up the record player and cut a step. She cultivated my sweet tooth with Sarah Lee pound cake, vanilla ice cream and a wide assortment of candies. Because of her, I’m a thrifty shopper, but she also showed me how to love without condition, cry unashamedly, dance like no one is watching and marinate chicken with Lawry’s before frying.

Fearless is the word I use most when describing my great-aunt, Letha. She didn’t go searching for a fight, but if one came knocking, she met the challenge with enthusiasm. In her own words she was “a bitch” in Mount Vernon, the tiny Georgia town she left after slapping a white woman when lynching was common practice.

“Letha was terrible!” my grandmother recalls, disdainfully shaking her head. “We were always scared they were coming to get her.”

Women and men alike gave wide berth, as she was adept with a shotgun and was known to carry a razor. She was our protector and matriarch, a natural leader. Her announcements that we were going to do something always met with compliance. Because of her I stand for my beliefs with conviction, will tell your head a mess when provoked and bake a caramel cake that will rot your teeth.

“We had our real mommas and our play mommas…”

Jackie Washington in Jackie’s Back, 1999

Roz Thompson Andrews was my play momma. She had a wonderful habit of calling everyone, “Baby” and addressing me as “Son.” She knew me from the cradle but, actively stepped into my life when I begin working on the psychiatric ward where she dispensed medication. Despite being a “big girl,” she moved about with a swagger that said, “I am remarkable!” She taught me to love myself with all my perceived deficiencies and not to apologize for or live in shame of who I am. For the sanctimonious and narrow of mind she offered a hearty, “F*#K ‘EM," with a beatific smile that lit dark corners and warmed hardened hearts. Because of her I know few strangers, reserve no judgment and bake a great quick ziti. For that I am thankful.

I am blessed that so many mothers walked through my life and blessed my journey before moving on. The list is endless. At certain times I sense their presence, just as I do my own mother, looking down with hope as I tie my shoes.

Katie Abel	Leslie Accoo	Doretha Adams
Elizabeth Adams	Savannah Adam-Collins	Elaine Alston
Frances Alston	Mary Anderson	Dorothy Bartee Richardson
Juanita Bennett Mills	Rebecca Blanton	Rebecca Bolds
Rebecca Bottoms	Dorothy Brabham	Judy Brabham
Joan Bradley	Marguerite Buffaloe	Gladys Buntin
Adrienne Burke	Rebecca Bynum	Theresa Byrd
Mary Champs	Roberta Chapman	Ruth Chatman
Susie Chatman	Bernice Cheek	Violet Childres
Willie Mae Clark	Lucille Clayton	Stephanie Corbett
Brenda Covin	Ella Covin Betts	Jackie Covin
Theresa Covington	Pecoloa Coward	Lucille Daniels
Barbara Day	Barbara Ann Dickerson	Lillian Dunn
Betty Ann Edwards	Idele Edwards	Anabel Elmore
Mary Farrow	Ella “Mae” Fisher	Josephine Foster
Dorothy Gaskin	Clara Gibson	Katherine Greenwood
Ernestina Gugliotta	Rominta Hankins	Pam Harper
Adelle Harrell	Coretha Harris	Willie Bea Harris
Janie Ruth Haynes	Marian Henson	Hazeltine Holland
Delores Holmes	Mary Horton	Margaret Houston-Bey
Ruby Bey	Katie Hunter	Roberta Hurst
Clara Isaac	Jeanette James	Frances Jones
Georgia Jones	Roxie Jones	Gladys Jowers
Carrie Bell Kinsey	Lelia Lawrence	Adelaide Lewis
Joanne Lewis	Nancy Lewis	Margaret McCain
Alberta McClendon	Sarah McGee	Vernice McGee
Thelma McRae	Sally Mendoza	Gertrude Middleton
Dorothy “Bootsie” Mooney	Marie Gardner Mooney	Mary Jo Morgan
Christine Morris	Sarah Morris	Dorothy Murray
Loretta Newman	Susie Newson	Barbara Penha
Fannie Puryear	Betty Janie Randell	Pauline Rawls
Mildred Ray	Edith Reed	Easter Reeves
Jessie Reeves	Joan Reeves	Ozella Richardson
Joan Ann Robinson	Sallie Mae Robinson	Sandra “Tish” Robinson
Zellene Robinson	Joyce Sartor	Alice Schlenger
Donna Shaw	Flossie Smiley	Elsie Smith
Louise Snell	Rudeen Snell	Alice Staten
Queenie Staten	Blanche Stephens	Barbara Stokes
Martha Taylor	Minnie Thomas	Pauline Thomas
Georgia Thorne	Mary Alma Tigner	Connie Walker
Victoria Walker	Agnes Wall	Julia Wheeler
Alma White	Ernestine Whitehead	Karen Williams

The Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal, pages 17-39

2010-04-30T08:26:00.001-07:00

The Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal, pages 1-16

2010-04-29T09:20:00.000-07:00

Click on images to enlarge.

The Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal

2010-04-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

On April 24, 1982, at the Washington, DC home of Ann Robinson Jones a committee formed with Selerya Moore at the helm. Its purpose: to compile pertinent data concerning Smart Robinson, Jr. and his entire clan in a written history. These proud descendants of the former slave and Georgia landowner set out on a two-year journey to build a lasting monument to the man and preserve his legacy for future generations.

Relying heavily on a very rich oral history, committee members gathered data from county, state and federal records. Family Bibles, scrapbooks and photo albums would also yield vital information and treasured mementos to be included in the finished project. Each assumed the role of census field workers, performing family head counts, in a lofty attempt to document the descendants of Smart, Sr.

Ms. Moore and her dedicated staff made every effort to create a thorough, authentic and complete record. As with most projects of its magnitude there were some errors and omissions. My grandmother and her sisters always maintained that their grandfather sired twenty-one children, but census records list only 18. They also told a hushed story about a daughter of Smart, Sr. and Sarah Robinson, who bore children for their master, then-Georgia governor, George Michael Troup. According to the legend, Troup’s jealous wife allegedly poisoned one of the children. With no confirming data, this story was not included. However, another story provided similar drama and intrigue. A passage taken from the book, Georgia’s Landmarks, Memorials and Legends, pp. 888-890, mentions a particular incident involving Smart Robinson, Sr. (note that spelling of the last name, changed by Smart, Sr. after emancipation)

Shortly before the Governor’s death a message from the overseer on the Mitchell Place, William Bridges, announced an unruly disposition on the part of a certain Negro slave. With his faithful coachman, the aged governor was soon at the lower plantation, thirty-five miles from Valdosta. On reaching the Mitchell place, fatigued by the hurried trip, the governor became ill and five days later brought the end. He was removed from his residence, nearby, long since decayed, and tenderly cared for at the home of Overseer Bridges, where he died on April 26, 1856. Smart Roberson, a colored slave, was mounted on a spirited young horse and dispatched to Glynn County to bear the sad tidings. Before reaching his destination, the steed was overtaxed by his rider’s haste and fell by the wayside. Faithful Smart, undaunted, pressed on by foot and delivered his message.

The Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal was published in time for our 1984 annual meeting and distributed at a cost of $10 per copy to cover printing costs. Over nearly three decades it has been a constant source of pride and inspiration. Despite errors and omissions, it remains a great reference tool for genealogical research, but it is long overdue for a second printing. Since this data was compiled, the Robinson clan has changed dramatically with marriages, births and deaths, also the unexpected discovery of a brother, separated during Slavery from Smart, Sr.

At our annual meeting in Valdosta on August 13-15, 2009 I plan to call for the formation of a committee to coordinate the second printing of the Smart Robinson, Sr. Family Journal. In the interim, I will act as editor until an official body is in place. With the advent of the Internet we have increased and improved access to information and statistical data. In the coming days I will post pages from the existing journal and ask that everyone with access contribute and share their knowledge as I begin the editorial process.

Members of the original Smart Robinson, Jr. Family Journal Committee:

Fred Douglas Baker	Bessie Robinson
Ann Boatwright Thomas	Charles Robinson
A. Louise Bratton	Dalton Robinson
Rhodeva Calhoun	Emmett Marty Robinson
Jeannette James	Eva Mae Robinson
Willie Pearl King	John Robinson
Ada Mae Mackey	Letha Robinson
Vergilene McDonald	Lovette Robinson
Lavader Moore	Rachel Robinson
Selerya O. Moore	Verdell Robinson
Sellers Moore	Wallace Robinson
James E. Powers	Frances Stephens
Sharon Redfern	Onie B. Strong-Hill
Nellie Rice	Athalee Troup-Jordan
Ann Robinson Jones	Mabel Williams
Bernice Robinson	Joyce Wise

In Tribute: Aunt Sarah (Reposted)

2010-03-30T02:04:00.000-07:00

We are led to believe that in order to teach, one must hold a degree, which is a great falsehood. I have studied under some of the world’s most celebrated scholars at some of the finest institutions in the country, yet the greatest, most practical lessons came to me just beyond my back door.

I remember when my Aunt Sarah was planning her move to the garage apartment behind our house. I was there when she walked through with, Mr. Morgan, her contractor. I couldn’t have been more than three years old, but I clearly recall how, with authority, she led him to each room, specifying her wishes and at the end, reached into an envelope and gave him the cash to get started. He wrote a receipt, which she placed in the envelope from which she pulled the cash. That was probably my first, though not last lesson in Accounting.

Aunt Sarah was extremely meticulous with her finances and could account for each dollar. With formal education, she might have been one of the great financial minds of her time. She possessed an entrepreneurial spirit and an innate ability to make money grow. In addition to four passbooks (that I knew of) she kept three lines of cash: two from employment earnings and one from investments. Each quarter she would send me to her banks to find out the accrued interest on her accounts, by which I learned percentages. In addition, I would make deposits. She would call me over having already counted an amount and completed a deposit slip. I would count the money again in front of her. Sometimes it would be over or under, which at the time, I attributed to mistakes in calculation. I soon came to see those “mistakes” for the tests she intended them to be.

Indirectly, these bank runs reiterated the concept of emergency management. One day she counted out $1,500 in a neat stack and placed the deposit slip on top, but there remained three other stacks of crisp bills that amounted to $8,500. I asked about depositing the larger sum to which she replied, “I need to keep something in the house.” I understood and appreciated her need to be prepared for anything, especially after having been a passenger on the road trip where our three-car caravan was detained for speeding. It was Aunt Sarah, who was able to reach into her purse and pay the fine, allowing our trip to continue.

She also made an infinite number of successful investments through her broker, the New Jersey Sports and Exposition Authority. She loved the ponies and never lost a dime at the track. Contrary to what the pious and judgmental believe, Aunt Sarah did not gamble. Gambling has a specific economic definition, referring to wagering money or something of material value on an event of uncertain outcome and she didn’t deal in uncertainties, especially where money was concerned.

For several years, she worked for and traveled with Harry M. Stevens, who operated concessions at racetracks along the east coast. During that time, through observation, she mastered the practice of handicapping, a method by which spectators, through the collection and analysis of data can predict and quantify the results of a race, thereby removing the uncertainty. Sarah didn’t bet on horses. She crunched numbers and values to determine an outcome. She even calculated what she would earn, based on her determination She explained it to me when I was about twelve years old and that alone helped me pass Graduate Statistics two decades later.
Even before that, I learned fractions through the simple process of greasing her scalp. She taught me to work in sections, dividing the head first into quarters, subsequently dividing each quarter to result in the equal application of Ultra Sheen to the whole scalp.

In addition to the Applied Sciences, she also offered Social Sciences and Humanities. History lessons began with the period immediately prior to the United States joining World War II. Through engaging lectures she painted a vivid picture of the depression-era south. With even greater clarity, she recounted the story of her migration north by way of Pittsburgh and then New York, describing the conditions by which colored people were forced to live.

Music Appreciation was extremely lively as she danced the rumba to the sounds of Xavier Kugat. She introduced me to the vocal styling of Nat King Cole, Sam Cooke, Dinah Washington, Clarence Carter and the Isleys. Some Saturday nights, we would spin records late into the evening as she cultivated my sweet tooth with vanilla ice cream cones and slices of pound cake by Sara Lee, a company I believed she owned until I was old enough to know better.

I also learned Linguistics, particularly the concept of code switching, which refers to using more than one language or variety in conversation. By noting the difference in the way she spoke to her employers, and us I learned professional speech. I wasn’t able to put a name to it until I took advanced classes in Speech Communication. Colloquially we refer to it as “slipping into Becky.”

She also ran a writing lab where I practiced penmanship and grammar by composing and addressing holiday greetings. She took great pride in the praise of her employers for my penmanship. Eventually she allowed others to address her holiday cards, except those for the Sague Family. Without any prompting, I sent those greetings every year without fail. I will continue the practice until I can no longer hold a pen.

Perhaps the greatest lessons learned were through examples of faith, benevolence, trust and unconditional love, which she practiced with everyone dear to her. To me she gave an extra measure. She thought I could do no wrong, even when I messed up. She believed there was absolutely nothing I couldn’t do. The feeling was entirely mutual.

Unbeknownst to her, she taught college level classes to everyone with whom she made contact, without advanced degrees or certificates. She watched, learned and shared. I’m so grateful.

On Monday, October 13, 2008 Aunt Sarah closed her eyes and drifted into eternal sleep to join her husband, Cecil M. Bell; her daughter, Cecilia Ann Robinson; her parents, Frank and Rachel Sanford Robinson; her siblings, Sanford Robinson, Celia Robinson, Zora Mae Austin, Lester Robinson, Joseph Robinson and Frankie Mae Warren.

She leaves a legacy of love to her son, Emmett Marty Robinson; her sisters, Letha, Viola, Iola, and Beulah Robinson and Essie Snell; her grandchildren, Kim Ford, Shanay Walker, and Marcus Robinson; her great-grandchildren, Jeremiah Thompson and Soleil Walker; her great great granddaughter, Anastasia Thompson; and a host of nieces, nephews, cousins and friends.

Her physical presence may be gone from us, but her spirit, wisdom and love she shared will remain with us always.

The Greatest Voice of My Time

2010-03-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

March 27 marks the 86th anniversary of the birth of the Divine Sarah Vaughan, Jazz's greatest diva. Jazz critic Leonard Feather called her "the most important singer to emerge from the bop era." Ella Fitzgerald called her the world’s "greatest singing talent." During the course of a career that spanned nearly fifty years, she was the singer’s singer, influencing everyone from Mel Torme to Anita Baker. She was among the musical elite identified by their first names. She was simply Sarah, Sassy -- the incomparable Sarah Vaughan.

Born in Newark, New Jersey, in 1924, Vaughan was immediately surrounded by music: her carpenter father was an amateur guitarist and her laundress mother was a church vocalist. Young Sarah studied piano from the age of seven, and before entering her teens had become an organist and choir soloist at the Mount Zion Baptist Church. When she was eighteen, friends dared her to enter the famed Wednesday Night Amateur Contest at Harlem’s Apollo Theater. She gave a sizzling rendition of "Body and Soul," and won first prize. In the audience that night was the singer Billy Eckstine. Six months later, she had joined Eckstine in Earl Hines’s big band along with jazz legends Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker.

When Eckstine formed his own band soon after, Vaughan wentwith him. Others including Miles Davis and Art Blakey, were eventually to join the band as well. Within a year, however, Vaughan wanted to give a solo career a try. By late 1947, she had topped the charts with "Tenderly," and as the 1940s gave way to the 1950s, Vaughan expanded her jazz repertoire to include pop music. As a result, she enlarged her audience, gained increased attention for her formidable talent, and compiled additional hits, including the Broadway show tunes "Whatever Lola Wants" and "Mr. Wonderful." While jazz purists balked at these efforts, no one could deny that in any genre, Vaughan had one of the greatest voices in the business.

In the late 1960s, Vaughan returned to jazz music, performing and making regular recordings. Throughout the 1970s and '80s she recorded with such jazz notables as Oscar Peterson, Louie Bellson, Zoot Sims, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Don Cherry, and J.J. Johnson. Her recordings of the "Duke Ellington Song Book (1 and 2)" are considered some of the finest recordings of the time. While for many years her signature song had been "Misty," by the mid-70’s, she was closing every show with Sondheim’s "Bring In The Clowns." In 1982, while in her late fifties, Vaughan won the Grammy for Best Jazz Vocalist for her album, "Gershwin Live"!

While she continued to work without the massive commercial success enjoyed by colleagues such as Peggy Lee, Rosemary Clooney, and Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan consistently retained a special place in the hearts of fellow musicians and audiences alike. She continually performed at top venues, playing to adoring sell-out crowds well into her sixties. Remarkably, unlike many singers, she lost none of her extraordinary talent as time went on. Her multi-octave range, with its swooping highs and sensual lows, and the youthful suppleness of her voice shaded by a luscious timbre and executed with fierce control, all remained intact. In 1990, at the age sixty-six, Sarah Vaughan passed away. Shortly after her death, Mel Torme summed up the feelings of all who had seen her, saying "She had the single best vocal instrument of any singer working in the popular field." From PBS American Masters

I first became aware of the melodious voice when I was 12 years old. There was always music in my house and I would listen to everything. My grandmama and 'nem would go to garage sales in ritual fashion and someone would always bring back a stack of vinyl record albums. The Lonely Hours, one of Sarah Vaughan's Roulette recordings showed up in one of those stacks. It became my one of my favorites. It was with that recording that I learned to sing. I can truly say that Sarah Vaughan taught me now to breathe. Over the years I collected other recordings, mostly through the stacks at garage sales. Still, it was something I listened to at home... in secret.

I first heard Sarah Vaughan away from home in my Aunt Jane's basement when I was about 19. My late Uncle Charles was a jazz fan and would spend hours listening to his favorite recordings over scotch and cigarettes. He would tell wonderful stories about live performances. He also introduced me to After Hours, the quintessential Sarah Vaughan recording. She is accompanied only by piano, bass and rhythm guitar. It's one of the sexiest albums you will ever hear. After hearing that I began my bi-annual pilgrimages to New York's famed Blue Note supper club for Sassy's regularly scheduled appearances. I was blessed to see her a total of twelve times before she died on April 3, 1990.

At the time of her passing I owned over 30 of her recordings. Though she died in Los Angeles, she was returned to her native Newark, New Jersey to be eulogized at Mount Zion Baptist Church and laid to rest near her father in Bloomfield's Glendale Cemetery. Devoted fan that I am, I attended the funeral and continue to drop by her grave periodically, just to show love. It's the least I can do.

"Though she was neither as iconic as Billie or as universally loved as Ella, 'Sassy' was possibly the most technically gifted jazz singer of all time. Her incredible vocal range coupled with a daring improvisational ability made her a favourite with Dizzy Gillespie and Earl Hines. She died too early but remains an influence on singers from Dianne Reeves to Anita Baker."
From BBC Music.

On This Date

2010-03-17T02:49:00.000-07:00

On March 17, 2009 my mother died. Not from lack of trying, I was among the last to learn, which is appropriate since it was the last thing I expected or wanted to hear. I vividly remember the call and the mental process that took place. I stepped into the pantry of my mind and began rummaging for things on the shelves. I pushed emotion to the side and gathered extra portions of rationality and practicality. I had already detached so all that was left was to grab the game face I kept near the front. Suited up, I made it through the week of ritual without a great deal of fuss.

The process was not new or unfamiliar. Over the years, I’d watched my grandfather. I marveled at the ease with which he went about the business of death. It was as routine as altering a pair of trousers. Just as I had watched and learned to stitch a cuff, I also learned the other thing. I first stepped into the pantry as paramedics worked on his lifeless body. I searched the shelves, compiling an invisible checklist and sprung to action once it was clear he would breathe no more. It’s a process I’ve repeated more times than I can count. Had I known I was also burying a little of myself each time, I may have done things differently.

With Aunt Sarah I became aware something was amiss. With little to do besides get to Georgia, I poured all my energy into arranging what I would say at her service. The process lulled me so completely; I was unprepared for the emotional break that gripped me at the church. I never even viewed her for the last time. Somehow, I realized that seeing her in death would put me in a place from which I could never return. I would have been shut up in that ebony box with her earthly remains. I wish I’d recognized it with Aunt Frankie. As she lay in the hospitable unable to breath on her own, I was so engrossed in “the process,” I calmly prepared and signed a statement pressing for her removal from life support. Disregarding how much I wanted her to live, I latched onto the reality that she wouldn’t care to live in that manner.

With a good deal of experience under my belt, the arrangements for my mother’s final disposition came together, but I was not completely present. Very little was done that she and I had discussed years before when death seemed so distant. Since she had failed to put in any of it in writing, I went in the direction with which the rest of the family was most comfortable. The rituals around death are for the living. The deceased has already done their part. In the finally analysis I knew that my mother only wanted everyone to gather and acknowledge she was here. We did that.

Kissing her dear face and closing that casket should have been the most difficult task of my life. It all happened too soon. She was supposed to age into one of those hip old ladies that young people like to be around. She was supposed to cheer at her grandchildren’s graduations and dance at their weddings. There were more Christmas trees to decorate and cheesecakes to make. So much was left for us to do, but I buried it all, choosing to adhere to “the process.”

Fearing reactions and the ultimate outcome I have failed to adequately grieve my losses. While attempting to appear confident and capable, I have made myself physically and emotionally ill. During the brief periods I allowed the wave to sweep over me, I’ve snatched myself together because no one likes a crybaby. I’ve grown angry, bitter and toxic to those who could care, distant to those who would and dishonored the memory of some phenomenal people; none of who would be happy, especially my mother. I believe they would all understand and forgive as I am learning to understand and forgive myself.

On this first anniversary of my mother’s passing I resolve to live well and fully. I’m going to pause before going into the pantry and when I do, I’m not going to move a damned thing. I plan to cry when I feel like it, sing when a song is on my lips and dance when the beat is hot. I hope others join me, but will understand if they don’t.

Prologue

2010-03-04T02:02:00.000-08:00

There is an old story about a preacher and deacon fishing. It has been told by so many so often that identifying an original author seems quite impossible. Perhaps fiction, though most likely not, it is undeniably legend.

On a footbridge spanning a narrow creek a preacher and his deacon fished. Every time brother deacon got a bite the fish would scatter and he would curse loudly.

“Brother, should you curse like that with me here,” the preacher admonished, “over some fish?”

The deacon agreed and they fished on with Brother Deacon losing more fish. Finally a really big one got away. The deacon, remembering the agreement, clamped his lips. He looked at his empty pole, but held his tongue. He looked toward the water in time to see that big fish tail break surface. Shaking his head, he turned to the preacher and remarked, “Reverend, something needs to be said.”

As I sit and consider the legendary, Letha, I can’t begin to arrange and order the grand words and lofty sentences to adequately and accurately tell her story or describe her grandeur. The mere mention of her name demands a response.

At this moment I am in turmoil. Her physical presence is gone from me, yet her spirit, love and wisdom remain and comfort me. My grief is not yet realized, but it won’t last long because I must celebrate she was here at all. There will be moments of heartache during which I will cry for missing her, but the fine memories she made will stir my soul to gladness.

She blessed and graced my life. I can’t keep it to myself and look forward to telling the world. She loved the hymn, My Faith Looks Up To Thee. Reflecting on her extraordinary life, I understand why. You will too.

My faith looks up to Thee,
Thou Lamb of Calvary, Savior divine!
Now hear me while I pray, take all my guilt away,
O let me from this day be wholly Thine!
May Thy rich grace impart
Strength to my fainting heart, my zeal inspire!
As Thou hast died for me, O may my love to Thee,
Pure warm, and changeless be, a living fire!
While life’s dark maze I tread,
And griefs around me spread, be Thou my Guide;
Bid darkness turn to day, wipe sorrow’s tears away,
Nor let me ever stray from Thee aside.
When ends life’s transient dream,
When death’s cold sullen stream over me roll;
Blest Savior, then in love, fear and distrust remove;
O bear me safe above, a ransomed soul!
Text: Ray Palmer, 1808-1887
Music: Lowell Mason, 1792-1872
Tune: OLIVET, Meter: 664.6664

Obituary

2010-02-20T16:06:00.000-08:00

G. E. ELECTRIC MIXER

AGE 5 BROOKLYN

G. E. Electric Mixer, 5, of the Flatbush Section of Brooklyn, passed away suddenly Friday, February 19, in the middle of creaming the butter and sugar. G.E. was purchased by Rodney Snell (on sale) in 2005 at Value City, Ocean, NJ. He mixed in Long Branch before relocating to Maryland in 2006. He spent several months in storage before settling in Brooklyn two years ago.

Mixer’s work was known all over the world, especially Petunia’s Pound and Rutha’s Red Velvet Cakes. He was a treasured companion on long vacations and weekend trips. He traveled to Mount Vernon, GA; Brothers Weekend 2005 in Deep Creek, MD and most recently Jersey City, ruining diets, expanding waistlines and sending folks into diabetic coma.

In addition to 8 oz. of Philadelphia Cream Cheese, 6 eggs, and 3 cups of flour, left to mourn its passing, but cherish the memories are his devoted owner, Rodney Snell of the home; and beloved admirers all over the country, including Crofton Whitfield and Michael Golden.

The remains will lie in state on the kitchen counter until the Home Going service on Sunday, February 21, 2010. Interment will immediately follow in the trash bin behind the building. In lieu of flowers, please send donations or a KitchenAid 600 to Rodney Snell, 2608 Albemarle Rd, Apt D1, Brooklyn, NY 11226 if you ever want to enjoy another slice of cake.

Arrangements are entrusted to the New York City Department of Sanitation.

Assalamu Alaikum

2010-02-18T00:44:00.000-08:00

I have not converted to Islam, but I maintain a reverent respect for it as I do the faith of all people. This morning, I was presented with a news item, disturbing for both its content and response from more than one reader.

Shamsiddi Abdur-Raheem, 21, of Galloway Township, New Jersey reportedly confessed to police that he tossed his three-month old daughter, Zara Malani-Lin Abdur, from the Alfred Driscoll Memorial Bridge; a fifteen-lane structure spanning the Raritan River along the Garden State Parkway.

Authorities say Abdur-Raheem forced his way into the East Orange apartment of Zara's maternal grandmother around 4 p.m. Tuesday, struck the 60-year-old woman in the face and choked her. He then fled with the infant girl as the grandmother followed. When she got in front of his van to try to stop him, he allegedly tried to run the grandmother over, striking her and driving off with the baby.

Understandably, the news has incited outrage and calls for penalties as severe as castration and death. While my own reaction mirrors that of so many others who struggle to make sense of the senseless, I refuse to look to this man’s religion as a possible cause for his action as some are doing. For more than a year I have lived in close proximity and shared everything with someone of Islamic faith. Through this person I have learned that Islam is not the faith of extremists, nor does it seek to nullify Christianity. The person I know is surely as disgusted, angry and hurt by Abdur-Raheem’s alleged action as the most devout Christian.

I implore everyone to learn something about Islam, especially the meaning of this post’s title, which simply means “Peace be unto you.”

Handbook For Life

2010-02-08T14:55:00.000-08:00

Health:
1. Drink plenty of water.
2. Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a beggar.
3. Eat more foods that grow on trees and plants and eat less food that is manufactured in plants..
4. Live with the 3 E's -- Energy, Enthusiasm and Empathy
5. Make time to pray.
6. Play more games
7. Read more books than you did in 2009 .
8. Sit in silence for at least 10 minutes each day
9. Sleep for 7 hours.
10. Take a 10-30 minutes walk daily. And while you walk, smile.

Personality
11. Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.
12. Don't have negative thoughts or things you cannot control. Instead invest your energy in the positive present moment.
13. Don't over do. Keep your limits.
14. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.
15. Don't waste your precious energy on gossip.
16. Dream more while you are awake
17. Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need..
18. Forget issues of the past. Don't remind your partner with His/her mistakes of the past. That will ruin your present happiness.
19. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. Don't hate others.
20. Make peace with your past so it won't spoil the present.
21. No one is in charge of your happiness except you.
22. Realize that life is a school and you are here to learn. Problems are simply part of the curriculum that appear and fade away like algebra class but the lessons you learn will last a lifetime.
23. Smile and laugh more.
24. You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree...

Society:
25. Call your family often.
26. Each day give something good to others.
27. Forgive everyone for everything..
28. Spend time w/ people over the age of 70 & under the age of 6.
29. Try to make at least three people smile each day.
30. What other people think of you is none of your business.
31. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends will. Stay in touch.

Life:
32. Do the right thing!
33. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.
34.. GOD heals everything.
35. However good or bad a situation is, it will change..
36. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.
37. The best is yet to come..
38. When you awake alive in the morning, thank GOD for it.
39. Your Inner most is always happy. So, be happy..

Church Drag (reposted)

2010-02-03T09:47:00.000-08:00

My great aunts absolutely love hats. Aunt Viola is the most fanatic. We used to take road trips to Georgia every year for my great-grandfather's birthday or our family reunion. Aunt V. would travel with no less than three ornate hats for a week long trip. There would only be one day when a hat was required, but she always liked to have options. There would be at least five passengers in the car and at least three small children, but her hat boxes would require their own space, even at the risk of impairing the driver's vision.

Growing up Baptist and a bit conservative, I used to to think Aunt V's outfits were just a bit flashy until I was exposed to the Church of God in Christ and realized those women took flashy to a whole nutha level. I almost gagged, when at a COGIC funeral, a sister came in wearing a silver sequined tam cocked to the side. I've heard they even have a hat show in Memphis each November (disguised as Convocation). I really used to gag at some of the outfits I would see on their way to Sunday service, but then I had to ask myself, "Where the hell else are they gonna wear that?"

It was the same thing with my gospel artists. I grew up listening to Mahalia Jackson, who was usually in a tasteful gown or simple choir robe or Shirley Caesar and Dorothy Norwood, who preferred bright, conservative suits. Imagine my shock when I discovered the DDD (Detroit Drag Divas); The Clark Sisters, Vickie Winans, Madonna (she did gospel... remember Like A Prayer!), etc... I used to say the Clarks got their earrings from the chandeliers of the many hotels they've stayed at on the road... real big and sparkling. And the fashions! Ok... I realize these folks are performers, but some of the things they wear offstage are every bit as gaudy. I used to think it all too tacky, but now see the beauty in one being able to wear what they want with no judgment. And who I am to judge? My fashion sense is totally based on comfort. If it don't feel good, I ain't wearing it.

Check out some of the risks, the sisters will take:

And let's not forget the brothers...

Okay, I know that last photo is of someone, not outwardly afilliated with the church, but can't you see a pastor sporting this ensemble?

Rev. A Pimp Named Sweet Daddy: Where my b&*#^s at?
Deaconess: Preparing the communion pastor.

Responsive Reading

2010-01-19T14:31:00.000-08:00

Rodney

The tears fall relentlessly as I write this email. It is a profound and moving critique of my work and I so appreciate your ability to see beyond "the gossip" to what is truly a sociological study of a subculture of people with their own brand of childrearing, mindset, kinship, and yes, even love. I have not read anywhere such a moving rendition of the work I have done, and the labor of love associated with it.

Long Branch is full of small minds and unfortunately many were unable see beyond their own limited interpretations. I do not fault the people who saw this book as nothing more than gossip and a "tell all" as one member of my family dubbed it. Limited exposure produces a limited mindset; lack of formal education creates a world dictated by a highly circumscribed environment. So I endured the negative comments, the stares, the "rolling of the eyes," the whispers, the lack of eye contact when I tried desperately to connect and explain myself to people I considered friends and family.

Yet, believe it or not, there were more supporters than naysayers. Many, many people in Long Branch supported and embraced my book. I received numerous emails with comments that closely parallel your commentary (though not as eloquently articulated as yours).

Your cousin

Leslie

And my reponse to that...

Lift up your head, sister! You're in good company. They talked about Jesus.

Lazy people don't care to be challenged, as a rule. They can become quite vexed when told their house is dirty, mainly because they already know and believe having it pointed out is rude. The ignorant get mad when told they're beautiful and question why they should believe you? All you did was challenge some lazy folks and pay some ignorant ones a great compliment.

I am profoundly grateful that someone else recognizes and celebrates the accomplishments of our parents and grandparents. Though exhausted and not completely sure of what they were doing, they made a way for us. They had to be terrified, but did their level best. Sometimes the effort met with disappointment, but more often the outcome was favorable. Life, for them as Langston Hughes wrote, was certainly "no crystal stair," but they put on some hard-bottomed shoes and stomped across splintered floorboards. They made it possible for us to dance barefoot on the same. We must pay homage and you have.

My pastor in Chicago always said, "Don't hate. Celebrate. Then you might be able to participate." I wish it were on a sampler in every African American home. Somehow we must learn to find joy in the success of others and move out of that limited mindset. Unfortunately, history has cultivated a people so perfectly damaged we lack the motivation to clean a dirty house and capacity to recognize our own beauty.

Someone once told me that we [Black men] don't see God in ourselves, which is why we so easily kill each other. The statement left me with one of those stunning moments of clarity that is life changing. For years we sat in church and fanned ourselves with that image of a pale man with golden curls, praying at a rock. More than thirty years after JJ painted Black Jesus on Good Times, we still don't get it. Therefore, the message continues to go forth in many forms. You've presented yet another.

I'm sure no one considered what pain they inflicted by not celebrating the simple fact that you published a book, regardless of what was in it. I would be proud if you'd written a Dick and Jane primer because I'd know that you put something wonderful in there for our children; the same as you've done with How Ya Like Me Now!

How Ya Like Me Now!

2010-01-16T19:34:00.000-08:00

I snatched it from the mailbox at nearly 8:00 pm on a Wednesday evening and immediately began to read. Six hours later, at 2:09 am, I turned the final page and put it down. The voracity with which I ingested those 310 pages was fueled in part by the negative comment expressed whenever the book was mentioned. Blistering critique of the work and author piqued my curiosity, driving a need to know what had so many people upset. After reading it twice, I am still unable to identify the cause of so much consternation, when all I feel is peace.

How Ya Like Me Now is the autobiographical reflection of Leslie Morris. Though we’re not biologically related, she’s always been counted among my multitude of cousins, partly because she was usually with one of them, but mainly because of our collective family history.. The roots of our familial bond can be traced to the Georgia sharecropping community in which both her mother and my grandmother were born and raised. Each woman joined the Great Migration and, despite different paths, settled in Long Branch, New Jersey, reuniting with previous migrants from their hometown. Following a pattern indicative of the Migration, their community down south disbanded and reassembled, almost identically “up south.”

Bound by shared history and the common desire for a better life, the "Sisterfriends" produced a tribe of children and raised them with the closeness of kin. It was the first generation to be formally educated. With none of the visible barriers that impeded their ancestors, nearly all graduated high school. Many went on, becoming the first in their families to enter college. Most earned undergraduate degrees and some went even further by completing graduate school. Always bright and determined, Leslie raised the bar of achievement for her generation. In addition to an undergraduate degree from Boston’s prestigious Simmons College, she holds two Master’s Degrees; one from Boston College and another from UNC-Chapel Hill.

How Ya Like Me Now! maps the journey undertaken by this daughter of uneducated laborers, reared in public housing. Morris lovingly, but also with brutal honesty, recounts her difficult childhood and troubled adolescence from dual perspectives; the confused, combative youngster she was and the dynamic, celebrated professional she’s become. This duality is important and beneficial because through the eyes of the professional we learn that what may be perceived as hard or callous parenting from a child’s perspective is a simple case of a parent operating within their limits. It’s extremely beneficial because it creates in adult children the capacity to forgive and thereby heal. With recognition of the cycle comes the opportunity to break it.

While chronicling her journey, Leslie remembers her peers, some of whom didn't fare so well. With vivid detail she recounts how physical and emotional abuse, delinquency, teen pregnancy, substance abuse and other issues stifled dreams and claimed young lives. In fact, much of the discord surrounding the book apparently stems from these observations. While no one disputes the events, nearly everyone challenges her right to speak on them, which is ridiculous. Their profound impact on her path is undeniable and aside from the disclosure of a hushed abortion, much of it was already common knowledge. Small towns keep precious few secrets. Long Branch keeps even less.

What a great shame that so many fail to comprehend the importance of this work; will never recognize its potential to change lives or appreciate the author’s courage. For me, the blessings are abundant. For one, it has brought stunning clarity to people, places and events that tottered on the periphery of my memory. My favorite chapter is “Sister Morris and Mother Sue,” a glowing tribute to her grandmothers, two deeply spiritual women who ignited our faith and often stood in the gap for an entire community. Not only did they pray for our salvation, they lived in such a way that let us see God’s grace in action. I remember many quiet afternoons with Mother Sue at her little apartment before her death in 1986. It was impossible to leave her presence without feeling loved and celebrated. She was always so incredibly happy to see people and very expressive of her appreciation that you thought enough of her to visit, even when she wasn’t entirely sure who you were.

The greatest blessing I take from this work is deeper insight of and appreciation for the people who raised me. I understand that the things I saw as mundane and routine were, for them, profound expressions of love. The actual reasons for my attention-seeking antics, rested outside their realm of understanding. All they saw was the bad behavior of an ungrateful child who would probably never amount to anything. Yet I know they continued to pray and hope. I could hang my head and cry when I realize what I must have looked like to them, but drops of tears can ne’er repay this debt of love I owe. I may not be able to express my gratitude to so many that earned it because they have gone on. However, I will honor them by expressing genuine love and compassion to my fellow man. I am standing in the same raggedy building, but I now have a few of the tools needed to make it beautiful. Thank you, Leslie.

The Only Explanation

2009-12-27T23:29:00.000-08:00

This Christmastide

2009-12-13T04:45:00.001-08:00

'Tis The Season

2009-12-11T16:57:00.000-08:00

Last week, when finally finished decorating the tree I stripped of lights three times before the distribution was acceptable, I stepped back. After taking a good look from every angle, I decided that only my mother would recognize the one flaw in an otherwise perfect tree.

My mother loved Christmas and coveted her holiday tree. She would take days to drape each individual strand of tinsel. One year I decided to help and was met with one of the harshest admonitions received from one who was usually just a bit more laid back. My stepfather rushed to my defense, but she set him straight too. He couldn’t touch the tree either. It seems her OCD kicked in hardest when there was a piece of pine in the house.

Like all the Snell children, I love this most festive time of year, because my grandfather made it so special for all of us. He would buy the biggest tree on the lot and throw everything on it. According to my grandmother, my mother and her big sister would fix the tree when he was done. I have memory of only one tree that Daddy decorated. It was atrocious. I never let him touch another one.

At 10, tree-decorating duty at my grandparent’s house became my sole responsibility. I started off shaky. Those first few trees weren’t much better than Daddy’s last attempt, but by the fifth year they were being praised by anyone who passed by the Sixth Avenue picture window. Even my mother was impressed, but she usually found something on my tree to fix; usually something I’d already noticed, but decided no one else would. Her eye for detail was sickening.

When I was conceptualizing this tree, I knew I would be decorating for two and promised myself it would be as close to perfect as God would allow. Everyone who comes through the door says it is just that… perfect. Yet, as I sit here listening to this eclectic holiday play list, featuring some of Darline’s favorites, I wish she could walk through the door and point out that flaw.

Darline's Tree 1981

Be Thankful For Modern Medicine

2009-11-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

On January 17, 1975, Mount Vernon, GA sent word to Long Branch, NJ that my cousin, Roberta had suddenly and tragically passed away. Within hours, the family was ready for the 900-mile road trip.

Much of the week that followed is foggy, locked in the mind of the eight year old who experienced it. I suppose it will all come back to me on my deathbed. I do remember stopping along the way to visit my Aunt Liz's family in rural North Carolina, also that my school-aged cousins had to rise at the crack of black to catch a school bus.

It is probably the first time in life I experienced grief. The funeral, which took place in a school auditorium seemed almost unreal yet certain things remained seared in memory. I can vividly picture my mother and cousin, Rutha Mae, black shawls draping their shoulders. It is my very first memory of a cemetery burial. Perhaps one day I can find the words to describe the entire experience. The most concrete symbol of the entire trip is Sue's little red rocking rocking chair.

When we returned from Georgia, everyone was sick. My grandmother even went into the hospital. My mother was out of work for two weeks. I was sent to recover with my Aunt Viola at 24 Sea View Manor or maybe she was still at 38.

Aunt Viola fancies herself a nurse though she has no credentials. Even now at 90, she wants to work in someone's hospital, but won't consider volunteering. "I need to get paid for what I do," she says.

I don't remember a whole lot about the recovery period, but I do remember being rubbed vigorously with the most vile, disgusting ointment. The jar was yellow and the product was called Musterole. It smelled too awful to forget. I did a little research and found this online at The Encyclopedia of Cleveland History.

The MUSTEROLE CO., manufacturer of a famous over-the-counter ointment, began in 1905 after pharmacist A. L. McLaren developed a mustard ointment at his Cedar and E. 97th St. drugstore. As the ointment's popularity grew, McLaren was unable to maintain his supply and eventually restricted its sale to regular customers. The mustard preparation's success convinced George Miller, owner of a nearby hardware store, to sell his store and invest in an expanded production and packaging facility for the product. After Miller and McLaren mobilized additional investors, the Musterole Co. was incorporated in 1907. The company soon moved to 4612 St. Clair and then to 1748 E. 27th St. The medication, known as Musterole, was used to relieve chest congestion, coughs, minor throat irritation, and muscle aches. Musterole was distributed throughout the U.S. and Canada as a convenient substitute for the old-fashioned mustard plaster and achieved worldwide distribution after World War I. The ointment remained a popular, locally produced proprietary medication until 1956, when Musterole was bought by the Plough Corp. of Tennessee and production facilities were moved to Memphis. After Plough merged with the Scherring Pharmaceutical Co. in 1970, the resulting Scherring-Plough Corp. continued to manufacture the product and offer it for sale.

By Any Other Name (Clara Brown’s Butter Cream Cheese Icing)

2009-11-01T00:10:00.000-07:00

Clara knelt in the yard, pulling weeds that sprang up between the collard plants growing on the side of her house. She pushed a stone away and jumped to her feet when a small grass snake, no bigger than a good-sized worm, slithered away, seeking cover.

“Shit!” she spat. “Lord, I know they work for you, but can’t they do business somewhere else?” she asked.

Although a few days shy of her 60th birthday with a touch of rheumatism at work on her joints, a tiny snake could still make her move like a twenty-year old. She hated them and in truth didn’t care much for gardening, but poking around in dirt usually eased her mind when troubled. Sometimes she would go to the family plot, armed with rake and hoe, to cut back tough grass from headstones and markers, but more often, this patch of earth, beneath her kitchen window was where she worked out problems. She grew the collard greens she loved because nothing tasted better than homegrown after a frost. Smoked knuckles rested in the icebox, waiting patiently to season the broad green leaves.

“Hey Auntie,” Perry, her sister’s baby boy called, hopping the waist-high picket fence.

“Boy, get over here and give your old auntie some sugar,” she smiled.

“You ain’t old, girl,” he said stooping to kiss her. Clara wasn’t short, but he stood a full head taller and was skinny as a rail. If she hadn’t seen him clean a plate she would swear he didn’t eat.

“When you going back to school?” she asked.

“Next week,” he replied.

“Well, you should be on your job, making that money.” she teased, bending to pull a weed.

“I’m on my way, but we need to talk.” The change in his tone let Clara know something wasn’t right. She stood up and looked in his face. A furrowed brow and moist eyes told her it was something she didn’t want to hear.

“You should probably sit down,” he said, confirming what she suspected.

“No, baby, I’m alright,” she declined, bending again to poke around where there were no weeds. “You just say what’s on your mind.”

“Lena is pregnant,” he said so quickly, it sounded like one word.

Without warning, the ground began to rise. Perry caught her before it slapped her face.

Clara loved her nephews. She’d been secretly jealous of Clothilde and Deke for having boys while all she seemed to produce were girls, five of them. Those heifers had turned every hair on her head silver gray and left creases on her ebony face from torment. Even her big brown eyes had lost some sparkle. There was no rest; always a head to comb, dress tail to hem or dispute to settle. Girls could be so mean. Clara was convinced raising boys must be a joy, especially since her sister, though five years older showed no sign of age. There must be so much less to do. Boys don’t require as much care and attention. They’re content with a patch of dirt and a ball to toss around. You just have to make sure they don’t mess over someone’s daughter.

Clothilde was openly envious of Clara for having girls. Her nieces were little dolls. She was always making one or the other a dress on the old Singer and loved when Clara let her loose on those heads. They would leave her kitchen with more ribbon than a may pole and a single pink sponge roller to curl the bang. She felt cursed because God hadn’t given her a daughter and vowed not to rest until she got one. Always true to her word, at 48, after birthing seven boys, her womb produced a female. She was dead before they could place the screaming infant in her arms.

“Well Clo, You got your wish,” Clara told her sister’s corpse. “Now you can rest.” Cradling the sleeping infant, she moved away from the casket, looking over at her heartbroken brother-in-law and nephews. When the undertaker closed the coffin, Perry collapsed on the church floor. At the cemetery they all fell to pieces.

“Auntie!” Perry called from someplace far off. Opening her eyes she recognized her screen porch, where she was resting on Mrs. Grossman’s divan. It was really just a daybed, but the lady she cleaned for insisted on fancy names for everything. The cool, damp cloth on her forehead could not soothe her pounding head. She was about to ask what happened when she remembered.

“Pregnant?” She tried to rise, but could only lift her head, which fell back, pressed by the weight of sorrow, confusion and disbelief. Lena was her baby. Her others were daddy’s girls, not Lena. She was always up under Clara’s dress tail. The rest went running when Sam’s foot hit the back stoop, not Lena. She had been Clara’s shadow. Her baby couldn’t be having a baby.

“Are you sure,” she asked but already knew. He wouldn’t have told her if he wasn’t.

“I’m sure, Auntie,” he said. “Sister let it slip.”

Closing her eyes, Clara’s face turned to the wall.

When Clothilde died, her boys wanted no part of the baby girl they claimed killed their mama. Deke wouldn’t even look at her. Two weeks from her birth and five days from her mother going in the ground, the child remained nameless. She was simply Baby Girl. Clara waited another five days and called them all to her kitchen.

“Clothilde wanted this child little girl so much. I imagine she’s offended y’all don’t.”

The boys looked sheepishly to the floor. Deke stared blankly into a cup of black coffee. Clara held the sleeping baby so they could see her face.

“I hoped y’all would warm to this child. That’s why I kept her this long, but you don’t seem to want what Clothilde prayed for.” She lapsed into the lie she practiced. “I called the children’s home for them to pick her up this afternoon. Since you didn’t have a chance to say good bye to your mother, you can say it to this baby.” Clara placed the little girl in Deke’s arms and left the room.

She sat on her porch and waited with no intention of sending the child away. Family stays with family. She and Sam were prepared to raise her, but Clara felt she could shame Deke and the boys into caring. She was right. They left her house, fighting for turns to carry the baby Deke named Elma, but the boys called Sister.

One would have thought she was a piece of Jesus. Deke worked like a dog to give the child any and everything she wanted. The boys became nearly invisible, unless he needed them to do something for his little girl. Her brothers were no less attentive. If she pointed at a thing, they got it for her. As the older boys grew and left home; Lil’ Deke to teachers college, Roy and Ray to the Army and Marvin to the juvenile home, the younger ones stepped up to spoil Sister. At five she was so rotten, nobody but them could stand her. That same year Deke died, leaving 15-year-old Perry to raise Elma.

Clara helped where she could by making clothes, dressing that nappy head and trying, without success, to impart some discipline. She popped the girl in the mouth so often, her lip stayed swollen, but she didn’t stop talking back and telling lies.

Lena and Elma, born three months apart, became best friends and did everything together. Clara, trusting Perry, allowed Lena to spend summer weekends with her cousins. They’d walk her home Sunday evening, after church and stay for dinner. When Elma turned sixteen, Roy taught her to drive. She and Lena rode around in the old Model T until it gave up the ghost. She cursed, cried and screamed until they bought her a 1937 Packard. She was spoiled, nasty and lazy, but none of it rubbed of on Lena. She remained sweet, but sometimes let Elma lead her into mischief. Clara thought about limiting their time together, but instead pleaded with Lena to think for herself and avoid trouble.

Clara cried hot tears for all her pleas, apparently unheard. Raising her head, she turned her face from the wall to look into Perry’s red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry, Auntie,” he cried. “This is my fault. I didn’t pay attention.”

She reached over to caress his smooth, brown cheek. “No, baby,” she cooed. “You did your best.”

It was the truth. He knew he couldn’t control his fast sister, but did the next best thing. His threats and occasional beat downs, had every boy in town scared to look at Elma and Lena. He simply forgot about that car, parked innocently and patiently, waiting to spirit Elma to nearby towns and boys unaware of her brother’s reputation. Clara remembered and forbid Lena to ride beyond the city limits, but it appears she did and got herself ruined by some nasty little boy from Red Bank or maybe Asbury Park. In the next moment she learned Lena’s indiscretion occurred much closer than she thought.

“Allowing Donny Webb in our house was my mistake,” Perry’s voice broke. “I trusted him and he took advantage of my cousin.”

She shut her eyes tightly, squeezing out a single tear that left a moist trail to her chin. Her head dropped, like and anvil, onto the pillow.

“When I get to work, I’m gonna kill him,” he planned aloud, like it was any mundane task, performed throughout the course of his day. He might just as well have said “I’m gonna empty the trash” or “take a bath. His intention was clear and Clara’s blood ran cold. She groped at her faith for renewed strength and sat bolt upright, swinging her feet to the floor. She firmly grasped Perry’s forearm.

“Leave Donnie Webb alone,” she said with urgency in her voice and eyes. “Swear on your mother you won’t touch him.”

“But, Auntie,” he began.

“Swear!” she screamed, halting any further argument.

“Alright” he sighed.

“Does he know?” she asked.

Perry shook his head.

“Then say nothing.” Using his shoulder for balance, she rose and pulled him up after. “March your narrow ass in that bathroom, wash your face and get to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, meekly, entering the house. Alone again, Clara sat on her porch and created a pool of tears. She cried for what she had just learned and what she already knew; the very thing that sent her poking around the collards where Perry found her.

Earlier that morning, as night struggled with day, Clara lay awake after seeing Sam off to work. Marva, the knee baby crept in and sat on the bed beside her.

“Mama, you awake?” she half-whispered knowing her mother could never reclaim broken sleep.

Clara heard sorrow in the girl’s voice and tried to search her face in the dark. Panicked, she clicked on the lamp and looked in Marva’s swollen eyes. The panic increased.

“I’m in trouble, mama,” she said, burying her face in Clara’s lap.

“What kind of trouble?” Clara asked, though she had some inkling.

“I’m having a baby,” she said.

“Girl,” Clara began and clicked off the lamp so she could smile in the dark. “That ain’t trouble. You’re a grown woman. You work everyday and don’t ask nobody for a damn thing. You ain’t in no trouble, unless you don’t want it or can’t identify the daddy.”

“It’s Donnie,” Marva said sternly.

Clara knew that too. She’d been watching him chase after Marva since his family arrived from South Carolina. That country boy was determined. She had hoped for an engagement and wedding beforehand, but this wouldn’t be the first or last baby to speed nuptials.

“I haven’t told him and don’t know what he’ll do. He said he would marry me when we started doing it, but that was last year. I’m not sure how he feels now.”

“Do you want to marry him?” Clara asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied.

“And you will,” Clara stated with a confidence that put Marva at ease.

With dawn announcing day’s victory over night, Clara crept into the collard patch to decide how to tell Sam and also consider their action should the young man be hesitant. Before she could decide anything, Perry jumped her fence. Months before, Clara warned Donny if he messed over her daughter, he was getting married. Now, with a turn of events no one could have anticipated, he had a choice of daughter.

By mid-afternoon, Clara had served lunch to Mrs. Grossman’s Bridge club and was nearly finished preparing dinner. While cooking, troubling thoughts retreated to the back of her mind, but seated at the kitchen counter, eating matzo and leftover chopped liver, they rushed forward. Startled by the loud ring of the telephone, she rushed to lift the receiver before it disrupted the Bridge game out on the porch that her employer called a lanai.

“Casa Grossman,” Clara announced, as instructed.

“Auntie?” Perry’s hushed voice on the line was worrisome. That last time she received a call on her job, her sister had passed.

“What’s wrong,” she asked, not really wanting to know. Certain that nothing could be so disturbing as what he shared earlier, her confidence waned when he said she should sit.

“Sweet Jesus,” she prayed aloud.

“Donny came in this morning,” Perry began, “down in the mouth. Said there was a problem and he might be leaving town. He’s got another girl having a baby. If you’re seated I’ll tell you who.”

Thinking Marva must have told Donny before heading to work, Clara was about to tell Perry she already knew, but thought she heard him say something about Earline Kinsey.

“What about Earline Kinsey?” she asked.

“That’s the girl,” he replied.

Her mouth fell open and she nearly dropped the phone. “He got another girl pregnant?”

“You gotta keep up, Auntie,” he teased. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“And that’s who he’s running from?” Clara said, dumbfounded. “That girl already got a baby and no husband. He needs to be running from me.”

“I know,” Perry laughed. “He said Earline’s cousin was coming from Georgia next week to handle him.”

Clara knew that was a lie. Nobody came when Alvin Adams ruined that girl and refused to claim a baby that was clearly his. They have the same big water head.

“Why are you so quiet?” Perry asked.

“Thinking,” she said, realizing what she had to do. “Where’s Donny now?”

After learning he was working at the Chelsea Avenue pier, she told Mrs. Grossman there was a family emergency and removed her uniform. Slipping on her shoes, she thought about how both of her girls were about to suffer, but one would do it as Donny Webb’s wife. She checked her purse for the pistol sewn into the lining. Stepping onto the sidewalk, a breeze from the ocean, kissed her face. She turned and walked, with determination, against the wind.

(Clara Brown’s Butter Cream Cheese Icing)

1 package (8 ounces) cream cheese, softened

1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter, softened

2 tablespoons sour cream

2 teaspoons Pure Vanilla Extract

1 box (16 ounces) confectioners' sugar

Beat cream cheese, butter, sour cream and vanilla in large bowl until light and fluffy. Gradually beat in confectioners' sugar until smooth. Fill and frost cooled cakes.

A Victory For Everyone

2009-10-19T09:35:00.000-07:00

I must admit to feeling "some type of way" upon learning that Hampton University had elected Nursing student, Nikole Churchill, the first non-Black Homecoming Queen in its 141-year history. Initially, when Antwoine presented the news article, I offered no opinion, only commentary on the accompanying photograph. It speaks volumes.

The young woman on the right was hopefully awarded Ms. Congeniality. She wears the expression of a gracious contestant. If not pleased with the winning contestant, she has enough sense to know the value of a photo op. The two on the left clearly show signs of discontent and disbelief. I bet they got together after the dance, smoked a blunt and *kicked that white girls back in. I can almost envision the exchange, peppered with exhortations about “that bitch;” punctuated by exaggerated hand gestures and neck rolls.

*To kick someone’s back in means to speak poorly about someone behind their back. Though not a physical act, it can lead to one.

Following the Civil War institutions were established to educate newly freed slaves. Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCU) opened to meet the higher education needs of African Americans. Most of the public schools were founded by state legislatures between 1870 and 1910, sixteen of them in 1890 when a land grant specified states using federal land-grant funds must either make their schools open to both blacks and whites or allocate money for segregated black colleges to serve as an alternative to white schools.

Prior to 1870 Blacks themselves, supported by the American Missionary Association (AMA) and the Freedmen's Bureau, were responsible for setting up private colleges and universities for the education of Blacks. Hampton is among those institutions and can trace its origins to September 17, 1861. On that date, under what is now called the Emancipation Oak Tree, Mary Smith Peake taught the first classes in defiance of a Virginia law which forbid teaching slaves, free blacks and mulattos to read or write.

Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute was legally chartered in 1870 on the grounds of a former plantation with a magnificent view of the great harbor of Hampton Roads. It became simply Hampton Institute in 1930 and Hampton University in 1984, beginning the friendly rivalry between Hampton and Howard University with each claiming the title “The Real HU.” Umm… that would be Howard. No shade.

Hampton’s most noted scholar is Booker T. Washington, who arrived from West Virginia in 1872 at the age of 16. After working his way through Hampton, he went on to attend Wayland Seminary in Washington D.C. Upon graduation there, he returned to Hampton and taught classes. In 1881, he was sent to Alabama at age 25 to head another new HBCU. This new Institution eventually became Tuskegee University. Washington built Tuskegee into a substantial school and became nationally famous as an educator, orator, and fund-raiser. His work ultimately caused over 5,000 small community schools to be built for the betterment of Black education in the South.

The HBCU has outlived its intended purpose, but not its need. There should always exist a space where Black students have a defining voice and their culture is celebrated for its rich heritage and expansive contribution to society, even if it doesn’t reflect the actual world. To survive, the HBCU must be academically and financially competitive in the marketplace. They must expand curriculums and offer degree programs that prepare students to stand confidently and competently beside students from the Ivies. Many are meeting the challenge.

Though they can’t maintain a working website, Howard University’s Hospital is a Level One trauma center, highly ranked among America’s best hospitals, offering comprehensive healthcare to the surrounding community. Savannah State University offers one of the best Marine Sciences Programs in the country on a campus comprised of 165 acres of two biologically diverse and important coastal ecosystems. Hampton University’s School of Nursing, offering degree programs on the undergraduate, graduate and post-graduate levels, is approved by the Virginia Board of Nursing, and is fully accredited by the National League for Nursing Accrediting Commission and the Commission on Collegiate Nursing Education. That Ms. Churchill chose Hampton above so many other schools she could have attended is a testament to its excellence.

I encourage everyone displeased with the new queen to get over it, especially Hampton students and alum. More than anyone they should recognize the increased value of their degree and thank the white girl for the boost.

Happy Birthday Daddy!

2009-08-20T05:54:00.000-07:00

Reflections - Delivered at the Homegoing of Willie Snell, my grandfather, who would have turned 89 years old today.

On behalf of my family I would first like to offer thanks to everyone for the outpouring of support and love. God has truly blessed us. Our grief is a deep well, yet we are not consumed. We have so much for which to be grateful that it would be abominable not to yield to the will of God and accept what He allows. After all, he made each of us, knows all about us, and calls us at the appointed hour. Our lives belong to him and control is in his hands. God is good. He allowed this servant nearly four score years to labor in this vineyard.

We are grateful that Daddy was consistent in his habits. We may not have always agreed with his choices, but we were seldom surprised. He was usually at work, church, a lodge function or en route to one or the other. It was usually the “en route” part where we might be left wondering, but again, God is good. He always made it back home.

This great church was as much his home as his residence. I used to tell him that he got nearly as much rest here as at home. As long as he was on that door, he was on guard, but as soon as he sat down, his chin would hit his chest. I know I’ve got some witnesses. For all the services he attended, it was inevitable that he would sleep through a couple of good sermons. Alas he is sleeping through yet another. But God is good.

We have wonderful memories of cookouts, road trips, holidays… Daddy loved Christmas. They were huge when I was growing up. Even when he would pack us up in the car and haul us to Georgia, Christmas day didn’t suffer. His road trips are infamous. We have been everything from broke down to locked up messing around with Daddy on the highway, but never lost. He was the short cut king. So much so that when I find myself at the familiar crossroads I still ask the question, “Should I take I20 and go through all those little towns or just stay on 95 and get there faster?” Because he taught us all to drive too fast, I stay on 95.

I believe he was most happy with family around. He loved when the house and yard were packed to capacity. Whether or not they brought anything he was always glad to see them come. And when I say family, don’t get caught up in the traditional definition of blood relation. Our idea of family has never been bound by the traditional. In fact, if you are sitting in this sanctuary, you are probably considered family regardless of who your peoples are. That is how we came up. Daddy loved people and he opened his heart and home to those in need. He could be most generous, but never forgot the difference between a gift and a loan. I learned to carefully word requests for cash because if you used the word “loan” he surely expected it back regardless of the amount. It was not about the money, but a matter of principle. If you owed someone you were obligated to pay it back whether it was five cents or five dollars. It’s not that he held money in high regard, If the truth be told he placed more value on work for that was the means by which you acquired money. As long as you work you will always have.

He was not a man without fault, but without faults we would have no need of grace and mercy. God is our only judge, yet we continue to judge others. Nikki Giovanni says that if we must judge a man, we should do so by his dreams, not just his deeds. Do so by his intent, not just his short comings and finally my brethren, to quote the gospel of Paul… whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.

11/10/2003

It Takes A Village

2009-08-17T19:50:00.000-07:00

We grew up surrounded by mothers… a village of them. Most of the time you had to run and get daddy, but mother was a constant presence. Most of them worked outside of the home, but there was always one around when needed and when least expected… an all too watchful eye… a dispenser of discipline. Pauline was one of those mothers.

Robert, Pauline and Christine Newson grew up in Mount Vernon, Georgia with my grandmother and great aunts. Their mother, Susie, was one of several women who dated my widowed great-grandfather. Mother Sue was most loved and respected above all his companions because she was concerned with the children. At Easter when Pauline and Chris got new things, she made sure his girls had new too. She would go as far as to corner him where ever he was, regardless of who he was with to get what was needed so that the children didn’t go without.

When Georgia emptied out into Long Branch everyone pretty much landed within shouting distance of each other in the Grant Court and Seaview Manor housing projects. Sometimes, back doors faced each other. The community was tight. Children were interchangeable. We could go into just about any house and be fed. We might catch a beat down if caught acting up outside the wrong door. Surely there would be one waiting at home. Long before Verizon, the mothers had a network. For most of my childhood I believed Chris and Pauline were my aunts because that is how they behaved. I felt the same love and familial concern in their homes that I felt in those of my aunts. They looked out for me like one of their own. They looked out for all of us.

No one is meant to live forever, regardless of how much we think folks should always be with us. Another great-aunt is gone. There is another void that will never be filled. The best we can do is to cover it with memories and remember the lessons taught.

With each loss we are cast further apart. Along with our matriarchs, traditions pass. Sunday dinners go uncooked and holidays lack luster. The mothers are the glue that held us together. They soothed our hurts and mediated our arguments. Sometimes they disagreed as do sisters and friends, but always held fast to each other. We must follow their example and hold to each other. We must continue old traditions and create new ones so that those coming after us can have the bond that they shared… that we share. We must tell our mothers’ stories… of working in fields and migrating from Georgia… of cleaning another woman’s home to provide for us… of loving us even when they couldn’t stand us. We must tell how they aged with grace and dignity, grateful that all was as well as it could be. Then we must take up their cross and carry on. We must honor them by becoming the village it took to bring us this far.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

I'm Gonna Write A Letter: Translating Hoodspeech

2009-06-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

Just like the Wayans Brother's characters, I have long known the value of a well-crafted letter, especially when lodging complaints. Not only do you get the opportunity to carefully state your position. You also add to the paper trail for your potential lawsuit. The letter is usually my last line of defense after all other means have failed. That's because my letters are almost always directed at a CEO or Vice President. I like to make sure I have something to complain about on the way up the corporate ladder. My letters always get the desired result.

Over the years I have crafted a letter or statement for a few friends. They will request them, depending on the magnitude of the situation. Two days ago I received such a request from my good judy, Stankisha (named after her father, Stan), one of my oldest and dearest. We're both hood kids, raised by southern grandmothers so we pretty much think alike in most instances. She will usually call on me to craft something when she is angry because, at that point, the polish falls away and she reverts back to the hood.

What she's thinking: I would like to exhaust every possibility before moving on to the next option.

What she says: Bitch, don't make me come down there!

Here's the email I received from her this week:

HI ROD:

HOPE ALL IS WELL WITH YOU. I MISS TALKING TO YOU. CALL ME SOON SO WE CAN CHAT AND YOU CAN MAKE ME LAUGH.

WELL ROD, I NEED YOUR WONDERFUL WORDING FOR A LETTER. LET ME TELL YOU WHATS GOING ON. IT'S THE DAMN ROACHES IN MY APARTMENT! THEY ARE EVERYWHERE! ALL OVER THE HOUSE. THE KIDS AND I WERE EATING DINNER THE OTHER NIGHT AND WHAT COMES WALKING ACROSS THE TABLE... A FUCKEN ROACH. THEY'RE IN THE BATHROOM, THE BEDROOM, I CANT EVEN LOOK AT TV IN MY LIVING ROOM BECAUSE THEY'RE CRAWLING ON ME AND THE BOYS. THEY HAVE COME TO SPRAY THE HOUSE, BUT THAT SHIT IS FOOD FOR THEM. THE FAMILY NEXT DOOR MOVED TO ANOTHER APARTMENT BECAUSE THEY WERE SO BAD. I AM THE ONLY ONE ON THIS FLOOR AND THE SHIT IS OUT OF CONTROL. I SPOKE WITH SOMEONE IN THE HOME OFFICE LAST WEEK BY THE NAME OF NATALIE, BUT THAT BITCH WAS OF NO HELP. SHE TOLD ME "WELL MS. MURRAY IT LOOKS LIKE THEY HAVE DONE EVERYTHING THAT COULD BE DONE." SHE ACTED LIKE IT WAS NORMAL FOR BLACK PEOPLE TO LIVE LIKE THAT. I TOLD THAT HO I PAY MY RENT ON TIME AND SOMETIMES DAYS BEFORE THE 1ST OF THE MONTH. I EXPLAINED THAT NEXT MONTH (SEPTEMBER) I WOULD NOT PAY THE RENT. I WOULD PUT IT IN ESCROW AND THEY COULD TAKE ME TO COURT BECAUSE I HAVE VIDEO OF THE ROACHES CRAWLING ALL OVER THE HALLWAY, ALL OVER THE APARTMENT WHERE THE FAMILY JUST MOVED OUT, EVERYWHERE! BEFORE THE BITCH HUNG UP SHE SAID "WELL MS. MURRAY, DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO." ROD, YOU KNOW I'M A VERY NEAT AND CLEAN PERSON. I JUST WANT THEM TO DO SOMETHING.

GET BACK WITH ME SOON......LOVE YOU, STANK

Here's what I came up with:

Becky Heather AshleyJen, Chief Operating Officer
Slumlord & Company, LLC
Segregationaintdead, GA 30909

RE: Roach Infestation

Good morning Ms. AshleyJen:

Slumlord & Company's web site boasts dedication "to a hassle free living environment in which our residents can enjoy all of the benefits of quiet, attractive, and inviting homes. Resident happiness, and comfort are our main goals." Yet when I reported a roach infestation in my unit, I was met with the response "Well, Ms. Murray, it looks like they've done all that can be done," suggesting that my only option is to clear some closet space for the intruders and coexist with them until which time they see fit to leave. This is unacceptable.

I have spent the better part of my working life in customer service and operate by the creed that a customer, though not always right, is always important. This means that every customer should walk away from each consumer interaction satisfied that their need has been addressed or that every avenue has been explored to meet that need. It is a standard to which I hold myself and everyone with whom I do business.

After an exchange with Natalie, I walked away with the feeling that Slumlord & Company is completely unconcerned with providing the minimum standard of occupancy for my children and myself as outlined in Georgia's Standard Housing Code. When I informed Natalie that I felt my only recourse was to withhold my rent in an escrow account until the matter is resolved, she cavalierly informed me to "do what I have to do." My attorney advises me that I must not withhold the rent, but explore other options and avoid litigation. Therefore I am addressing this matter with someone I hope is able to be of greater help.

I would be so appreciative of any action that you can initiate to resolve this matter. I am prepared to provide you with video footage that shows me brushing roaches from the dinner table and from the faces of my sleeping children. The footage will also show a clean, well-maintained living space. I will be happy to provide statements from other residents and references from former landlords, who can attest to my cleanliness and care of their properties during my occupancy. Please contact me at your earliest convenience if you desire any of these.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Stankisha Murray.

Once again, the desired result has been achieved. Within an hour of faxing the letter, she received a call requesting permission to enter the unit to bomb, got a $100 reduction on the rent and the promise of an independently contracted exterminator's service, monthly until the roaches are eradicated. Now we just gotta watch to make sure they don't spray some sickle cell up in through there.

Whatsoever Things Are Lovely

2009-06-08T14:50:00.000-07:00

I was born and raised in a small town that, as a whole, lacks. Long Branch always runs a little low on tolerance, despite being nicknamed "The Friendly City." Its current monarch has ruled for nearly 30 years with no thought of abdication or threat of coup. Minorities are largely contained where the working poor subsists and a shrinking middle class of every ethnicity struggles to survive, before realizing they can get more bang for the buck elsewhere. The number of families that have gone on to cities with greater ratables is staggering. Those who appear to be flourishing nicely are either connected or loyal to the throne.

As of the 2000 census, slightly above 18% of its 31,340 documented residents were African American. I expect that percentage will decrease with the upcoming census as I suspect it has with every census in my lifetime. With limited opportunity, encouragement to invest or promise of being recognized as valued community members, a great many of us relocate. We find places that allow us to accomplish lofty goals, cultivate great success and achieve earned recognition that would have escaped us within that 6.2 square miles. With an exception of the most hopeful, determined and resourceful, few of my generation remain.

Though we flee, those with fond memories of childhood and adolescence return on festive occasions to fellowship and reminisce with family and friends who stayed behind. In a town earnestly disinterested in its African American population, unaware of the culture, sociology or even circumstances that produced us, our festivities are limited. Outside of the Martin Luther King, Jr. Guild annual, week-long celebration in January, the privately-organized 2002 event, celebrating project kids who made good and a Juneteeth cultural arts celebration last year, I am hard-pressed to recall other events celebrating our community, culture or history, certainly none city-sanctioned. A community center is named for Adam "Bucky" James, but with no cornerstone or posted proclamation, its significance and the recognition of a man, dedicated to children is lost. The ranks of those who actually remember him dressing as Santa for the neighborhood dwindles daily.

I really want to know why blacks chose to live in Long Branch. Certainly, the fine institution of slavery made the decision for many, but with its abolition and the freedom to move, why did they stay? I know why mine and countless other families came during the great migration; to escape racism and take advantage of opportunities, which included work and education for their children.

Starting approximately in 1910, sharecropping communities disbanded in the south and reassembled almost identically in and near industrial cities of the North, Midwest and Western United States. The Robinson, Snell, Adams, Brown, Bell and Rawls families migrated from around Montgomery County, Georgia. From the same state came the Wrights from Lowndes, the Colberts from Wilcox and the Stathums from the Webster/Marion County area. Similarly, the Abels, Newmans, McCaskills, Shaws and Gibsons came from South Carolina; the Bynums and Everetts from North Carolina and the Blantons from Virginia. Bound by common experience and journey, these and others arrived in Long Branch with hopes and dreams, but who was already there?

I lived the majority of life in Long Branch before abandoning ship for more nurturing environs. With natural curiosity and finely tuned ears, I heard countless stories of hard times and subsequent journeys to deliverance, resulting in familiarity with much of the transplanted African American community. Then there were others as visible, yet less familiar; the Cofers, Deans, Gardners, Greenwoods, Logans, Meades, Mooneys, Puryears and Websters, pillars of the community, city natives who seemed to never live anywhere else, though certainly descendants from some earlier transplant. Lila Dean Gilliard, the actual subject of this entry, was one of them.

On Saturday past Mrs. Gilliard was laid to rest. For a great portion of my life she was present. Living near my great aunts and cousins in the Sea View Manor housing project, she raised a tribe of children. Her pigeon-toed gait, ambling toward destinations was identifiable at great distances. Though unpretentious and authentically kind to all, some chose to focus on what they perceived deficient. With prominent brow and features, suggestive of undiluted African heritage, she fell somewhere outside the accepted societal view of beauty and added insult to society's injury by not obsessing over her appearance. She often looked as though she was about to begin, was in the middle of or just completed a good days work... yet, I never knew her to be anything but sweet.

She was a devoted and protective parent, standing by her children regardless of circumstance or consequence. Certainly, as with most parents, there were disappointments, heartaches and sorrows, yet I never knew her to be anything but sweet.

People can be terribly insecure at times and very mean. In seeking acceptance from our peers we will focus on those who stand apart, magnify their differences to minimize what we see as deficient in oursleves. At times, the subject of unkind humor and comment, certainly she heard whispers and innuendo, yet I never knew her to be anything but sweet.

Mrs. Gilliard did nothing to provoke negative opinion. She was simply herself in a community where so many tried to be something else. If anyone should ever have cause to comment or remark 0n her life, I hope they will recall her sweetness, devotion and disposition which was truly remarkable... lovely things... a lovely person.

Having lost my own mother, I can relate to the loss her remaining children suffer. Their staunchest ally and champion is gone, but they are so blessed to have each other. Endurance is much more difficult for single children, like myself. I have several half-siblings. With one or the other parent in common, we share little else, even our grief. It is a lonely sadness I hope the Gilliards should never know, but without question, there will be private, individual moments of sadness. During those times, reflect on the lovely and smile.

Memorial Day

2009-05-20T01:33:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day weekend kicks off summer on the New Jersey shore, perhaps all around the country. Those lacking the luxury of living near the beach, breeze into coastal towns, like Long Branch, where I grew up, to enjoy the sun, sand and surf. Traffic slows to a crawl along Joline Avenue and Broadway, frustrating permanent residents who curse the visitors, labeling them Bennies. They seem oblivious to the irritation and inconvenience of their presence.

Supermarket shelves empty in anticipation of visiting friends and family. Outdoor furniture is pulled from storage, hosed down and set to dry in the sun. The aroma from smoking grills rides the ocean breeze, carrying the faint scent of charcoal and accelerant to those without grills. Radios, set to oldies stations, count down classic summer jams over the buzz of lawnmowers and weed wackers. Children in the street toss kick and dodge balls, retreating to the curb at the sight of approaching cars. Everyone is ready to begin a new season. Most begin celebrating on Friday, even Thursday, and are in full swing by Saturday. When I was a kid, I didn't know it was a holiday until Monday. Our regular routine remained unchanged until then.

Formerly known as Decoration Day, the holiday actually commemorates U.S. men and women who died while in the military service. Many Americans also use Memorial Day to honor other family members who have died. Nearly everyone knows I love cemeteries. Many think it a morbid fascination; disturbed by what they perceive is preoccupation with death. Nothing could be further from truth, but I understand their unease. Most people never set foot in a cemetery until someone dies, resulting in their association with, not only death, but also sorrow and grief. In addition, cemeteries are glaring reminders of our mortality, with which few are completely comfortable.

My initial cemetery visits occurred on Memorial Day and carry no attachment of grief or sorrow. They are actually among my most pleasant childhood recollections. When passing by a cemetery I am not consumed with thoughts of death. The idea of crossing a New York street on foot causes greater anxiety. I regard cemeteries as places of peace and reflection where we can honor those who have passed on. They contain a wealth of information and have the capacity to enlighten us about our individual and collective histories.

As far back as I can recall Daddy was up at the crack of dawn. It was usually too early to tell the kind of day it would be. Sometimes a warm sun appeared, but more often clouds threatened a wash. Rain or shine, we'd climb in the car; pick up my cousin, Big Junie, and maybe some other random relatives for a two-hour journey to Beverly National Cemetery in Burlington County where my great-uncles are buried. There was usually silence during the ride as most everyone napped, but I always loved a road trip and sat alert next to my grandfather. At seven I could navigate the entire trip.

I still clearly recall my initial reaction upon entering the gates. The visual was awesome. Thousands of miniature American flags waved in front of gleaming, white granite markers, resting atop a verdant carpet of soft, thick grass. Though grand and majestic, it was also tranquil and serene. I fought an urge to run and play knowing, without being told, it was not the place. Before learning each plot was numbered, Daddy's ability to always find the exact location amazed me. He'd place flowers, bought at some Route 130 roadside vendor, beside the tiny flag, step back and look at the marker like he was seeing it for the first time. He might smoke a cigarette and chat with whoever might have come for the ride.

I always wandered the rows, examining markers before I could read, marveling at the uniformity and impeccable maintenance of the grounds. Over the years I came to realize that each marker represented a life and when I walked those rows, finally able to read, I learned of fallen heroes; when they were born, died and served the country. I became fascinated with military history and read anything I could about America at war. Though our visits seldom lasted more than 30 minutes, they inspired years of research.

The trips to Beverly occurred early to avoid holiday traffic and get us back home before noon. Daddy might light a grill or Willie-rig some long-neglected, home improvement project. I accompanied my great aunts to their sister's grave, where my fondness really took form. Monmouth Memorial Park is relatively new, maybe just over a century old. Before completion of the mausoleum in 1985, all interments were in-ground and bronze plates marked graves at ground level. Most of those buried had lived locally. My aunts would walk among the graves, telling stories about people with great detail and no discretion. At an early age, I had access to a wealth of information about people in my community, including Petunia.

Once I learned you could go any day of the year, I went everywhere in biking distance. White Ridge Cemetery in Eatontown became my favorite. Overgrown and neglected with sinking markers and a mean grass that grows best in sand, it remains an African American necrology of the area. Originally established as a burial ground for Black troops in the Civil War, it later served as the primary site for African American interments. Burials declined with the civil rights movement as Blacks sought options previously unavailable. Even some with family plots went elsewhere. A preservation movement in the 1980s led to a restoration of the historic sections and new interments increased. In addition to some relatives and family friends, the founding members of our church rest there.

The acquisition of a driver's license expanded my boundaries and exploration. It was soon ritual, anywhere I went, to visit a cemetery, especially Georgia where my family originates. Starlight Baptist Church in Glenwood has an adjacent graveyard in which my great-grandfather, his mother and several siblings are buried. In Ailey's Live Oak Baptist Churchyard another great-grandfather rests with his parents. Between both churchyards I can trace my lineage. On these grounds people gather annually, first Monday in August, to clean family graves and visit with old friends. Many travel great distances to the annual homecoming. My grandfather hardly ever missed a year.

Of all Georgia's cemeteries, I love Savannah's Bonaventure most. Its natural beauty and grandeur, described in the pages of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, piqued my curiosity and compelled a visit. Stately oaks, branches heavy with thick moss, stand sentinel, casting shadows upon graves of such notable Georgians as composer, Johnny Mercer and poet, Conrad Aiken. Another favorite is Atlanta's Southview, final resting place of golf legend, Bobby Jones and Gone With The Wind author, Margaret Mitchell. Both cemeteries, with lazy, winding paths and shady corners are perfect for a morning stroll or midday nap.

Twice, my exploration has gone international, each time to Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. At more than 100 acres, what Parisians affectionately call la cite des morts – city of the dead, is the largest cemetery in Paris and reputed to be the world's most visited. Each year hundreds upon thousands visit graves of great figures who have enhanced french life over the past 200 years. Resting with Chopin, Molière, Balzac, Sarah Bernhardt, Edith Piaf and other nationals are Irish playwright, Oscar Wilde, American singer, Jim Morrison and African American author, Richard Wright; a few of many who preferred Paris over home. Perhaps more impressive than the list of celebrity burials are the elaborate monuments and museum-quality statuary, marking a significant number of graves. Some areas look more like a sculpture garden than cemetery.

While a student in Boston, I stumbled upon Mount Auburn in nearby Cambridge. Established in 1831, its founders believed that burying the dead was best done in an attractive natural setting and insisted the cemetery be a place for the living. Thought influenced by Père-Lachaise are the ornamental plantings, monuments, fences, fountains and chapels enhancing the natural landscape. Within a few years of opening, legions of visitors prompted cemetery developers to carefully regulate the grounds. The rising popularity is credited with starting the American public parks movement. After nearly 180 years and more than 80,000 burials Mount Auburn remains an attraction. Horticulturalists especially, appreciate the almost 700 varieties of more than 5,500 trees and thousands of shrubs and plants that thrive in the natural landscape.

New Orleans celebrates and preserves a cultural connection to France. Influences are evident throughout the city, even in burial practices. Like Père-Lachaise, the aboveground tombs in New Orleans cemeteries are often referred to as cities of the dead. At Lafayette, set location for such feature films as Double Jeopardy and Interview With A Vampire, decorative, rusty ironwork, stone crosses and magnificent statuary adorn sun-bleached tombs. The high water table necessitated aboveground interments for most of the city. After a rainstorm, airtight coffins would literally pop out of the ground. Early settlers experimented unsuccessfully with different burial methods. Eventually, following the Spanish custom of using vaults, graves were kept above ground. Providence Memorial Park, one of several newer cemeteries just outside the city limits, offers in-ground burials. The single aboveground interment, separate from the mausoleum, is that of gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson.

During the last two years, living in New York, I logged virtually no cemetery hours, despite opportunity in the area. My dry spell ended last month at historic Green-Wood, where composer, Leonard Bernstein rests at the highest point in Brooklyn. A spectacular view of Lady Liberty and lower Manhattan, superb landscaping and striking architecture come together in, what may be, the borough's most attractive location. Equally lovely and pristine is Woodlawn in the Bronx. There I recently happened upon musicians; Duke Ellington and Miles Davis, singer, Celia Cruz and poet, Countee Cullen. The Secret City: Woodlawn Cemetery and the Buried History of New York provides a unique glimpse of the grounds and those resting therein. The work of author, Fred Goodman is informative and revealing. He identifies and celebrates the notable and notorious, including many for whom city parks and monuments are named.

As the weather improves, the ground calls me. Plans include a journey St. Raymond's in the Bronx, where Billie Holiday is buried, Ferncliff in Westchester, final resting place of Moms Mabley, Joan Crawford, Adolph Caesar and Aaliyah and perhaps Sleepy Hollow Cemetery where Washington Irving, author of the legend, lies. If I get back to Chicago this summer I hope to visit historic Oakwoods and Burr Oak Cemeteries. Though on these grounds rest the celebrated; Jesse Owens, Emmett Till, Dinah Washington and LeRoy Whitfield, the unsung also slumber. I hope to learn something of them as well.

One day I will die. With no other alternative I am completely comfortable in the knowledge. I am told that among the first things examined when studying a culture is how they treat their dead. Sometimes I wonder how, or even if, I will be remembered, but recognize my deeds will determine the outcome. I pray my bones rest in a fine old cemetery, like Woodlawn or even White Ridge; certainly not the Arneytown golf course where my parents rest. Everything is regulated right down to a schedule for the placement and removal of flowers, which is far too stringent. Place me in a bone yard where a floral tribute might sit in the same spot for a lifetime or eternity.

Perhaps on Memorial Day, a hundred or even fifty years from now, an ancient holiday wreath is moved to reveal a modest marker, bearing my name. Hopefully recognition is stirred and something kind or scandalous is said.

Photo credits

Beverly National Cemetery: Historical Passion, Findagrave.com

Père-Lachaise: Naoma Foreman

Mount Auburn Cemetery: Courtney Filer-Dougal

The Secret City: Follett Higher Education Group

An Open Letter

2009-04-14T07:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Carmack:

When my sister phoned to inform me of our mother’s passing, already knowing the answer I asked which mortician we were calling. She had spoken to Vincent (McDonald) even before the paramedics finally ceased efforts at resuscitation. I recalled having done the same when our grandfather passed. In moments of blinding sorrow, it was the one action performed with absolutely no thought, serving as a great source of comfort. Regrettably, that is no longer the case.

Over forty years my immediate and extended family never hesitated to call upon and refer the services of Jackson Funeral Home. In 1972, my late grandfather forged a partnership with the late Edward Jackson, offering his services at our funeral home in Long Branch for nearly two decades. Without exception, we were always impressed with the great care, detail and emphasis applied to preparation and immense pride garnered by his and the work of those he trained. Though he’s been gone 15 years, the standard Mr. Jackson set for cosmetology has not suffered. Our mother looked wonderful and we are grateful, but other issues have profoundly impacted our confidence.

Our concerns are customer service based, fueled by what we perceive as a lack of training, experience and professionalism. First, we recognize the significant staff changes over the past five years. Certainly, those unfamiliar to us have no knowledge of our history in the business or with Jackson, specifically. You may even be unaware. However, Vincent, with full knowledge, could have briefed Ms. Mays in order to prevent or, at least, lessen the embarrassment and discomfort we experienced during the sales process. At times she appeared flustered, lacking knowledge and clarity with certain procedures. By the end of our initial meeting, despite her valiant attempt to convey sincere concern, we were insulted.

We are fully aware of the need to secure payment within 48 hours of the funeral to avoid delay or cancellation, but considering our past relationship, were bothered by the constant reiteration. During these last four decades, whether dealing with Mr. Jackson or Mr. Carmack, Sr., we have never failed to pay in full for services rendered, either through insurance or with cash. A review of files would provide proof, but Ms. Mays informed us that files become disposable after seven years. How unfortunate in an industry that benefits significantly from past interactions.

Though the death of our mother was sudden, we were confident of her insurance coverage and brought with us a supporting document. We were unsure of the beneficiary, but knew that it was one of her children. We offered birth dates and social security numbers to help expedite the search process, which has always, to my recollection, been carried out by a representative of Jackson Funeral Home. Ms. Mays declined our vital information, but later bombarded us with phone calls to obtain what we initially offered.

I was annoyed, but came to realize in the vast scheme of things, we are only one of a number of families to which you provide a service and can expect no preferential treatment. However, barring the most extreme circumstances, we can expect that all contractual obligations be met as mutually agreed, expeditiously and in good faith. Despite my family’s effort to do our part, there was an unforgivable breach on the day of the funeral.

Mother’s viewing was scheduled to begin at 10 a.m. Her remains arrived at the church nearly five minutes past, accompanied by Vincent, Ms. Mays and Ms. Smith, offering little in the way of apology or explanation. To my shock, Vincent requested that three men help him carry the casket up several steps to the bier. In disbelief, I assisted to speed the process. Subsequently, we were delayed another ten minutes, while the casket was opened and floral tributes positioned, for which I also assisted. My 82-year-old grandmother and her elder sisters stood in a drafty vestibule ahead of a capacity crowd, spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Never in all my years of planning and participating in services have I encountered this level of poor direction. Was I incorrect to assume that the service would begin at the specified hour with sufficient manpower? I think not. Entitlement is the birthright of every contract. If not for shock of losing my last remaining parent, I would have disputed the bill. Instead, I opted against further extending our grief with litigation. We rather hoped Jackson Funeral Home, in a show of good faith and commitment to customer satisfaction, would offer restitution for inadequate management. Failure to do so clearly indicates the need to sever our long association. We are grateful for years of stellar service though profoundly sad it ends in disappointment.

Sincerely,
Rodney Snell

Sometimes I Feel...

2009-04-12T02:43:00.000-07:00

A long way from drafty bedroom, queen-sized Malm; and the comforting warmth of soft flannel-sheeted sleep; a long way from home.

Like nothing happened, I get up most days and go about a routine left over from before. It seems mundane now. Maybe it always was.

Unmotivated, I begin tasks to abandon midway. Soft butter and room temperature eggs rest on my kitchen table, never to be chocolate chip cookies. Acknowledgements unwritten allow genuine appreciation to go unexpressed.

Like a three-year old, lost, alone, bottom lip quivering, brow furrowed, eyes filling, vision blurring, sobbing uncontrollably, never getting around to telling what’s wrong.

Surely I should explain, at least to fellow transit passengers, inching closer to windows, uncomfortable with watching a river flow down the face of a grown man. Saying it will only make me feel worse and cry harder.

I’m almost gone; a watermark on a page.

Like a sentence half written, predicate without subject, I run on, but long for punctuation.

Undefined... destinationless.

She’s still here – at home in the kitchen, chopping vegetables or putting peppercorn in the collard greens; smoldering cigarette in a nearby ashtray; Maze, featuring Frankie Beverly or The Whispers setting a rhythm. Only distance I can cover in the space of two hours-fifteen minutes separates us. I’m willing to believe, but reality won’t be altered.

I had a daydream, snoring softly, chin resting on chest. The pretty lady in the cream suit and the “I Love Jesus” scarf was a familiar stranger. Lips calmly brushed a cool forehead; hands gently covered a still face in white satin… swiftly closed a pretty white box, adorned with angels. Whose lips? Whose hands? Who was that lady?

This lucid dream should cause considerable distress, but plays like a Lifetime movie, adapted from paperback or chitlin-circuit stage play turned feature film. Flat characters, predictable plot, familiar setting and colloquial dialogue require minimal investment and even less thought. Same script, different cast.

I want to laugh at the funny parts, shake my head in dismay at the writing, revise the plot or at least my part so I don’t wander aimlessly through scenes sans purpose or motivation, but with enough lines to still be called a lead player.

Like a damp shirt, billowing on backyard clothesline at the mercy of March wind, I hang precariously by one pin, waiting for the gust that sends me wafting through air to land on hard, dusty ground.

Like a Motherless Child.

Petunia's Pound Cake

2009-03-11T08:38:00.000-07:00

This simple pound cake recipe has been in my family forever. In my much-anticipated book, If I Tell You I Have To Kill You: Whispered Stories and Recipes, it accompanies a short story called “The Coat,” which tells the story of a sweet girl, coping with the discovery of her husband’s infidelity. An excerpt:

The Coat

For Everett Scott

She pulls the soft, black kid leather over hands, adjusts the red wool derby on her head and stifles a sneeze. Even after hanging on the back line all night, it still smells of Youth Dew. So much that Petunia can’t apply the delicate perfume she prefers. She checks her nose in the mirror by the door, steps into the March wind and walks, lively, up Central Avenue. She looks smart and stylish. The sharp, tailored lines of the coat make her feel taller. No longer demure and gentle, she is determined and bold. It sits heavy on her shoulders; oversized, but not ill fitting. The top of its silver fox collar brushing her hat brim. Its sleeves are long enough to almost brush her knuckles and the hem reaches the ankles. The kick pleat slaps her calf with each stride, increasing the bounce in her step.

At the corner she hears service already in progress at Holy Temple. Sister Otey’s tambourine beats a COGIC rhythm Petunia tries to match with Baptist feet. Traffic on busy Liberty Street slows to a crawl. Her destination lies just beyond the elementary school. Passing Santoro’s Store, she waves to a woman at the counter who drops a dozen eggs at the sight of that coat. Petunia keeps walking; on a mission that is not nice and completely out of character.

Petunia’s Lemon Pound Cake

3 sticks of Salted Butter
8 oz Cream Cheese
6 large eggs
3 Cups of All-Purpose flour
3 Cups of sugar
3 Teaspoons Vanilla Extract
1 Teaspoon Lemon Extract

All ingredients must be room temperature.

Put on some Gospel music. This particular cake was made while listening to The Dream by Maurette Brown Clark, but any title and artist will do. If you’re not a fan of gospel, I’ve made some great cakes with Sarah Vaughan too. The idea is to be relaxed and most music soothes. I choose gospel so I praise God for the result before I begin.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Grease and flour the pan. I use about a ½ tablespoon of butter. Shortening is permissible, but I’m already using ¾ of a pound of butter, why not pinch from what remains of the pound.

Don’t use one of those fancy Bundt pans. A basic 9-inch tube pan will do nicely. No need to head to one of those high-end cookware stores. I have two; a Mirro non-stick and a Wilton loose bottom I don’t particularly like. Both came from a garage sale or second-hand store. Previously used pans are the best!

Cream butter and sugar until smooth. I maintain medium speed on the hand mixer. My dream mixer is the KitchenAid Artisan. If you have one you’re not using or can get me a deal… HOLLA!

Add vanilla and beat well.

Add eggs, beating well after each addition until there are no traces of yolk. By the last egg it should be silky-smooth.

Add cream cheese and beat again until smooth.

Mix in lemon extract. You can also fold in the zest of a lemon, but I’m usually not in the mood to zest a lemon so I take the short cut and get to the same place in less time.

Add flour, beating well after each cup.

Pour/scrape into prepared pan. The batter is thick and there will be some left on the bowl and beaters. Feel free to taste, but remember the raw egg. Sam and Ella are dropping on folks without notice. Don’t put out a welcome mat.

Bake for 90 minutes or until you like the color.

Cool on rack for 15 minutes. It can also be left on the stovetop if you don’t have all the fancy tools. I use something I picked up at an estate sale.

Cool completely before cutting. The crust will be better.

Peaches! Peaches! Peaches! A Re-post

2009-03-10T20:13:00.000-07:00

It was never meant to offend, but somehow, someone in my circle coined the term "fat girl snack." No one was attempting to make fun of the obese. I have some big girls in my family and I would never do anything to piss them off. But lets keep it real... fat on the body doesn't appear out of no where. Sometimes it's brought about by a physical condition, but more often than not, it's the result of too many poor dietary choices... fat girl snacks.

A fat girl snack can be virtually anything edible. However, there is a criteria that must be met in order to earn the FGS label. First there are certain foods that are, without question, a fat girl snack. Pretty much anything made by Hostess, Drake, TastyKake or Little Debbie make the grade. I bake a homemade poundcake as well as three-layer caramel and coconut cakes. They too are fat girl snacks. Candies, cookies, or anything that comes packaged in a bag, marked Wise, Lays, Utz, or Herrs... FGS!

There are also items that are considered fat girl snacks, simply based on the time or intention of consumption. A stack of pancakes at 7:45 in the morning is a meal. A stack of pancakes at 3:45 in the morning is a fat girl snack. In fact... most foods eaten in the wee hours of the morning are indeed fat girl snacks. Exceptions apply if you have a) spent the better part of the night, dancing at a club... b) are on some kind of service and have been up for three days... c) just had marathon sex or d) all of the above. You need something to eat. Treat yourself!

Intention is also a great factor especially when considering fast foods. A lunchtime dip into Mickey D's, BK, KFC, Popeyes, etc., still borders on the verge of fat girl snackness, however the fact that it's a noon day meal removes some of the stigma. On the other hand, anything handed off through a window and consumed before you get halfway down the block is what?... A fat girl snack. The same rules apply to take out. Anything fried and encased in styrofoam is a fat girl snack at any time of the day. Side note... having a diet coke with your meal makes it no less a fat girl snack. You might as well get you a Tahitian Treat or Kool Aid, the red kind... real sweet.

I am by no means condemning consumption of the fat girl snack. Matter of fact, I'm a fat girl snack connoisseur. Wherever I am I will find the spot. A trip to Chicago is incomplete without a dip into a Harold's (pick a good one... a wrong number could result in the runs). Ain't no way you can go to DC without going down to Horace and Dickie's for a 4-piece fish sammich. When in Philadelphia, eat a cheesesteak, just because. New York has a soul food cafeteria off 125th Street above a KFC called, Manna's. If you go to Georgia, get you some boiled (pronounced bald) peanuts and some red velvet cake, preferably in the same sitting. Child, it don't matter. Just eat. And if you know of a good spot... let me find out. Holla Back!

Bottom line... A fat girl snack is ANYTHING you know you shouldn't be eating, but sometimes, it be's dat way.

A Response

2009-03-01T07:30:00.000-08:00

I am blessed. I was born in a nation whose founders believed that all men are created equal and endowed by their Creator with unalienable Rights, which include Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. I am further blessed that when a Constitution was drafted to protect these rights, a process was included by which it could be altered. My great-great-grandfather, also born in this nation during slavery, had no rights. In fact, the same Constitution that declared him the property of another declares me free.

Getting to this place where I can, theoretically, enjoy rights originally intended for white men has been a difficult journey wrought with great peril. The abolition of slavery was no comfort as other means of control were conceived and executed. My sister often reminds me that the first prison opened the day after slavery ended. The Constitution was amended for my inclusion, but not without sedition. There has always existed a fringe element seeking to undermine the law and break the spirit of a people. Ironically, these homegrown terrorists ignored constitutional law to perpetrate horrendous acts, while enjoying protection from the same document. Such evil continues to fester.

Perhaps not evil, but no less frustrating is another element; those blind to the social injustice and overt racism that permeates our culture. Apparently these people have no sense of history and lack the empathy to consider its effect on the present. They exist in a world removed. Most can claim at least one African American friend of whom they know very little. They see the great accomplishments of a few and believe that all can achieve the same. They would never consider that the effects of slavery, oppression and institutional discrimination prevent many from enjoying their unalienable rights. They are quick to assert that slavery was abolished. African Americans should be grateful and get over it.

Many Americans have served valiantly in defense of our country, returning from combat, physically and psychologically scarred as a result. Some use drugs and alcohol as a panacea, setting in motion a cycle with detrimental, long-term consequences. I could remind them their tour of duty is over, admonishing them to be grateful and get over it. However, I understand the far-reaching emotional and psychological effects of trauma, further increasing my respect of and appreciation for our men and women in uniform. Their sacrifice is unquestionable. Still, as a nation, we consistently fail to honor them properly. We place them in the care of the Veterans Administration, sleep in and take advantage of white sales on the appropriate holidays.

Similarly, the nation fails to adequately celebrate African Americans for our innumerable contributions. If not for slave labor how would the country look? Africans in America are responsible for innovations enjoyed the world over. Among them; the shoe-lasting machine, the hair comb, the ironing board, the clothes dryer, the elevator, the automatic gearshift, the traffic signal, the electric trolley, the street sweeper, the pencil sharpener, the fountain pen, the electric lamp, the mop and dustpan, the sprinkler system and lawn mower, the air conditioner and heating furnace, the refrigerator and this is the short list. Despite unending oppression and terrorism, African American ingenuity has never suffered.

The trauma from intimidation, degradation and dehumanization is very real. Some of us are so damaged we cannot imagine how it would feel to be whole, well and free. History has taught us to remain on the defensive and we stand poised and go there when prompted. Last week the New York Post took us there. So much so that the Rupert Murdoch, the king of biased media issued a personal statement of apology, which I publicly refused to accept. On Facebook I received this comment:

That is hilarious , The post called bush a chimapanzie, and a monkey not one person said a thing , Suddenly obama is president its racist BULLSHIT. Freedom of speech and ots people liek you that are getting rid of our freedoms

What the commenter fails to realize is there are far more ethnic slurs to describe African Americans than the few he may use. In addition to moulinyan and several others I don’t care to repeat, we are called coon, jigaboo, darky, pickaninny, spade, spook and every manner of primate. These are not terms of endearment. They are insults, demeaning to our character and painful reminders of a not-so-distant past. I am hard-pressed to believe an educated editorial staff did not expect, even anticipate the public outcry. Similar stunts have increased their visibility in the past. The loss of Liz Smith will most certainly result in decreased circulation, but sensationalism sells, even in the absence of credible journalism as the Post has proven time and again.

Certainly freedom of speech and expression must be respected. The Post has every right to print what they want just as I have the right to respond how I wish. People like me can’t stop them, but we can certainly choose not to feed the monster.

An Open Letter To The New York Post

2009-02-19T09:29:00.000-08:00

To: Paul V. Carlucci, Publisher, New York Post
Cc: Rupert Murdoch, News Corporation Chairman and Chief Executive Officer

New York Post
1211 Avenue of Americas
New York, NY 10036

Dear Mr. Carlucci,

I was neither shocked nor saddened by the New York Post's recent publication of Sean Delonas' cartoon depicting a bullet-riddled chimpanzee, killed by police and thus unable "to write the next stimulus bill." The image evoked a long history of racially-charged comparisons of Black people to monkeys and pandered -- very intentionally -- to a fringe element that fantasizes about a dead nigger in the White House.

I am not writing to ask that you publish an apology. Nor do I ask that whichever editor approved Delonas' cartoon for publication be fired, whether it was Editorial Page Editor Bob McManus, Editor Col Allan, or another senior manager in the newsroom. I certainly won't ask that you determine who was responsible and hold that person accountable. Surely the responsible party is already identified and rewarded. Any action on your part will be based solely on its ability to increase circulation.

I was particularly amused by the Post's sole response to readers who found the image to have racist undertones. The callous, though typical, statement Col Allan issued Wednesday denies a historical reality, and for him to claim ignorance of this history justifies questions about his ability to effectively lead a daily newspaper geared toward a mainstream and multiracial audience. What it clearly demonstrates is his ability to move that rag, loosely disguised as a newspaper.

Please do not publish an apology, especially when you will conduct business as usual. Such action will acknowledge the contempt you have for your readers, but do not listen to me. Do what you've always done. Perhaps more readers will repeat my actions of 12 years ago; drop the Post in the nearest waste can and NEVER buy it again.

Sincerely,

Rodney Snell

No Words

2009-01-31T14:11:00.000-08:00

For nearly a month I’ve failed, miserably, in each effort to properly convey the magnitude of a moment. Words ignored reasonable requests to line up into sentences. I couldn’t even get a clause. Often, an over-worked, well-intentioned adjective made it around the block, always alone with no modifier for support, to provide a lackluster response. Sure, it was amazing, emotional, incredible, and phenomenal, but so are many other things. This event cried out for a vibrant description, but the lexicon was locked. When a lazy adverb showed up and just sort of hung there, I waged war, began dragging words onto the page and here I am.

I stood on the mall that day, looking at the people around me. What I saw defied logic and even then, I knew I would never be able to express it verbally, still I tried. Words knew better. All I will say is there was a convergence of past and present, spirit and flesh, hope fulfilled and dreams realized. If I am never able to adequately express the feeling, I was there. So were they.

Twelve Months

2009-01-10T08:47:00.000-08:00

Once again, it's been a year. Twelve months of successes, triumphs, failures and disappointments. As usual, the good outweighs the bad, though it never seems that way when you're going through. You simply believe that you're up against a wall too high to get over, too low to get under and too wide to get around. Resourceful individuals are fortunate. They maneuver out of tight spots with ease and create favorable outcomes. The less adaptive fall prey to circumstance, missing the solution that is usually within reach and forfeit ownership of their outcome. I’m blessed to be among the resourceful. When life gives you yams, make sweet potato pie.

My tremendous [new] growth spurt in 2008 was fueled by stark reality and actualized dreams; enormous challenge, sweeping change and learned lessons. As we enter the year in which Tokyo Police Club predict our “robot masters will build a better world,” the first Black family takes up residency in the White House and I will publish my first book. Not even in my most fantastic dreams did I envision a non-white president or a simple story about my grandfather kicking off a professional writing career. I am now motivated toward loftier goals and bigger dreams, armed with further proof that all things are possible.

During an extended and difficult molting season, bad habits, toxic associations, damaged esteem, poor perception and negativity was shed, creating space for best practices, authentic relationships, renewed confidence; brave hope, pristine clarity and the love of a lifetime. I soar into 2009 on wings, refurbished with the energy of youth. My debt can never be paid for a strategic plan that places innumerable blessings along a path of diverse terrain, which I appreciate as much for the rough places as the plain. I have learned to not dwell on choices I should’ve made. All things are as they were meant to be. Even those poetic two roads diverged were engineered so that the choice of one hasn’t left the other un-traveled.

Vices are still present, but rather than deny the physical self and suppress desire, I look beyond the action to the catalyst. After all, it is more important to be aware of and learn what drives the action. I call it the knowledge of liberation. It frees me to examine myself without attaching value and to see others in the same manner. Only that which we observe is true, though not always. I used to formulate opinions about others based on what they said instead of simply observing, which was an exercise in stupidity. I didn’t know enough about myself to make assumptions surrounding the actions of others. I still don’t. All I can do is decide if I accept what I observe and keep it moving.

During the second half of 2008 I learned to be good to myself and demand reciprocity from everyone, even those previously held to less-rigorous standards. Those unable to meet the challenge simply vanished, freeing space for some truly extraordinary individuals to enter my life; exceptional simply in their courage to appear with frailties exposed, whatever the outcome. Like a realtor with the distasteful chore of selling a house in disrepair, they stress the strong foundation and well-constructed frame that signals the possibility of a remarkable rehab. Most anyone who lives suffers damage, self-inflicted or inherited. Assigning blame is a terrible waste of energy that can be more productively spent. Ultimately the individual is responsible for initiating repair, utilizing everything available.

I cherish everyone I’ve encountered on my journey, especially those who didn’t meet the challenge. They were marvelous instructors, presenting lessons no one else could teach. Some were long in duration, not only because I refused see what was plain, but also because teachers often miss opportunities to learn from students. Though we don’t always recognize, every interaction has value. Our lives collide for reasons we may never comprehend. In our ridiculous attempts to apply earthly reason, we deliver a grand insult by presuming to know the Creator’s intention. We like to think we are in control yet when trials come, we cry out to God for help.

Acknowledging that the plan is out of my hands gives me serenity, courage and confidence to face each day. It really is a wonderful life if we follow instructions. Most every faith directs us toward love. Christianity commands that, above all else, we love God. We must also love our neighbor as ourselves. Though it sounds simple, love of self is not easily achieved. We look to other humans for validation, failing to recognize the divine that resides within us. We are the handiwork of the most benevolent. Self-hatred should not be an option, but our frailty offends us. I’ve learned to celebrate that which makes me human, rather than strive for perfection. It just ain’t gonna happen and I’m good with it.

The next twelve have already proven they will be most eventful. I’m already recovering from injuries sustained by a brick tossed through the car window by three restless youths. My face is a mess, but my mind is right. Despite pain and inconvenience, my thoughts continuously return to those preteens, with nothing better to do at 11:45 pm. I am sad for what their lives must be like and fear for what the future may hold for them. I pray for change and wish them all the best. We may never meet, but our lives are indelibly connected. I am honored to be part of an event that may perhaps bring about a catharsis.

Happy New Year!

A Different World

2008-11-29T07:11:00.000-08:00

Three weeks later I'm still amazed whenever I see or hear anything that refers to Barack Obama as President-elect. Some mornings I awaken uncertain that it actually happened but it did. On November 4, Barack Hussein Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States by a wide margin. Though I allowed myself to hope for victory. I never gave serious consideration to the idea that a man of African descent would ever lead the country. I assumed the white power structure would come together, commit grand theft election and we'd take another four up the rear.

I've witnessed how the concept of race can polarize and marginalize. I reflect, in shame, on those times I gentrified my racial identity to gain favor with the whites. For a while I believed having more white associates than Black somehow increased my value, which is true on some level. For a time, in fact sometimes I believe that white people are inherently evil and responsible for all malevolence in the world. Perhaps not directly, but with a measure of paranoia, accompanied by anger and self-loathing, symptomatic of Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome, I can concoct a creative conspiracy theory. Somewhere deep in my gut I still fear the good old boy network will somehow prevail.

Despite my trepidation, I arrived at the polls early to cast a vote for hope. I didn't anticipate the wave of emotion that engulfed me upon entering the booth and closing the drape. I believed myself to be part of an historic moment, but miscalculated its magnitude. I knew that I would be proxy voting for all those who fought and died in the struggle, but I never imagined Fannie Lou Hamer, Vernon Dahmer, Medgar Evers, Viola Liuzza, Chaney, Goodman, Schwerner and my Aunt Sarah would follow me into the booth. They were surely there. Their spiritual presence was overwhelming. Their excitement was palpable. Not only were we boldly exercising our right, we were asserting, with confidence that a candidate who looks like us deserved to ascend to the highest office.

With no concrete vision of the outcome, I was still intoxicated by the possibility of our world changing by the end of the day. When the inconceivable happened, there was no immediate thrill of victory or feeling of relief. The same fear and foreboding that plagued me when he earned the nomination, remains with me even now. Another leg of the journey is complete, but there is more difficult ground to cover. I'm suiting up for the battle. I'm not annoyed by the collective joy of the people, though the Obama gear being sold in the ghetto screams coonery. The most offensive is the black velvet tapestry of Barack Obama, Nelson Mandela and Jesus Christ. Framed photographs of Obama are fast replacing portraits of Dr. King that hang in Black households across the country. They truly believe the world has changed. I'm not so sure. I will celebrate upon the successful completion of his first term, assured that a new day has arrived. There are still too many remnants of yesterday for me to dance in the street.

Back in the 1980s the tourism council of my home state ran a television ad featuring former governor, Thomas Kean, uttering the slogan, "New Jersey and you, perfect together." It was a wonderful campaign that showed those, only familiar with a stretch of turnpike, what treasures lay beyond the pine trees, industrial complexes and marshlands. Even life-long Jerseyans remain completely unaware of the pristine serenity of Mount Tammany or the Victorian grandeur of Cape May. Motorists, making the same trip each day, barely notice the slope of South Orange Avenue as it clings to the Watchungs. From its majestic Atlantic coast to the banks of the Delaware, New Jersey offers a diversity of attractions and people.

I grew up along the shore in a resort town that no longer exists. At one time, the "Friendly City" played host to celebrities, the idle rich, and vacationing presidents. People still live and work there, but the community that I knew is gone. The city is no longer friendly or familiar. For deliberately extended absences and failure to recognize its charm, I accept some responsibility for the change. However, I have lived long enough to learn that something ugly lurked just beneath what appeared idyllic on the surface. It's true for most of New Jersey.

Ours was perhaps the first black family to move into a neighborhood of Italian immigrants. Working families inhabited well-maintained homes with manicured lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges. Fruit trees and grape arbors flourished in just about every yard, yielding harvests that eventually became homemade jellies, preserves and wine. Our house actually has a crude wine cellar beneath the kitchen, where backyard wine fermented in wooden casks.

Our Italian neighbors were nice and polite on the surface, which is all I knew. We didn't visit their homes and were instructed not to trespass on their property under any circumstances. After watching old Mr. Cammarano trim hedges with a sickle, I never asked why. I simply assumed something bad would happen. I depended upon meter readers, mailmen and my more daring playmates to retrieve foul balls. I don't believe we were a nuisance to our neighbors or profoundly affected their quality of life. Still they all moved away, became absentee landlords and eventually sold their properties. I certainly never suspected our entrance facilitated their exit. After all, we were quiet, except on major holidays, maintained our property and stayed out of the way. I was nearly an adult when I realized they'd simply recreated the neighborhood in what was deemed a better section of town. I also learned a similar migratory pattern occurred across town, where Jews abandoned a temple during their exodus.

Despite white flight from the neighborhood, our school system remained integrated. I attended public school with children from every conceivable background and formed genuine friendships. I was articulate, well read and a bit of a geek, which earned little respect among my peers, but upwardly mobile people of color thought I was brilliant and the parents of my white classmates considered me a credit to my race. Despite the grin and shuffle, I am proud to have crossed cultures, formed lasting associations with people across the spectrum and forced many to rethink their attitudes concerning people of color, much like President-elect Obama. There were even instances when I transcended my outer shell to connect on a purely intellectual level. I was fortunate to have come of age in a place that valued diversity and practiced tolerance, at least theoretically. I came to realize tolerance was attached to the observance of certain social constructs.

Apparently rules were made to be broken, at the very least, waived or amended, reaffirming that death is the only certainty in life. During my brief sojourn on earth, things once considered absolute and finite have been altered, destroyed or simply vanished. Berlin’s wall toppled in 1989, the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991 and New York’s twin towers became smoldering rubble in the blink of an eye on a bright September morning in 2001. Each of those events profoundly impacted the physical and cultural landscape of our world. The elevation of a biracial man to the American presidency creates a similar effect. For the first time since 1789 the Commander in chief looks different and that difference has empowered and changed the perspective of a severely traumatized and disenfranchised people.

Most adult Black Americans, when asked, will tell you they never believed they’d live to see a person of color rise to the presidency. Remarkably, Black children born today may never suffer the frustration of limitations imposed by a racist power structure. They can look to the White House and see a family that reflects them. Just as Tiger Woods’ performance on the course ripped country club doors asunder, the presidency of Barack Obama shatters a political glass ceiling that has endured 219 years. People of color can now envision themselves running the country as easily as they can aspire to a career in entertainment or professional sports. The playing field appears to be leveling, but the harsh reality of yesterday reaches over regularly to slap me.

Although I abandoned New Jersey, I still go to the web and read the shore area’s daily newspaper. I like to keep up with the happenings back home. At the end of each story there is space for reader comments. Much of what is posted helps me identify the reasons I moved. Small-minded bigots exist everywhere, but there is an over-abundance where I come from. A feature story about three young black men on trial for a gang-related murder was plastered with hateful comments. Seagoat22 felt justified to write, “The entire Black race should have been left in Africa.” For every comment blasting his ignorance, two more agreed with him. Because I understand the concept of white privilege and recognize racism is weaved into our culture and constitution, I am seldom shocked by the commentary. On occasion I have been angered and posted comments of my own to magnify the stupidity. It doesn’t seem to make a great difference. The same fools come back daily to exercise their privilege.

It is incredible that in 2008 a vast majority of white Americans know little more of African Americans beyond the myths created and perpetuated to justify our oppression. I appreciate my Caucasian comrades for making an effort to know the me that exists beneath the surface and for allowing me to develop their perception of what it means to be Black in America. I am also grateful to the Obamas for redefining that perception for the world. I don’t know what the future holds, but like my grandmother, “I’m gon’ pray for that colored boy.”

My Black Fathers: Captain Fudge - A Super Hero

2008-09-22T11:01:00.000-07:00

My mother has thirteen aunts and uncles, five of whom are still living. From them she has thirty-two first cousins, of which twenty-two remain. Before migrating North from Georgia, our family lived in sharecropping communities, where the nearest kin was never more than a holler away. In New Jersey, that dynamic didn’t change. Everyone resided in or near the Grant Court housing project, allowing cousins to grow up more like siblings. If you messed with one, you dealt with all them.

By the time I was born, my grandparents had acquired real estate and moved on up from the projects, but they didn’t go farther than walking distance. If anyone was in distress, a family member was never more than fifteen minutes away on foot. Like my great aunts and uncles, their children also have a special place in my heart and each has contributed to shaping my character. My cousin, Emmett, has had a profound impact.

Aunt Sarah gave birth to Emmett on Sunday, July 20, 1941 in rural, middle Georgia. She refers to her unplanned pregnancy as “my trouble” and blames family friend, Bessie Flowers, for dragging her to the dance, where trouble began. I’ve heard that his father engineered a quick escape, entered the military and left young Sarah to raise their child alone. Recognizing that opportunities were limited for an eighteen-year-old single mother with minimal education, she placed the baby in her sister’s care and joined the Great Migration.

“Up north” she earned enough to provide for her son’s immediate care and his future. My grandmother recalls clothes and money arriving regularly. She and Aunt Iola laugh about how his paternal grandmother, Ms. Belle, would come by with a handful of peas or a few ears of corn. “Just enough for the baby,” she’d say. In 1946 my grandparents married and arranged to move, with their infant daughter, to Long Branch, New Jersey, where family and friends were settled. Ms. Belle had plans to assume custody of “the baby,” but he was on a train north before she had a chance to get him.

In New Jersey, Emmett was reunited with his mother. Aunt Sarah worked as live-in domestic, two hours away, on Long Island. With a plan to eventually settle in Long Branch, she entrusted him again to the family and returned to work. She visited frequently, always arriving with food, clothes and money. When he was older, Emmett returned to Georgia for summer visits where he established a bond with his father and half-siblings. The bond is so tight; a stranger would never guess the siblings have different mothers.

He entered Winston-Salem State in the fall of 1960, becoming the first in our family to attend college. He embraced campus life and can tell amazing stories of integrating a Greensboro lunch counter and hanging out with Marvin Gaye. He also made Aunt Sarah a grandmother, but didn’t share the news until he was prepared to support himself.

His Education degree was less than two years old when I was born, in the midst of his carefree years. He had a good job; working with special needs children, drove a sports car and traveled extensively. He inherited his mother’s features; round face with high cheekbones, large bright eyes, a smile to light any room and a deep, dark, chocolate complexion, hence the name Captain Fudge. To this day he’s one of the most charming people I know, especially with children. He gains their trust and affection because he engages them and encourages expression to foster healthy development. He exhibits patience with even the most difficult child recognizing that, with the right amount of nurturing and guidance, they can grow into productive adults.

He is quick to recall when he noticed my verbal aptitude. I must have been about four years old and we were several hours into a family road trip to Georgia. I always paid attention to road signs and would try to read them to ease my boredom. While riding through Virginia, I made what I imagine was a crude attempt to sound out Appomattox as we passed a sign marking the civil war landmark. Of all the adults in the car, Emmett was the one who heard. From that moment to this, his praise for me never ceased. He always gave me the attention needed to foster a positive self-image and envisioned I would do great things. He did the same for every child in our family.

He furthered my intellectual growth through a series of firsts; my first Broadway play, my first horseback ride, my first overnight trip to New York. Most importantly, he introduced me to diversity by giving me access to people of every possible background and persuasion. He endured a great deal of criticism for crossing racial boundaries as early as high school, but was not deterred him from pursuing relationships with people regardless of race or ethnicity. His subsequent marriage to a white woman, though not a complete surprise, raised brows and set tongues to wag, especially on road trips to the deep south, but he stood tall, blazed a trail and demonstrated that human is the only race we should claim.

Never one to back down from a debate, he has always challenged ignorance, even the antiquated beliefs and practices of his elders. He may curse when angry, but tears flow as liberally when he’s hurt. His heart is big as all outdoors and just as fragile. I count it a privilege to know him.

Equal Time

2008-08-02T15:02:00.001-07:00

With the release of Our Black Fathers: Brave, Bold & Beautiful!, I’m compelled to consider the “fathers” that were instrumental in my development. For the book, I wrote about my maternal grandfather, who took on the role of daddy in the absence of my biological father. I was excited when I read the call for submissions because I already had something prepared; remarks I’d presented at his home going. Everyone in attendance was moved. The accolades were astounding, which made me think it would be accepted for inclusion.

I submitted the piece and was mildly surprised when I received a critique, telling me I had much work to do. Even more surprising was that I wasn’t upset about the criticism. The editor did a great job of letting me know that I had submitted something written for a familiar audience to someone with no prior knowledge of the subject. The goal was to present a portrait of a very complex individual in 1400 words.

The process was amazing. In describing him to strangers, I became acquainted with my grandfather all over again, remembered some things I’d forgotten and a gained a new appreciation for him. The book has accomplished something even greater. Through its pages I’ve learned that just as I have several mothers, I have a few dads also. I’ve spent a great deal of time on stories about the women in my life. The brothers deserve equal time.

I have always given much deserved credit to the women who raised me. They nurtured, protected and loved me, but I often failed to recognize the men who did the same. The primary reason being they were often demonized. From the earliest age I was privy to conversations where the sins and failures of the fathers were put on blast. Perhaps the men were having similar exchanges, but they had enough respect for or fear of those women, that those conversations did not take place where children could overhear them.

“Black women are mean,” a friend said to me today and I thought yes, they could be, especially when one fails to live up to, sometimes, unreasonable expectations. I’ve lived long enough to understand human frailty and recognize that it knows no gender. We are commanded to honor our parents. In that spirit, I am proud to present my Black fathers.