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We are now accepting authors and community leaders to appear on our weekly show. Email show requests to the producer, Ella Curry, at: edc_dg@yahoo.com
National Democratic Convention on TVOne
Happy Friday!
Last night, HISTORY was made! Barack Obama is the first African-American to accept the nomination of Presdient of the United States of America from the Democratic party.
As I watched the National Democratic Convention on TVOne, I held my head high as tears streamed down my face. For the first time in my 42 years of being a United States Citizen, I actually felt like I had a voice, and it would be heard, through Barack Obama. It was an overwhelming feeling I felt, undescribable. So much so, I broke out in song. We Shall Overcome was sung loud and proud in my house, with my daddy as the backup choir. Although my father has dementia and, at times, leaves his senses, last night he clearly understood when he shouted, "Finally! From building the country to running it. It's about time!" I was elated, and this morning, I'm still elated. Y'all, we are going to the White House with the memories of Martin Luther King, Jr., Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Fredrick Douglass, and so many others.
Today, I am so happy to have Essence best-selling author of There's Always A Reason, William Fredrick Cooper, and my best friend, as today's guest blogger on my blog!
BARACK OBAMA: AN AMERICAN PRESIDENT by William Fredrick Cooper
“With profound gratitude, and great humility, I accept your nomination for Presidency of the United States …”
Read William's post at www.xpressyourselfpublishing.blogspot.com and leave your comments!
All the best,
Jessica Tilles
Publisher, Xpress Yourself Publishing
www.xpressyourselfpublishing.org
Last night, HISTORY was made! Barack Obama is the first African-American to accept the nomination of Presdient of the United States of America from the Democratic party.
As I watched the National Democratic Convention on TVOne, I held my head high as tears streamed down my face. For the first time in my 42 years of being a United States Citizen, I actually felt like I had a voice, and it would be heard, through Barack Obama. It was an overwhelming feeling I felt, undescribable. So much so, I broke out in song. We Shall Overcome was sung loud and proud in my house, with my daddy as the backup choir. Although my father has dementia and, at times, leaves his senses, last night he clearly understood when he shouted, "Finally! From building the country to running it. It's about time!" I was elated, and this morning, I'm still elated. Y'all, we are going to the White House with the memories of Martin Luther King, Jr., Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Fredrick Douglass, and so many others.
Today, I am so happy to have Essence best-selling author of There's Always A Reason, William Fredrick Cooper, and my best friend, as today's guest blogger on my blog!
BARACK OBAMA: AN AMERICAN PRESIDENT by William Fredrick Cooper
“With profound gratitude, and great humility, I accept your nomination for Presidency of the United States …”
Read William's post at www.xpressyourselfpublishing.blogspot.com and leave your comments!
All the best,
Jessica Tilles
Publisher, Xpress Yourself Publishing
www.xpressyourselfpublishing.org
Andrea Blackstone-Black in America
CNN’s Black in America
My Version of That Story
by Andrea Blackstone
Last night, I met with some friends in a cozy spot, chatting about business and life. To the right of our booth, a flat screen commanded our attention. In my between laughs and brainstorming, the majority of patrons paused when the segment began. In fact, nearly everything ceased. Forks rested on plates, and robust chatter quieted. Most of the patrons of the quaint spot in DC, were people of color who stopped by to unwind after a long day at work. If someone is speaking about a group to which he or she belongs, most people instinctually take interest in wanting to know exactly what will be said about them. In this case, “them” was “us.” You know, black folk. My eyes followed a few scenes that included a glimpse of a neighborhood, then a shot of black hands clenching steel prison bars.
I can’t speak to the entire show, since I couldn’t manage to stomach the entire presentation, but when large images of the stereotypical black inner life city met my eyes, I sighed with sheer disappointment. I expected something else that could make me feel like someone with the power to bring issues to the public would tell more about us…this time. Initially, my heart was filled with hope, but my attention span soon waned in a familiar way. I also observed several other patrons resume conversations and continue eating. My neighborhood doesn’t look like that, nor the one where I grew up. I don’t know anyone in jail, although I’m not saying that I’ve never known anyone who hasn’t been incarcerated. With that said, I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t truly say that I couldn’t relate to those images.
I was sitting in the presence of a young woman who has been a business owner since 18, and a former DEA agent who is highly respected, not just in The District, but all around the world. Both are females–African-American females. I consider the stories that my father told me of wearing under clothes passed down from white troops, when he was a young man in the military. They were patched up to inspire a second life. He also explained that worn out shoes were repaired and given to black troops to use. These examples are only the beginning of the discourse that dovetails with equality. There were countless substandard conditions, before integration. Nevertheless, many African-Americans persevered, and proudly served and made great contributions to the United States. I also consider someone else who came to sit at our booth–a witty black surgeon who worked at Howard University Hospital. He wasn’t stuffy or arrogant. He greeted me like any other person would. When his friend revealed who he was, and what he’d done, he waved her off, as if his accomplishments were nothing special. Always “the smart kid,” it turned out that he broke some sort of age record, but I won’t spend all of my time name dropping here.
In the midst of that conversation, the series continued to play. An avid people watcher, I felt dizzy with mixed images. One played on TV, while others continued to unfold in real time. The ironic thing was that CNN’s story of being black in America was nothing like the story that had been written in the place where I was seated. I soon noticed a small business owner slumped over, feeling tired. He sat down on a padded stool to take a break from standing on his feet all day. He obviously put in a hard day’s work, where people stop in to unwind and enjoy home cooked victuals. His wife continued serving customers as he wiped his face. I watched him drift off, until someone said goodbye. When he heard his name called, he perked up and answered, lively and warm. My imagination ran wild in that little dive. Everyone there had a story. The kind of story each patron owned probably won’t ever make it TV, yet they too are black people living in America. And for the record, affirmative action was not relevant to any story that I heard that evening. Each individual worked hard to qualify, and press forward, just like any other American. We have a history of overcoming obstacles, yet all too often, the ills of a certain segment of our population becomes the focus of what gets dissected and discussed at length. Here we go again, but do most of “us” expect anything other than the status quo? When one person makes a mistake or commits a crime, does society hold it against our entire race?
I learned to have faith in more than what the media tells me, during my formative years. I read so much news online, and listen to so much talk radio, I often forget to power on the bube tube. My father raised me to value news and business programming like CNN. He always told me that watching certain programming, and listening to certain types of discourse, provides insight regarding how to prepare for tomorrow. As a result, I quickly grew eager to find out what was going on all around the world. By age nine, I was addicted to The Diane Rehm Show on 88.5. I soon learned that Rush Linmbal’s views could make me heated in a hurry. Nevertheless, my father, who was a single parent, taught me a lesson in something far bigger. The media is a powerful force. Within the structure of it, viewers or listeners will enjoy the manner in which a given topic was explored, while others will leave segments feeling the sting of the power to inform. Opinions are just that, yet interpretations of social ills, and how various people rise and fall, are a part of the grand presentation. How we deal with life, and how we interact with others in this world, gets jammed into segments, which will also undergo editing. Every angle can’t be covered. In fairness, that’s just an impossible task. Although most of us are well aware of the aforementioned, the final product is at the heart of the matter. Thus, my version of CNN’s Black in America Series connects with the issue of responsible journalism. Do journalists have a moral obligation to explore both sides of any issue? That premise can’t be enforced, but lately, I’ve been questioning what I feel ”good” journalism entails. I’ve grown weary of recycled issues with stale presentations. Some conclude that the lack of diversity in presenting stories is an intentional endeavor, while others chalk it up to the way media works, because it’s just too hard to change their game. You choose; I’m just here to give you yet one more version of my feelings of being black in America. I too can’t cover it all in one opinion piece. What I can do is offer food for thought, based on my experiences living as a black citizen in America.
After my time with my friends came to a close, with a sheet of plastic over my head, I ran toward my door, my mind twisted with introspection. I wondered how I’m going to get to the next level in my life, and what the world could assume about me, just because I’m black. All I can do is put in time and effort, hoping that a substantial door will open some day. To date, much of my life has been spent in school, or trying to find one solid job where I can put my skills to use. With that said, something is better than nothing. Life is not a perfect experience, whether you’re black, white, or other. I thought of the story I’ll soon be penning about my father’s relatives. It doesn’t involve gossip, sex, scandal or drugs. It’s just a human interest story that speaks to humanity–to people of all colors– as well as the reality of an ultimate sacrifice. I also consider role models like every black man who goes to work wearing a suit and tie, or blue jeans and a crisp T-shirt. All of them are gainfully employed. Professional or blue collar, they are not sitting in jail, or taking advantage of sisters or the system. Would someone please remind us of the number of black men who do hold degrees, own a business, or did fight for custody of their children? If the goal is to educate others about black people, these stories exist too, so why do producers often neglect to include more of their stories?
In the coolness of the night, I sprawled out on top of my comforter, realizing that my mother’s birthday is quickly approaching. What am I going do to this year? Somehow I’ll find a way to celebrate. This will be my fourth trip of remembering my best friend for life, the best way I can. I have no husband or kids to soften the blow, but that’s okay. Wait a minute–I don’t fit the mold either. No kids, no baby daddies? I spent so much time in school, taking note of broken marriages, and kids going through hell, I’ve walked on eggshells, trying to dodge pointless drama. I could’ve teetered on the edge of living a good or settled life, but I opted to keep striving for myself, on my own. The road has been difficult, but it is what it is. And as far as mom, I now choose to focus on the good times, not the manner in which I lost her. When life got rough, mom lifted me. “Don’t worry about it. Keep trying.” That was her mantra. I had a strong bond with my mother, and I always will. Now a motherless black woman, I didn’t lose my mother to drugs or violence. I lost her to cancer. My brother, a black man who holds an advanced degree in divinity, stood by her side, until the very end. Would a story like ours make it to a segment or a show? I doubt it. It probably wouldn’t make ratings soar, not even the part about my brother being attacked for recording our mother’s last few days of her life. Pardon me, I do know someone who has been to jail. My brother was arrested for doing that. A jury of his peers were all white men from our hometown. Nearly four years later, my brother called to inform me that he lost his lawsuit, thanks to police immunity, and more details that illustrate the other side of black life in America. His story was brushed under the rug. I was left feeling that any time we look at Mom saying hello to her friends and family on tape, the memory of that experience will resurface. My brother never even had a speeding ticket, but he soon found out what it felt like to be locked up, or go through the trauma of getting his record expunged. A few days after that experience, our mother died. Despite this occurrence, my brother hasn’t changed or become a bitter man. He finds strength through his faith in God, just as many African-Americans do in America. Many black people don’t hate white people, nor do a great portion of us judge people we don’t even know. Our mother was our best example. She still reminds me how much love can carry you through anything. That’s not a black thing; it’s a people thing. I suppose that’s why people of all colors and races loved her so much. In turn, we too embrace those who embrace us.
I recall a time when my first book was nestled inside of her tote bag. I sat next to her in a treatment room for cancer patients. Some accused me of being a gold digger, not realizing fiction was just that. I have no interest in taking advantage of a man who cracked the code. I want mine by earning it. The reason why I attempted to try my hand at writing urban fiction was rather simple. I couldn’t land a job in my field. As a reward to myself, I took matters into my own hands. Whatever people were reading most, I decided that I was going to try to write it. As an English major who attended a historically black college, I wondered if attending another school would’ve given me more clout in corporate America. I tried the other side, since things seemed to be more about strategy than if you’re trainable. I earned my M.A. in a year and a half, in a rare program, where few blacks rarely enrolled. After I finished graduate school, I recall sitting in interviews, qualified, yet chided for what I’d done. “What made you pick that program?” I’ve been told by recruiters to remove some of my credentials, just to land a so-so job. I worked hard for them, so why should I? My counterparts are praised for finishing the very same program. I crack open newspapers and magazines, and I never get an inkling that the majority thought it was a bad thing. I hear catty remarks all of the time, and get the brush off from both sides of the fence.
Most recently, one person told me that she was looking to hire someone right away, yet her behavior indicated that I wasn’t even in the running to be considered. “Do you have an A.A. degree?” she asked. “Yes I do. I have a Master’s and two years of law school,” I explained. “Well, I’ll take your resume, but I’m still looking.” She floated over toward the coffee area, nearly rubbing in her ability to help me pay off my student loans, or keep me in misery. “Oh this coffee is perfect,” she crooned with a smile. Her co-worker stood next to her, sipping mocha, as they both indulged in office gossip. By the way, this woman was not white. (Figure it out.) Not to sound like a pessimist, but sitting in the lobby nearly an hour, then experiencing that little dig already told me I shouldn’t wait by the phone for her call. Been there, experienced that. How many years have I been through his? In a who-you-know-town, a degree can justify people being in the loop, while other qualified applicants would never be welcomed there. Deep down, I thought of throwing my hat in the ring to try to earn a PhD. If I did, it wouldn’t be for the right reasons. It would only be to gain a little more respect in this world, as well as this town. I want to be the head cheese, primarily because of cheesy people, and the possibility of better job security. Is another student loan bill worth it? Maybe so, maybe not. I’ve done all of the things I was supposed to do to live a normal life, yet recruiters yawn when I remind them of my degrees or student loan obligations. What they often are willing to pay is no less than insulting.
Even so, (repeat after me), something is better than nothing. I’ve held jobs that didn’t require a college degree, and taken trips to South East, shaking as I left work at night, as police escorted staff. I’ve also felt the sting of working for years with no benefits. Still, I reminded myself that many people out there had it far worse than I did, and still do. I often let the sun warm my face, crank my easy listening music, then slide up the highway. I had chains on me, and yes, they’re still there. I can’t find the groove I was groomed to like, so I fake it and hustle hard where my heart is happy. The writing profession is undervalued, and in my opinion, it’s much too hard to make a living solely by writing, at least for the average author. I contemplate returning to law school with mixed emotions. All of those things cross my mind, many days. It all comes back to someone who did embrace me with unwavering faith.
I recall sitting next to my mom, trying to ease her worried mind, as she sat in a special recliner. Her veins were filling with bone strengthener, and all I could think was “I’ve got to sell these books for her.” Realizing success is of our own making, completing one little task for “us” would make me feel like I’d done something kind of cool before I die. But along the way, I promised I’d clean up the content and talk about things like this, in a book.
I want to weave tales of my grandparents, two modestly paid professors in the South, at a time when mostly anyone didn’t have a degree. Mom’s wisdom planted that seed, and it has sprouted over the past few years. I’m fighting to officially pen those stories, as well as others that can reach young adults. I’m working hard to earn the right to take that ride, even if landing a book deal of that nature will prove to be extremely difficult. CNN’s special reminded me that more stories of the other side of black life should not only be told, but also supported. Our people have suffered various realities that some feel we should forget. How can we forget something if equity is lagging in 2008? That’s my biggest question about being black in America.
My first taste of that reality was getting the shaft in law school, simply because I picked the wrong school for the color of my skin. Although I grew up in the suburbs, Cinderella I am not. Now that mom’s gone, I have to face something else too. Where is the rest of her family? Some are lightly kissed by the sun, while others have faded into the trenches of white America. Even more complex, some are white, and our relation is very close. And where is the tiny little town in Virginia where my other grandmother grew up? Her mother raised a crew of children alone, so I understand. Native American ties, this time.
What does it feel like to be black in America, knowing that blood of other races flow through your veins? Some of us still won’t mention it, even if that reality hits close to home, and some people regard mixture as a point of interest or disdain, so you’re not supposed to mention it, unless people pry. Most of the time, if people shoot a “high yella” joke your way, you’re supposed to laugh it off. At the other end of my gene pool, I consider my other grandmother who died when I was an infant. She was a maid, faithful church member, and part-time cook in her daughter’s popular soul food restaurant. My dad, the cashier in that establishment, from the age of 11, became a graduate from one of the most prestigious institutions around. He completed homework in the backroom, on top of a crate in between breaks or before his shift. Many of his siblings made it too. He also pulled groceries in wagons, and shined shoes to pay for his school clothes, during The Depression. Many other kids from the old neighborhood, who shined shoes, in brick-filled streets of a sleepy town, are now at the top of the heap. Once again, these people are black in America, too. Will someone ever interview more black people like them? Lastly, my mind shifts toward two young people. One is nine, and was attacked in the inner city, by fellow students. It was a simple case of bullying the kid who was behaving as a normal student–no frills or wild antics in tow. The school did nothing but brush the event under the rug. Hearing that my niece had to endure many stitches, just for being the soul she is, auntie now has to plan a day to be with her, in hopes of doing a little damage control. I don’t want her to hate school because of what was done to her. The other is barely 21, battling a heart condition. I root for this young black man who is fighting to make his life better. Last year, he struggled through summer school. “Did you ask your professor for help?” I asked. I was informed that his mathematics professor wasn’t too helpful. He repeated the course, and began moving ahead after transferring to another community college with a mixed population. Now his health is failing, due to the stress of simply trying to make his start better than his beginning. Every day he took the bus in the city to get to college in the county, he navigated past gangs where wearing the wrong color shirt could get him killed. He too has been picked on for trying to make something out of himself. Should we not consider why things have spiraled out of control, and how such instances can impact our youth? Some of them want to be saved. Will the world see their plight? In closing, black life is not perfect, nor are people. Every race has its share of issues to overcome, and all of us are capable of making mistakes. Nevertheless, we should be judged as individuals, not as a group. Considering all that we have endured, I still feel that there’s more good to celebrate than bad to emphasize. I encounter so many people of color, struggling to make life better for their families and themselves. Some have been on the bottom of the totem pole, and vowed to sit at the top some day. Others are in mid-stroke, simply trying to stay afloat like most of us. Another segment may fall into the categories of those scenes I initially spoke of, during the beginning of this piece. Nevertheless, African-American people are diverse. All too often, we’ve been placed in one box. For those of us who are tired of sitting there, it’s time to take ourselves out of it, and expose our eclectic experiences, in this thing called black life. We’ve been there for too long, and I’m not sure if the average mainstream media outlets will ever give us a chance to set the record straight. To me, the most logical thing that some of us can do is hold hope near, making adequate efforts to distance ourselves from whatever statistics say. Personally, my inspiration comes from something simple and free. It comes from all of the positive black people who I observe doing great things in America!
Andrea Blackstone majored in English and minored in Spanish at Morgan State University. After a two-year stint in law school, she later changed her career path. While recovering from an illness, she earned an M.A. from St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland ahead of schedule and with honors. Andrea self-published her first two urban novels, and recently completed her first book deal with Q-Boro Books. Her nonfiction debut can be found in Chicken Soup for the African-American Woman’s Soul. A lover of all genres and outrageous characters, Andrea aspires to write a wide array of stories. Her future work will range from inspirational nonfiction to unconventional plots written under one of many pseudonyms. You may contact her at dreamweaverpress@aol.com.
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Andrea Blackstone was born in Long Island, New York, and moved to Annapolis, Maryland at the age of two. She majored in English and minored in Spanish at Morgan State University. While attending Morgan, she received many recommendations to consider a career in writing and was the recipient of The Zora Neale Hurston Scholarship Award
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My Version of That Story
by Andrea Blackstone
Last night, I met with some friends in a cozy spot, chatting about business and life. To the right of our booth, a flat screen commanded our attention. In my between laughs and brainstorming, the majority of patrons paused when the segment began. In fact, nearly everything ceased. Forks rested on plates, and robust chatter quieted. Most of the patrons of the quaint spot in DC, were people of color who stopped by to unwind after a long day at work. If someone is speaking about a group to which he or she belongs, most people instinctually take interest in wanting to know exactly what will be said about them. In this case, “them” was “us.” You know, black folk. My eyes followed a few scenes that included a glimpse of a neighborhood, then a shot of black hands clenching steel prison bars.
I can’t speak to the entire show, since I couldn’t manage to stomach the entire presentation, but when large images of the stereotypical black inner life city met my eyes, I sighed with sheer disappointment. I expected something else that could make me feel like someone with the power to bring issues to the public would tell more about us…this time. Initially, my heart was filled with hope, but my attention span soon waned in a familiar way. I also observed several other patrons resume conversations and continue eating. My neighborhood doesn’t look like that, nor the one where I grew up. I don’t know anyone in jail, although I’m not saying that I’ve never known anyone who hasn’t been incarcerated. With that said, I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t truly say that I couldn’t relate to those images.
I was sitting in the presence of a young woman who has been a business owner since 18, and a former DEA agent who is highly respected, not just in The District, but all around the world. Both are females–African-American females. I consider the stories that my father told me of wearing under clothes passed down from white troops, when he was a young man in the military. They were patched up to inspire a second life. He also explained that worn out shoes were repaired and given to black troops to use. These examples are only the beginning of the discourse that dovetails with equality. There were countless substandard conditions, before integration. Nevertheless, many African-Americans persevered, and proudly served and made great contributions to the United States. I also consider someone else who came to sit at our booth–a witty black surgeon who worked at Howard University Hospital. He wasn’t stuffy or arrogant. He greeted me like any other person would. When his friend revealed who he was, and what he’d done, he waved her off, as if his accomplishments were nothing special. Always “the smart kid,” it turned out that he broke some sort of age record, but I won’t spend all of my time name dropping here.
In the midst of that conversation, the series continued to play. An avid people watcher, I felt dizzy with mixed images. One played on TV, while others continued to unfold in real time. The ironic thing was that CNN’s story of being black in America was nothing like the story that had been written in the place where I was seated. I soon noticed a small business owner slumped over, feeling tired. He sat down on a padded stool to take a break from standing on his feet all day. He obviously put in a hard day’s work, where people stop in to unwind and enjoy home cooked victuals. His wife continued serving customers as he wiped his face. I watched him drift off, until someone said goodbye. When he heard his name called, he perked up and answered, lively and warm. My imagination ran wild in that little dive. Everyone there had a story. The kind of story each patron owned probably won’t ever make it TV, yet they too are black people living in America. And for the record, affirmative action was not relevant to any story that I heard that evening. Each individual worked hard to qualify, and press forward, just like any other American. We have a history of overcoming obstacles, yet all too often, the ills of a certain segment of our population becomes the focus of what gets dissected and discussed at length. Here we go again, but do most of “us” expect anything other than the status quo? When one person makes a mistake or commits a crime, does society hold it against our entire race?
I learned to have faith in more than what the media tells me, during my formative years. I read so much news online, and listen to so much talk radio, I often forget to power on the bube tube. My father raised me to value news and business programming like CNN. He always told me that watching certain programming, and listening to certain types of discourse, provides insight regarding how to prepare for tomorrow. As a result, I quickly grew eager to find out what was going on all around the world. By age nine, I was addicted to The Diane Rehm Show on 88.5. I soon learned that Rush Linmbal’s views could make me heated in a hurry. Nevertheless, my father, who was a single parent, taught me a lesson in something far bigger. The media is a powerful force. Within the structure of it, viewers or listeners will enjoy the manner in which a given topic was explored, while others will leave segments feeling the sting of the power to inform. Opinions are just that, yet interpretations of social ills, and how various people rise and fall, are a part of the grand presentation. How we deal with life, and how we interact with others in this world, gets jammed into segments, which will also undergo editing. Every angle can’t be covered. In fairness, that’s just an impossible task. Although most of us are well aware of the aforementioned, the final product is at the heart of the matter. Thus, my version of CNN’s Black in America Series connects with the issue of responsible journalism. Do journalists have a moral obligation to explore both sides of any issue? That premise can’t be enforced, but lately, I’ve been questioning what I feel ”good” journalism entails. I’ve grown weary of recycled issues with stale presentations. Some conclude that the lack of diversity in presenting stories is an intentional endeavor, while others chalk it up to the way media works, because it’s just too hard to change their game. You choose; I’m just here to give you yet one more version of my feelings of being black in America. I too can’t cover it all in one opinion piece. What I can do is offer food for thought, based on my experiences living as a black citizen in America.
After my time with my friends came to a close, with a sheet of plastic over my head, I ran toward my door, my mind twisted with introspection. I wondered how I’m going to get to the next level in my life, and what the world could assume about me, just because I’m black. All I can do is put in time and effort, hoping that a substantial door will open some day. To date, much of my life has been spent in school, or trying to find one solid job where I can put my skills to use. With that said, something is better than nothing. Life is not a perfect experience, whether you’re black, white, or other. I thought of the story I’ll soon be penning about my father’s relatives. It doesn’t involve gossip, sex, scandal or drugs. It’s just a human interest story that speaks to humanity–to people of all colors– as well as the reality of an ultimate sacrifice. I also consider role models like every black man who goes to work wearing a suit and tie, or blue jeans and a crisp T-shirt. All of them are gainfully employed. Professional or blue collar, they are not sitting in jail, or taking advantage of sisters or the system. Would someone please remind us of the number of black men who do hold degrees, own a business, or did fight for custody of their children? If the goal is to educate others about black people, these stories exist too, so why do producers often neglect to include more of their stories?
In the coolness of the night, I sprawled out on top of my comforter, realizing that my mother’s birthday is quickly approaching. What am I going do to this year? Somehow I’ll find a way to celebrate. This will be my fourth trip of remembering my best friend for life, the best way I can. I have no husband or kids to soften the blow, but that’s okay. Wait a minute–I don’t fit the mold either. No kids, no baby daddies? I spent so much time in school, taking note of broken marriages, and kids going through hell, I’ve walked on eggshells, trying to dodge pointless drama. I could’ve teetered on the edge of living a good or settled life, but I opted to keep striving for myself, on my own. The road has been difficult, but it is what it is. And as far as mom, I now choose to focus on the good times, not the manner in which I lost her. When life got rough, mom lifted me. “Don’t worry about it. Keep trying.” That was her mantra. I had a strong bond with my mother, and I always will. Now a motherless black woman, I didn’t lose my mother to drugs or violence. I lost her to cancer. My brother, a black man who holds an advanced degree in divinity, stood by her side, until the very end. Would a story like ours make it to a segment or a show? I doubt it. It probably wouldn’t make ratings soar, not even the part about my brother being attacked for recording our mother’s last few days of her life. Pardon me, I do know someone who has been to jail. My brother was arrested for doing that. A jury of his peers were all white men from our hometown. Nearly four years later, my brother called to inform me that he lost his lawsuit, thanks to police immunity, and more details that illustrate the other side of black life in America. His story was brushed under the rug. I was left feeling that any time we look at Mom saying hello to her friends and family on tape, the memory of that experience will resurface. My brother never even had a speeding ticket, but he soon found out what it felt like to be locked up, or go through the trauma of getting his record expunged. A few days after that experience, our mother died. Despite this occurrence, my brother hasn’t changed or become a bitter man. He finds strength through his faith in God, just as many African-Americans do in America. Many black people don’t hate white people, nor do a great portion of us judge people we don’t even know. Our mother was our best example. She still reminds me how much love can carry you through anything. That’s not a black thing; it’s a people thing. I suppose that’s why people of all colors and races loved her so much. In turn, we too embrace those who embrace us.
I recall a time when my first book was nestled inside of her tote bag. I sat next to her in a treatment room for cancer patients. Some accused me of being a gold digger, not realizing fiction was just that. I have no interest in taking advantage of a man who cracked the code. I want mine by earning it. The reason why I attempted to try my hand at writing urban fiction was rather simple. I couldn’t land a job in my field. As a reward to myself, I took matters into my own hands. Whatever people were reading most, I decided that I was going to try to write it. As an English major who attended a historically black college, I wondered if attending another school would’ve given me more clout in corporate America. I tried the other side, since things seemed to be more about strategy than if you’re trainable. I earned my M.A. in a year and a half, in a rare program, where few blacks rarely enrolled. After I finished graduate school, I recall sitting in interviews, qualified, yet chided for what I’d done. “What made you pick that program?” I’ve been told by recruiters to remove some of my credentials, just to land a so-so job. I worked hard for them, so why should I? My counterparts are praised for finishing the very same program. I crack open newspapers and magazines, and I never get an inkling that the majority thought it was a bad thing. I hear catty remarks all of the time, and get the brush off from both sides of the fence.
Most recently, one person told me that she was looking to hire someone right away, yet her behavior indicated that I wasn’t even in the running to be considered. “Do you have an A.A. degree?” she asked. “Yes I do. I have a Master’s and two years of law school,” I explained. “Well, I’ll take your resume, but I’m still looking.” She floated over toward the coffee area, nearly rubbing in her ability to help me pay off my student loans, or keep me in misery. “Oh this coffee is perfect,” she crooned with a smile. Her co-worker stood next to her, sipping mocha, as they both indulged in office gossip. By the way, this woman was not white. (Figure it out.) Not to sound like a pessimist, but sitting in the lobby nearly an hour, then experiencing that little dig already told me I shouldn’t wait by the phone for her call. Been there, experienced that. How many years have I been through his? In a who-you-know-town, a degree can justify people being in the loop, while other qualified applicants would never be welcomed there. Deep down, I thought of throwing my hat in the ring to try to earn a PhD. If I did, it wouldn’t be for the right reasons. It would only be to gain a little more respect in this world, as well as this town. I want to be the head cheese, primarily because of cheesy people, and the possibility of better job security. Is another student loan bill worth it? Maybe so, maybe not. I’ve done all of the things I was supposed to do to live a normal life, yet recruiters yawn when I remind them of my degrees or student loan obligations. What they often are willing to pay is no less than insulting.
Even so, (repeat after me), something is better than nothing. I’ve held jobs that didn’t require a college degree, and taken trips to South East, shaking as I left work at night, as police escorted staff. I’ve also felt the sting of working for years with no benefits. Still, I reminded myself that many people out there had it far worse than I did, and still do. I often let the sun warm my face, crank my easy listening music, then slide up the highway. I had chains on me, and yes, they’re still there. I can’t find the groove I was groomed to like, so I fake it and hustle hard where my heart is happy. The writing profession is undervalued, and in my opinion, it’s much too hard to make a living solely by writing, at least for the average author. I contemplate returning to law school with mixed emotions. All of those things cross my mind, many days. It all comes back to someone who did embrace me with unwavering faith.
I recall sitting next to my mom, trying to ease her worried mind, as she sat in a special recliner. Her veins were filling with bone strengthener, and all I could think was “I’ve got to sell these books for her.” Realizing success is of our own making, completing one little task for “us” would make me feel like I’d done something kind of cool before I die. But along the way, I promised I’d clean up the content and talk about things like this, in a book.
I want to weave tales of my grandparents, two modestly paid professors in the South, at a time when mostly anyone didn’t have a degree. Mom’s wisdom planted that seed, and it has sprouted over the past few years. I’m fighting to officially pen those stories, as well as others that can reach young adults. I’m working hard to earn the right to take that ride, even if landing a book deal of that nature will prove to be extremely difficult. CNN’s special reminded me that more stories of the other side of black life should not only be told, but also supported. Our people have suffered various realities that some feel we should forget. How can we forget something if equity is lagging in 2008? That’s my biggest question about being black in America.
My first taste of that reality was getting the shaft in law school, simply because I picked the wrong school for the color of my skin. Although I grew up in the suburbs, Cinderella I am not. Now that mom’s gone, I have to face something else too. Where is the rest of her family? Some are lightly kissed by the sun, while others have faded into the trenches of white America. Even more complex, some are white, and our relation is very close. And where is the tiny little town in Virginia where my other grandmother grew up? Her mother raised a crew of children alone, so I understand. Native American ties, this time.
What does it feel like to be black in America, knowing that blood of other races flow through your veins? Some of us still won’t mention it, even if that reality hits close to home, and some people regard mixture as a point of interest or disdain, so you’re not supposed to mention it, unless people pry. Most of the time, if people shoot a “high yella” joke your way, you’re supposed to laugh it off. At the other end of my gene pool, I consider my other grandmother who died when I was an infant. She was a maid, faithful church member, and part-time cook in her daughter’s popular soul food restaurant. My dad, the cashier in that establishment, from the age of 11, became a graduate from one of the most prestigious institutions around. He completed homework in the backroom, on top of a crate in between breaks or before his shift. Many of his siblings made it too. He also pulled groceries in wagons, and shined shoes to pay for his school clothes, during The Depression. Many other kids from the old neighborhood, who shined shoes, in brick-filled streets of a sleepy town, are now at the top of the heap. Once again, these people are black in America, too. Will someone ever interview more black people like them? Lastly, my mind shifts toward two young people. One is nine, and was attacked in the inner city, by fellow students. It was a simple case of bullying the kid who was behaving as a normal student–no frills or wild antics in tow. The school did nothing but brush the event under the rug. Hearing that my niece had to endure many stitches, just for being the soul she is, auntie now has to plan a day to be with her, in hopes of doing a little damage control. I don’t want her to hate school because of what was done to her. The other is barely 21, battling a heart condition. I root for this young black man who is fighting to make his life better. Last year, he struggled through summer school. “Did you ask your professor for help?” I asked. I was informed that his mathematics professor wasn’t too helpful. He repeated the course, and began moving ahead after transferring to another community college with a mixed population. Now his health is failing, due to the stress of simply trying to make his start better than his beginning. Every day he took the bus in the city to get to college in the county, he navigated past gangs where wearing the wrong color shirt could get him killed. He too has been picked on for trying to make something out of himself. Should we not consider why things have spiraled out of control, and how such instances can impact our youth? Some of them want to be saved. Will the world see their plight? In closing, black life is not perfect, nor are people. Every race has its share of issues to overcome, and all of us are capable of making mistakes. Nevertheless, we should be judged as individuals, not as a group. Considering all that we have endured, I still feel that there’s more good to celebrate than bad to emphasize. I encounter so many people of color, struggling to make life better for their families and themselves. Some have been on the bottom of the totem pole, and vowed to sit at the top some day. Others are in mid-stroke, simply trying to stay afloat like most of us. Another segment may fall into the categories of those scenes I initially spoke of, during the beginning of this piece. Nevertheless, African-American people are diverse. All too often, we’ve been placed in one box. For those of us who are tired of sitting there, it’s time to take ourselves out of it, and expose our eclectic experiences, in this thing called black life. We’ve been there for too long, and I’m not sure if the average mainstream media outlets will ever give us a chance to set the record straight. To me, the most logical thing that some of us can do is hold hope near, making adequate efforts to distance ourselves from whatever statistics say. Personally, my inspiration comes from something simple and free. It comes from all of the positive black people who I observe doing great things in America!
Andrea Blackstone majored in English and minored in Spanish at Morgan State University. After a two-year stint in law school, she later changed her career path. While recovering from an illness, she earned an M.A. from St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland ahead of schedule and with honors. Andrea self-published her first two urban novels, and recently completed her first book deal with Q-Boro Books. Her nonfiction debut can be found in Chicken Soup for the African-American Woman’s Soul. A lover of all genres and outrageous characters, Andrea aspires to write a wide array of stories. Her future work will range from inspirational nonfiction to unconventional plots written under one of many pseudonyms. You may contact her at dreamweaverpress@aol.com.
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Andrea Blackstone was born in Long Island, New York, and moved to Annapolis, Maryland at the age of two. She majored in English and minored in Spanish at Morgan State University. While attending Morgan, she received many recommendations to consider a career in writing and was the recipient of The Zora Neale Hurston Scholarship Award
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THE POWER OF LEADERSHIP
We are losing sight of the power of leadership that is why we are falling as a nation. Whoever is the head leads the body. What does this mean? It means if we have a devil for a leader, we will be treated like we are already in hell. Not saying this is what we face today. But I will say I learned the power of leadership on my job. When the president of a company has a huge ego and suffer from a superiority complex, his favorites take on the same demeanor causing those not his favorites to suffer. On that same note, if the president of a company has the spirit of an angel, the staff succumbs to the justice for all mentality.
America, while you are listening to the final days of the republican and democratic candidates attack one another with negativity, remember one of them will become the leader of our country. Will it be the one that did the most attacking and dirt digging or will it be the one who can have a constructive and positive affect on all levels of leadership from the school system to the workforce? For sure we have seen leadership on multiple levels throughout the country give less and less respect to people. Employers took away from their employees and dared them to question the deterioration of insurance and raises. Anywhere we turn there is not accountability in leadership. Authorities in the medical field have pretty much made healthcare a frightening experience when it comes to insurance or no insurance. Churches collect billions of dollars a year while people are struggling to make ends meet. You would have thought by now the church community would be strong enough to have a world within this world to protect their own people. But no, it is because the spirit of greed has reached some in this leadership as well.
Who do we trust to do right by us? Who have we trusted and been let down time and time again? Do we have any power at all? Are we going to finally come together and let a clean sweep go through this country to rebuild its foundation or are we going to continue to bow down to dictatorship and corruption? The next president of this country is either going to punish us for not taking a stand or join in the struggle to bring justice to all. Which one of these candidates appear to be human? Who has a lot to lose trying to save this country?
When you talk about leadership you are talking about shaping a conscious of people to head in a specific direction. It is not about the political games that is being played for it is a form of subliminal persuasion to steer us away from what we need most and that is a leader with a heart for humanity. I have one question: What will our children’s history books say about the past leaders of our country of ten years? It is time for a new and fresh leadership across the board. If we don’t wake up, we will be comatose for a long time. It is now or never.
America, while you are listening to the final days of the republican and democratic candidates attack one another with negativity, remember one of them will become the leader of our country. Will it be the one that did the most attacking and dirt digging or will it be the one who can have a constructive and positive affect on all levels of leadership from the school system to the workforce? For sure we have seen leadership on multiple levels throughout the country give less and less respect to people. Employers took away from their employees and dared them to question the deterioration of insurance and raises. Anywhere we turn there is not accountability in leadership. Authorities in the medical field have pretty much made healthcare a frightening experience when it comes to insurance or no insurance. Churches collect billions of dollars a year while people are struggling to make ends meet. You would have thought by now the church community would be strong enough to have a world within this world to protect their own people. But no, it is because the spirit of greed has reached some in this leadership as well.
Who do we trust to do right by us? Who have we trusted and been let down time and time again? Do we have any power at all? Are we going to finally come together and let a clean sweep go through this country to rebuild its foundation or are we going to continue to bow down to dictatorship and corruption? The next president of this country is either going to punish us for not taking a stand or join in the struggle to bring justice to all. Which one of these candidates appear to be human? Who has a lot to lose trying to save this country?
When you talk about leadership you are talking about shaping a conscious of people to head in a specific direction. It is not about the political games that is being played for it is a form of subliminal persuasion to steer us away from what we need most and that is a leader with a heart for humanity. I have one question: What will our children’s history books say about the past leaders of our country of ten years? It is time for a new and fresh leadership across the board. If we don’t wake up, we will be comatose for a long time. It is now or never.
Why I wrote, Family Secrets, Lies & Alibi's
I was raised as an only child, but lived with a cousin who was an only child also. I shared my home with her, my mother and step father. I didn't meet my real father until I was graduating from high school on my way to college. It was then I was told I had two brothers, one older, one younger. To this date (I'm now a grandmother) I have not met either of them. I have often wondered if our paths crossed. Did we attend some of the same events? Well you get the idea.
I married my husband and he has a sister and two brothers but his sister is handicapped and he often wondered what having a sister would be like if she hadn't been paralyzed on one side and unable to speak. I had been working with a young woman who had recently lost her brother. At the funeral she was told by members of his father's family that she need not contact them since she was not a "real" family member. They had different father's. She began questioning me about my husband. She had been told that her father had the same name as my husbands. I had known this woman for ten years and she never questioned it but after her lost she wanted to connect with her father's other children. It was my husband, his brothers, and his sister that were missing in her life as she was in their's.
"Family Secrets, Lies & Alibi's was sparked from the thought.... What if they had met after the death of their father and no one told them the truth. My husband knew nothing about her. Suppose their paths had crossed and they did meet on a level of dating, relationships, suppose they didn't have a strong family tie. What would the out come be? Most of us immediately say incest. We tend to forget they have no idea they're related (The Family Secret), no one told the truth when asked (Lies) and the father is dead. (and Alibi's).
Please visit my site and purchase my debut novel: www.myspace.com/ipendesigns
It presents the drama, unveils the truth and .....well you tell me.
I married my husband and he has a sister and two brothers but his sister is handicapped and he often wondered what having a sister would be like if she hadn't been paralyzed on one side and unable to speak. I had been working with a young woman who had recently lost her brother. At the funeral she was told by members of his father's family that she need not contact them since she was not a "real" family member. They had different father's. She began questioning me about my husband. She had been told that her father had the same name as my husbands. I had known this woman for ten years and she never questioned it but after her lost she wanted to connect with her father's other children. It was my husband, his brothers, and his sister that were missing in her life as she was in their's.
"Family Secrets, Lies & Alibi's was sparked from the thought.... What if they had met after the death of their father and no one told them the truth. My husband knew nothing about her. Suppose their paths had crossed and they did meet on a level of dating, relationships, suppose they didn't have a strong family tie. What would the out come be? Most of us immediately say incest. We tend to forget they have no idea they're related (The Family Secret), no one told the truth when asked (Lies) and the father is dead. (and Alibi's).
Please visit my site and purchase my debut novel: www.myspace.com/ipendesigns
It presents the drama, unveils the truth and .....well you tell me.
HEADLINE NEWS: Murderer On The Loose in Indiana
FBI Department of Justice ‘29.8% of murder victims are killed by their family”
The Rahkel Williams Story
When I first lost my son in a car accident due to my negligence of not buckling his seat belt, it drove me towards drugs and alcohol. However, nothing could prepare me for my beloved uncle’s murder. I think the person who murdered him is also after me, and I need your help.
The Day He Died
I remember the day my Uncle Leon died. I was watching my little nine-year-old cousin, who I actually call my niece, which is Uncle Leon’s granddaughter. She said something that I’ll never forget. “Is Granddaddy going to die?”
Only moments later, when we drove over Mama’s house did the ugly truth reveal itself. A police car was out front. When I walked in, Mama was crying, and Sharon – Nevilla’s mother, who’s my cousin, and who’s also Uncle Leon’s daughter was standing suspiciously. The police said there had been an accident. His car was found in a lake and he was badly burned. I ran out the house dropped to my knees and passed out, right before I saw Nevilla standing over me with tilted eyes.
Private Investigator
I remember the day I met Darrin Miller. After the funeral, he walked into Uncle Leon’s leasing company to pay his rent. Casually dressed, revealing his defined chocolate brown biceps and neatly low fade, he complimented me. I was flattered, and he was definitely sexy to say the least.
When I found out he was a private investigator, I was quick to ask for his services, because clues were stirring regarding the circumstances of uncle Leon’s double life, and his death. I became suspicious of everyone – Sharon, Mama, Franklin (Uncle Leon’s business partner), and Nevilla. Even my best friend Janetta – she used to work for my Uncle in his office. Was there a murderer in the family?
Shocking and Unbelievable Family Secrets
I believe I’m getting close to the truth, because secrets are being revealed. Although it’s been several months now that Darrin and I started dating, I’m cautious of his intentions. Not even the police have solved the case. At this point, it could be anyone who murdered my uncle. People of interest have already turned up dead. I know I’m next. I’m running for my life. Someone is after me and trying to kill me! I must find the truth and solve the mystery.
It should be clear by now that I really do need your help. YOU – the reader are the only person who can help me solve my uncle’s case. The book, Searchable Whereabouts by Tinisha Nicole Johnson tells the whole and complete story of my Uncle, and you must read it to help me find out what happened. To learn what you can do Click Here.
There’s a murderer on the loose. Tell your neighbors, tell your friends, tell everybody!!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tinisha Nicole Johnson resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two children. She’s written several short stories, poems and has contributed as a freelance writer. Searchable Whereabouts is her debut novel and she is currently working on her next book.
Visit the author: http://www.tinishanicolejohnson.com/
Searchable Whereabouts is available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and at book stores everywhere.
The Rahkel Williams Story
When I first lost my son in a car accident due to my negligence of not buckling his seat belt, it drove me towards drugs and alcohol. However, nothing could prepare me for my beloved uncle’s murder. I think the person who murdered him is also after me, and I need your help.
The Day He Died
I remember the day my Uncle Leon died. I was watching my little nine-year-old cousin, who I actually call my niece, which is Uncle Leon’s granddaughter. She said something that I’ll never forget. “Is Granddaddy going to die?”
Only moments later, when we drove over Mama’s house did the ugly truth reveal itself. A police car was out front. When I walked in, Mama was crying, and Sharon – Nevilla’s mother, who’s my cousin, and who’s also Uncle Leon’s daughter was standing suspiciously. The police said there had been an accident. His car was found in a lake and he was badly burned. I ran out the house dropped to my knees and passed out, right before I saw Nevilla standing over me with tilted eyes.
Private Investigator
I remember the day I met Darrin Miller. After the funeral, he walked into Uncle Leon’s leasing company to pay his rent. Casually dressed, revealing his defined chocolate brown biceps and neatly low fade, he complimented me. I was flattered, and he was definitely sexy to say the least.
When I found out he was a private investigator, I was quick to ask for his services, because clues were stirring regarding the circumstances of uncle Leon’s double life, and his death. I became suspicious of everyone – Sharon, Mama, Franklin (Uncle Leon’s business partner), and Nevilla. Even my best friend Janetta – she used to work for my Uncle in his office. Was there a murderer in the family?
Shocking and Unbelievable Family Secrets
I believe I’m getting close to the truth, because secrets are being revealed. Although it’s been several months now that Darrin and I started dating, I’m cautious of his intentions. Not even the police have solved the case. At this point, it could be anyone who murdered my uncle. People of interest have already turned up dead. I know I’m next. I’m running for my life. Someone is after me and trying to kill me! I must find the truth and solve the mystery.
It should be clear by now that I really do need your help. YOU – the reader are the only person who can help me solve my uncle’s case. The book, Searchable Whereabouts by Tinisha Nicole Johnson tells the whole and complete story of my Uncle, and you must read it to help me find out what happened. To learn what you can do Click Here.
There’s a murderer on the loose. Tell your neighbors, tell your friends, tell everybody!!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tinisha Nicole Johnson resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two children. She’s written several short stories, poems and has contributed as a freelance writer. Searchable Whereabouts is her debut novel and she is currently working on her next book.
Visit the author: http://www.tinishanicolejohnson.com/
Searchable Whereabouts is available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and at book stores everywhere.
Now Go Ahead and Blame The White Man
Now Go Ahead And Blame The White Man
I decided to venture through the city, explore what may be new
Working a nine to five each day, sightseeing ain't what I normally do.
I let my mind drift through the struggles our communities face each day,
And my thoughts touched on what we often hear our people say.
We can't get jobs the unemployment rate is at an all time high
Health insurance, taxes, the gas prices have passed the ceiling heading for the sky.
Programs are for the immigrants, damn we've been here longer then them
Let them get new businesses, buy property, give their kids scholarships,
it's just a sin.
More kids on the corner selling and skipping school
Don't nobody wanna hear that shit about living by the golden rules.
I stopped in mid thought and slowly looked around,
The saying "a product of your environment" now had a different sound.
Have you ever noticed the scenery in a city change?
We don't even have to check the mailboxes, something ain't the same
The lawns uncared for, trash and rubbish between each house,
Graffiti on the siding, what is that all about?
Doors wide open, cussing and drinking on the porch, what is that smell?
A stench of old cooking grease
Some of the places look as though they carry disease.
"A product of your environment", the children romp and play
Did anyone even ask them what they learned today?
The white man don't live here, it's just us
I don't think I'm better but I'm beyond disgust.
We blame others saying they don't give,
Who do we blame when we destroy the homes where we live?
We don't take care to make the environment safe,
Our streets are taken over by the thugs, dealers, and gangs
Even though we know their parents, where they were raised
We go back 400 years to blame the white man for making us slaves
Slaves to a community that we won't take care of, not even our rented homes
Blame the landlord for the damage, the needed repairs, rent is cheaper if its slum
We don't even know our neighbor…..cause we live in the hood.
The village concept wasn't the white man's, it was what made us feel good.
We felt good about our community, the placed where we lived
The families struggled together, and each had something to give
Words of advice and encouragement, a nod of recognition a friendly hello
"A product of your environment", meant your home a place you wanted to own
When you get a moment walk through your "hood",
cause you're the product it made
Now go ahead blame the white man,
for creating that environment where only our people stay.
Copyright 2008
Nanette Buchanan,Author
visit my site www.myspace.com/ipendesigns
I decided to venture through the city, explore what may be new
Working a nine to five each day, sightseeing ain't what I normally do.
I let my mind drift through the struggles our communities face each day,
And my thoughts touched on what we often hear our people say.
We can't get jobs the unemployment rate is at an all time high
Health insurance, taxes, the gas prices have passed the ceiling heading for the sky.
Programs are for the immigrants, damn we've been here longer then them
Let them get new businesses, buy property, give their kids scholarships,
it's just a sin.
More kids on the corner selling and skipping school
Don't nobody wanna hear that shit about living by the golden rules.
I stopped in mid thought and slowly looked around,
The saying "a product of your environment" now had a different sound.
Have you ever noticed the scenery in a city change?
We don't even have to check the mailboxes, something ain't the same
The lawns uncared for, trash and rubbish between each house,
Graffiti on the siding, what is that all about?
Doors wide open, cussing and drinking on the porch, what is that smell?
A stench of old cooking grease
Some of the places look as though they carry disease.
"A product of your environment", the children romp and play
Did anyone even ask them what they learned today?
The white man don't live here, it's just us
I don't think I'm better but I'm beyond disgust.
We blame others saying they don't give,
Who do we blame when we destroy the homes where we live?
We don't take care to make the environment safe,
Our streets are taken over by the thugs, dealers, and gangs
Even though we know their parents, where they were raised
We go back 400 years to blame the white man for making us slaves
Slaves to a community that we won't take care of, not even our rented homes
Blame the landlord for the damage, the needed repairs, rent is cheaper if its slum
We don't even know our neighbor…..cause we live in the hood.
The village concept wasn't the white man's, it was what made us feel good.
We felt good about our community, the placed where we lived
The families struggled together, and each had something to give
Words of advice and encouragement, a nod of recognition a friendly hello
"A product of your environment", meant your home a place you wanted to own
When you get a moment walk through your "hood",
cause you're the product it made
Now go ahead blame the white man,
for creating that environment where only our people stay.
Copyright 2008
Nanette Buchanan,Author
visit my site www.myspace.com/ipendesigns
SWEET EMBRACE
As I observe life and the difficulties we face expressing and sharing our need to be loved, I find it quite interesting that most of us single people deny what we need the most. Think about it, we can be independently strong and create a home filled with peace. We can even physically satisfy ourselves if that need be so. But there is something that we can not do for ourselves. And, that something is what every living soul needs.
Before I tell you what I feel it is, I want you to think about a new born baby. For sure he or she needs the hands of others to survive. In fact, it has been said if a child is not held or touched,he or she could actually die. We have to hold babies close to us to make them feel safe and secure. Guess what? Adults need the same thing to continue to grow and feel healthy and secure.
A person who has not been held or lovingly embraced by someone who really loves and care about them is a person who is less than he or she could be. Not saying single people are not strong in their survival. No doubt we are that. We can survive and make the best of things with what we have. We can provide f or others and still have a lot to give ourselves to survive. But we can not embrace ourselves. There is nothing like a sweet embrace from someone who downright loves you.
So many people today are dying for a sweet embrace so much so they seek it from untrusting sources and at times abnormal sources. Woman to woman embraces, man to man embraces usually come about due to giving up on the she and he embraces that made our species strong and able to develop into spiritual and loving beings.
In fact. so many of the criminals locked behind bars are people who needed a sweet embrace. Something about a loving embrace can calm the savage beast in us. People who have become distant from others and won't allow anyone to embrace them do this because they are starving and fear weakness would result the moment the embrace is received. So they create a thick wall ensuring the embrace does not take place.
Being that we are creatures of habit, our early beginnings of being loved, held, nurtured and held close does not die. Our memory banks hold dear to those moments of being loved and secured in the hands of our mother and loved ones. A child acting out after another sibling is born is begging to have his or her sweet embrace recaptured in their lives. Many children are ignored as the family numbers increase. What we end up with is children going out into the world going through withdrawal--a need to be embraced by someone who loves them dearly.
Hugs are nice when we receive them. To be embraced in a hug is the transferring of love from one person to another. I know as a single woman, I take good care of my self but I cannot embrace my self and this alone lets me know we were not born to be alone. Each person in the world was born to be embraced their whole lives but due to selfish priorities, lonely people walk the earth accepting they just may not be embraced or loved by anyone.
I personally embrace those who allow me because I know in doing so, healing can take place in their spirit and body. We all have a sweet embrace to share. Please do not let it go to waste. Go away embrace your fellowman. Just maybe, you may be their healer for this season. With these words, I embrace you all.
A Calming Effect
Calming Effect
A calming effect through troublesome time.
A place for Peace of mind.
Nowhere to reach, nowhere to turn.
Search within myself inner strength must burn.
To fill the emptiness that no one sees.
A calming effect needed inside of me.
My mind burdened with stress, my heart misunderstandings,
a place is needed for mental and emotional handling.
An escape with a calming effect,
inside myself I must find.
A peaceful place for my mind.
Thoughts copyright 1998
Author, Nanette M. Buchanan
visit my site www.myspace.com/ipendesigns
John McCain vs. Barack McCain - VOICE YOUR OPINION!
What is the main difference between Barack Obama and John McCain? You decide. Will you be voting this year?Some wonder if Obama is capable of handling and finding solutions to the challenges that face the US. McCain thinks Obama is just a celebrity with too much status. But regarding McCain, some wonder if he is just going to be just another 'Bush'.
Politics aside there's not one person that doesn't notice how high gas is. And how screwed up the economy seems. When are our troops going to come home? The PEOPLE want to know what Congress and the next president is going to do about this.
Okay, back to politics...Besides being an author, I also host Town Hall political teleconferences. It's quite interesting actually. Although I can't get into the specifics, due to privacy, I have learned what's on the minds of Congressman and Senator's alike. I've also learned what citizens like you and me are thinking about. One issue on everyone's mind is Energy, the cost of gas, the economy and whether or not we should drill for oil in the United States.
In my opinion, it seems like both the Democrats and Republicans are doing more finger pointing rather than trying to come to a bipartisan and resolve todays issues and find solutions.
The National Democratic Convention will be held in my city and state this year - Denver, Colorado. I plan on attending some of the downtown events to stay in the know, or maybe even get an idea or two for my next novel.
Bottom line, something needs to be done, before we're all paying like $10.00 a gallon. I would have to sell my SUV, if it came to that.
CLICK HERE to join in on the discussion and voice your opinion about these issues. Share your thoughts. Random comments will be picked and placed in my next newsletter.
Tinisha Nicole Johnson
Author, Writer and Poet
www.TinishaNicoleJohnson.com
Don't forget to sign up for my monthly newsletter, if you liked the above article.
Words From The Cell
Words FromThe Cell
My current employment is behind the walls with those who the courts have found guilty of crimes and their retribution includes years of their lives. They watch the free world daily, through the media and the behavior of those they come in contact with throughout their years of incarceration. Communication with them becomes inevitable. There are those who once their sentence begins who are taking the time not only to re-evaluate themselves but the free world in which they hope some day to return. The following poem contains topics discussed freely by many of the men behind the wall......
Words From The Cell
I took the opportunity to read the paper this week
No, seriously I read it from sheet to sheet.
Figured I would see what was happening in my home town
Figured I'd take a media glance since I can't go out,
ya' know roam around.
I listen to the news from time to time,
hear some of the cellies talking about back in the hood crimes.
Didn't need no names, faces of those that don't communicate
That's how it is when parole don't even have your date.
I shocked myself ready everyday from front to back
I was even more surprised when I thought,
damn everybody must be on crack.
The system is in place to do it's thing.
But the crimes of today, what the hell do they mean.
Never mind the murder, muggings and senseless killings,
smuggling, car theft and the usual drug dealings.
What's up with the gang banging, initiations and turf wars?
What's up with mothers and fathers offing each other, what is that for?
The kids that are being abused, used by adults,
they'll never survive mentally, always remembering how it felt.
The politicians can't shuffle the cards fast enough to give a raw deal,
boys they hired are pulling their plugs keeping it real.
Skeletons are falling out of closets, even those held most high.
What's up with the teachers, priests and rabbi's?
I'm reading this from a jail cell where I will probably live until I am old.
From this cell I can feel that the world has grown cold.
I cry at times when I think of the fate I chose in my youth, the decisions I made.
Losing my golden years in life is the price I paid.
But for you who are free, and choose what appears to be correct.
You live daily, trying to understand what man calls living perfect.
How perfect can it be with all your fears?
You check yourself and your neighbor daily, just as I do here.
Living not knowing whether the next confrontation may cost you your life.
Praying harder daily for your loved ones, husband and wife.
Wondering if your children took heed and listened to your word of wisdom.
You're living daily on edge, full of stress and unwanted criticism.
Yeah, I live here, it's obvious I have been deprived from day to day.
But you who are free what a price you pay!
If you educate your child you wil pay a kings fee
And that payment still don't guarantee they won't end up like me.
What about those seeking employment, the want, need, and desire for better jobs.
You get your pay only to find with the deductions you've been robbed.
Those who look, and talk like me,
those who are feared by the intellects, those who fulfill your society,
Have said lock us away and toss the key.
As I read the papers I wondered what is the new punishment to be.
Just a few words from my home this 6 x 9 concrete cell
You think you're living better,
after reading today's paper....I can't tell.
I've often asked my self are we, the free society, prisoners of our own environments.No, seriously I read it from sheet to sheet.
Figured I would see what was happening in my home town
Figured I'd take a media glance since I can't go out,
ya' know roam around.
I listen to the news from time to time,
hear some of the cellies talking about back in the hood crimes.
Didn't need no names, faces of those that don't communicate
That's how it is when parole don't even have your date.
I shocked myself ready everyday from front to back
I was even more surprised when I thought,
damn everybody must be on crack.
The system is in place to do it's thing.
But the crimes of today, what the hell do they mean.
Never mind the murder, muggings and senseless killings,
smuggling, car theft and the usual drug dealings.
What's up with the gang banging, initiations and turf wars?
What's up with mothers and fathers offing each other, what is that for?
The kids that are being abused, used by adults,
they'll never survive mentally, always remembering how it felt.
The politicians can't shuffle the cards fast enough to give a raw deal,
boys they hired are pulling their plugs keeping it real.
Skeletons are falling out of closets, even those held most high.
What's up with the teachers, priests and rabbi's?
I'm reading this from a jail cell where I will probably live until I am old.
From this cell I can feel that the world has grown cold.
I cry at times when I think of the fate I chose in my youth, the decisions I made.
Losing my golden years in life is the price I paid.
But for you who are free, and choose what appears to be correct.
You live daily, trying to understand what man calls living perfect.
How perfect can it be with all your fears?
You check yourself and your neighbor daily, just as I do here.
Living not knowing whether the next confrontation may cost you your life.
Praying harder daily for your loved ones, husband and wife.
Wondering if your children took heed and listened to your word of wisdom.
You're living daily on edge, full of stress and unwanted criticism.
Yeah, I live here, it's obvious I have been deprived from day to day.
But you who are free what a price you pay!
If you educate your child you wil pay a kings fee
And that payment still don't guarantee they won't end up like me.
What about those seeking employment, the want, need, and desire for better jobs.
You get your pay only to find with the deductions you've been robbed.
Those who look, and talk like me,
those who are feared by the intellects, those who fulfill your society,
Have said lock us away and toss the key.
As I read the papers I wondered what is the new punishment to be.
Just a few words from my home this 6 x 9 concrete cell
You think you're living better,
after reading today's paper....I can't tell.
Nanette M. Buchanan
Author, Quiet Times copyright 2008
See my blogs visit www.myspace.com/ipendesigns
Hot Off The Press
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The Manual (1st Chapter)
From the author of Soon and Very Soon, Sherryle Kiser Jackson, comes The Manual (October 2009). Why says their isn't a manual for love, relationships, and raising kids?
Chapter1
Deidre Collins was enjoying the click of her freshly manicured nails across the keyboard of her personal computer. She did not know what she enjoyed more about her day off, the invigorating wash, blow dry and curl at Prim Rose Beauty Salon, the luxury of having someone else do her nails or the leisure time she had to delete old e-mails and drift through cyberspace. By the third page of e-mail scams and spam, Deidre was saving time by clicking the button to select all the mail on that page and purging them unless something in the message line prompted her to open it. The top line of page four read, Finding Nympho. She wondered how the web master of this site could get away with exploiting a wholesome Disney title to sell filth. That would be all her fourteen year old son, De Andre, would need to see before his curiosity would have him viewing a lot of things she has tried as a God fearing parent to keep him from. Lord knows he was on the computer more than she cared to be. The devil is everywhere, she thought to herself as she checked the parental control options.
Just as Deidre was about to delete page four, an email caught her attention with a message bar which read, Tardy Notice from Pemberton Middle School. She had remembered thinking how progressive the school systems had gotten when they asked for e-mail and cell phone information on the parent contact form at the beginning of the year. She read the notice which was to inform her that her son, De Andre Hicks was tardy for school on March 19th. That was over a month ago. Why hadn’t they called, she thought. Then she remembered that DeAndre typically came in two hours before her. Naturally he had erased the message with no intentions on telling her. She knew her son, he wasn’t a saint. Lately his behavior wasn’t even close.
Deidre examined her e-mails more closely. She found 2 more tardy notices, March 28th and April 15th. Despite feeling angry, she couldn’t help but feeling a little guilty about not checking her messages more regularly. And when was the last time she had been to his school to check on him? She had only been to Pemberton Middle school twice since he started there last year as a seventh grader.
Deidre couldn’t understand what was stopping DeAndre from getting to school on time. After winning the battle of getting him out of bed each morning all he had to do was walk a few yards to the bus stop and get on. She purposely worked the swing shift, from 11am to 7pm, at least three times a week to make sure he was prepared for the day. Most of the time she left nothing to his imagination in regards to what she expected from him when he came in by himself in the afternoon. Head nods and barely audible grunts let Deidre know he had at least heard her to-do lists. God knows how many other notices she had deleted in her haste to empty her e-mail box.
Deidre was up before DeAndre this morning to make her nine am hair appointment and was sitting in the nail shop by 12:30. Her best girlfriend’s wedding was the next day for which she was an attendant. The latter didn’t thrill her in the way she would have been in her twenties or if she was married herself by her present age of thirty eight.
The single phone line she used for both the telephone and the computer rang the moment she logged off of the internet. It was probably Sheila asking her to pick up yet another thing she or her overpriced wedding coordinator forgot.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Mrs. Hicks. This is Jeff Riley, the principal at Pemberton Middle School where her son, DeAndre attends.”
“This is Ms. Collins. I am DeAndre’s mother.” Deidre said. Her upper body tensed the way a person would in preparation for receiving a shot.
“Ms. Collins, DeAndre has gotten himself into trouble and I was wondering if it were possible for you to come down to the school and pick him up.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying he’s been kicked out of school?”
“Yes mam, he will be suspended.”
“Excuse me.” Deidre yielded to a short coughing spell from the lump rising in her throat. “What did he do?”
“This is why we want you to come in. When a child has been suspended we have what is known as an exit conference where the school explains the circumstances surrounding the suspension.”
“That is what I am asking you. Why was he suspended?”
“It allows you to meet with a team that includes DeAndre’s teachers and counselor, so that there are many perspectives on how DeAndre can be more effective when he returns to school.” He continued as if he didn’t hear her question.
“And when will he be able to return, Mr. Riley?”
“The day De Andre will be permitted back to school will also be explained at the conference. Rather than upset you further on the phone, it would be best if we sit down and discuss his conduct in detail.”
“Are you telling me you’re kicking my child out of school, but cannot tell me why over the phone?”
“Calm down, Mrs. Hicks. Is transportation a problem?”
“It’s Ms. Collins, DeAndre’s father and I aren’t married. To answer your question, transportation is not a problem. Mr. Riley, I am a supportive parent and I am also a Christian. You can be assured that before I leave for the school I will be praying for an outcome that aligns with my faith. Just like you have prepared your team to be a united front when I arrive, I would like to be equally prepared.
“He’s being suspended for sexual harrasment.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Chapter1
Deidre Collins was enjoying the click of her freshly manicured nails across the keyboard of her personal computer. She did not know what she enjoyed more about her day off, the invigorating wash, blow dry and curl at Prim Rose Beauty Salon, the luxury of having someone else do her nails or the leisure time she had to delete old e-mails and drift through cyberspace. By the third page of e-mail scams and spam, Deidre was saving time by clicking the button to select all the mail on that page and purging them unless something in the message line prompted her to open it. The top line of page four read, Finding Nympho. She wondered how the web master of this site could get away with exploiting a wholesome Disney title to sell filth. That would be all her fourteen year old son, De Andre, would need to see before his curiosity would have him viewing a lot of things she has tried as a God fearing parent to keep him from. Lord knows he was on the computer more than she cared to be. The devil is everywhere, she thought to herself as she checked the parental control options.
Just as Deidre was about to delete page four, an email caught her attention with a message bar which read, Tardy Notice from Pemberton Middle School. She had remembered thinking how progressive the school systems had gotten when they asked for e-mail and cell phone information on the parent contact form at the beginning of the year. She read the notice which was to inform her that her son, De Andre Hicks was tardy for school on March 19th. That was over a month ago. Why hadn’t they called, she thought. Then she remembered that DeAndre typically came in two hours before her. Naturally he had erased the message with no intentions on telling her. She knew her son, he wasn’t a saint. Lately his behavior wasn’t even close.
Deidre examined her e-mails more closely. She found 2 more tardy notices, March 28th and April 15th. Despite feeling angry, she couldn’t help but feeling a little guilty about not checking her messages more regularly. And when was the last time she had been to his school to check on him? She had only been to Pemberton Middle school twice since he started there last year as a seventh grader.
Deidre couldn’t understand what was stopping DeAndre from getting to school on time. After winning the battle of getting him out of bed each morning all he had to do was walk a few yards to the bus stop and get on. She purposely worked the swing shift, from 11am to 7pm, at least three times a week to make sure he was prepared for the day. Most of the time she left nothing to his imagination in regards to what she expected from him when he came in by himself in the afternoon. Head nods and barely audible grunts let Deidre know he had at least heard her to-do lists. God knows how many other notices she had deleted in her haste to empty her e-mail box.
Deidre was up before DeAndre this morning to make her nine am hair appointment and was sitting in the nail shop by 12:30. Her best girlfriend’s wedding was the next day for which she was an attendant. The latter didn’t thrill her in the way she would have been in her twenties or if she was married herself by her present age of thirty eight.
The single phone line she used for both the telephone and the computer rang the moment she logged off of the internet. It was probably Sheila asking her to pick up yet another thing she or her overpriced wedding coordinator forgot.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Mrs. Hicks. This is Jeff Riley, the principal at Pemberton Middle School where her son, DeAndre attends.”
“This is Ms. Collins. I am DeAndre’s mother.” Deidre said. Her upper body tensed the way a person would in preparation for receiving a shot.
“Ms. Collins, DeAndre has gotten himself into trouble and I was wondering if it were possible for you to come down to the school and pick him up.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying he’s been kicked out of school?”
“Yes mam, he will be suspended.”
“Excuse me.” Deidre yielded to a short coughing spell from the lump rising in her throat. “What did he do?”
“This is why we want you to come in. When a child has been suspended we have what is known as an exit conference where the school explains the circumstances surrounding the suspension.”
“That is what I am asking you. Why was he suspended?”
“It allows you to meet with a team that includes DeAndre’s teachers and counselor, so that there are many perspectives on how DeAndre can be more effective when he returns to school.” He continued as if he didn’t hear her question.
“And when will he be able to return, Mr. Riley?”
“The day De Andre will be permitted back to school will also be explained at the conference. Rather than upset you further on the phone, it would be best if we sit down and discuss his conduct in detail.”
“Are you telling me you’re kicking my child out of school, but cannot tell me why over the phone?”
“Calm down, Mrs. Hicks. Is transportation a problem?”
“It’s Ms. Collins, DeAndre’s father and I aren’t married. To answer your question, transportation is not a problem. Mr. Riley, I am a supportive parent and I am also a Christian. You can be assured that before I leave for the school I will be praying for an outcome that aligns with my faith. Just like you have prepared your team to be a united front when I arrive, I would like to be equally prepared.
“He’s being suspended for sexual harrasment.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Respect the Mouse
When Book Marketing gurus instruct us impressionable debut novelist to couple each and every vacation with a book marketing activity such as a book signing or author appearance I’m sure they didn’t mean a Disney Vacation-the mother of all vacation orchestration. But, I attempted it. I was invited to sign my debut novel, Soon and Very Soon in the Author’s Pavilion at my sorority convention in Orlando this past week . That gave me at least four days to hang out with Mickey, Minnie and the crew. What could go wrong, right? It is of course, The Year of a Million Dreams. I just had to unload the thirty books ( that I packed into a suitcase and passed off as my daughter’s checked bag) so my dreams would be fulfilled.
I took multi-tasking to a new level and had to make some hard choices in the process. More than anything you want everyone to have a good time on vacation. This meant ensuring that everyone had a chance to do what they wanted. Disney is for kids and my six year had whole-heartedly bought into fantasy from the time she watched the Disney vacation planning video. My husband wanted some much need down time and didn’t want to, “stuck with the kids” the whole time. I had thirty books to unload. Did I say that already?
We adapted a philosophy- Respect the Mouse. Respect the Mouse had come to mean nothing takes precedent over seeing Mickey in the faux- fur flesh. We had three Magic Your Way tickets for three days which only gave us entrance into the parks. The “Your Way” part did not mean a reprieve from the hefty admission price plus taxes and applicable fees. So, Respect the Mouse also meant you had better adjust your attitude to ensure that we all have a good time, especially at picture time.
A monsoon type rain on Day 2 throws a (no pun intended) monkey wrench in our excursion to Disney’s Animal Kingdom. Oh my goodness, don’t panic…spreadsheet schedules can be altered. Call the Bibbidi Boppiti Boutique and tell the fairy godmothers to change my daughter’s hair, nails and make-up appointment to Tuesday evening. Push everything back a day. Except the author’s pavilion is Monday and Tuesday 9am-9pm. I have to cut my time off at the knees.
Now I have less time to unload thirty books. I set up my booth Monday morning and try my best to sell my sorors on the story I conceptualized over ten years ago. I am amazed how relevant it is today in the emergence of mega-ministries and public break-ups of ministry power couples. But, I’m green. I’m so new at this expo thing that I am guilty of leaving my booth several times to get into the line and take pictures of my literary idols, Victoria Christopher Murray, E. Lynn Harris and Hill Harper, not to mention Sorority superstars such as former presidents and Honorary members- all selling their own books!
Before I know it a whistle is going off like the one that told Fred it was quitting time at the quarry in Bedrock . Decision time. Do I leave the pavilion and possible sells on the table to go in search of making my family’s Disney dreams come true? I’m feeling torn and my attitude begins to shift for the worst. Then I remembered our mantra- I’ve got to respect it. I’ve got to Respect the Mouse. I tell this to myself as I watch literally hundreds of sorors flood the pavilion as my departure coincides with the ending of an important session. I repeat the mantra the next day as I pack up my 20 or so books to trek to Downtown Disney and watch the fairy godmothers transform my daughter to Princess Shanae-nae with tiara and sandy blonde extensions affixed with combs and pins. Her Cinderella costume (that we carried with us) is snatching as her 6T body wears at the 2T-4T seams, but she is cute as a button, and very much a princess.
I realize these moments are priceless. If I had of stayed behind that table at booth 841 in the Orange County Convention Center Exhibit Hall I wouldn’t have been there to hear my daughter very coyly ask Mickey’s assistant, “Is Minnie, Mickey’s friend or girlfriend?” I would have never discovered that she is braver than me and willing to ride every roller coaster with her adventurous dad. I would never have heard her proclaim she had the best time ever.
In the end we had a magical time. I captured some fantastic photos with my digital camera, and yes, the smiles are genuine. All because we respected the mouse.
Sherryle Kiser Jackson
author of Soon and Very Soon
available at Barnes and Noble.com, Amazon.com, Target.com and Books A Million.com
I took multi-tasking to a new level and had to make some hard choices in the process. More than anything you want everyone to have a good time on vacation. This meant ensuring that everyone had a chance to do what they wanted. Disney is for kids and my six year had whole-heartedly bought into fantasy from the time she watched the Disney vacation planning video. My husband wanted some much need down time and didn’t want to, “stuck with the kids” the whole time. I had thirty books to unload. Did I say that already?
We adapted a philosophy- Respect the Mouse. Respect the Mouse had come to mean nothing takes precedent over seeing Mickey in the faux- fur flesh. We had three Magic Your Way tickets for three days which only gave us entrance into the parks. The “Your Way” part did not mean a reprieve from the hefty admission price plus taxes and applicable fees. So, Respect the Mouse also meant you had better adjust your attitude to ensure that we all have a good time, especially at picture time.
A monsoon type rain on Day 2 throws a (no pun intended) monkey wrench in our excursion to Disney’s Animal Kingdom. Oh my goodness, don’t panic…spreadsheet schedules can be altered. Call the Bibbidi Boppiti Boutique and tell the fairy godmothers to change my daughter’s hair, nails and make-up appointment to Tuesday evening. Push everything back a day. Except the author’s pavilion is Monday and Tuesday 9am-9pm. I have to cut my time off at the knees.
Now I have less time to unload thirty books. I set up my booth Monday morning and try my best to sell my sorors on the story I conceptualized over ten years ago. I am amazed how relevant it is today in the emergence of mega-ministries and public break-ups of ministry power couples. But, I’m green. I’m so new at this expo thing that I am guilty of leaving my booth several times to get into the line and take pictures of my literary idols, Victoria Christopher Murray, E. Lynn Harris and Hill Harper, not to mention Sorority superstars such as former presidents and Honorary members- all selling their own books!
Before I know it a whistle is going off like the one that told Fred it was quitting time at the quarry in Bedrock . Decision time. Do I leave the pavilion and possible sells on the table to go in search of making my family’s Disney dreams come true? I’m feeling torn and my attitude begins to shift for the worst. Then I remembered our mantra- I’ve got to respect it. I’ve got to Respect the Mouse. I tell this to myself as I watch literally hundreds of sorors flood the pavilion as my departure coincides with the ending of an important session. I repeat the mantra the next day as I pack up my 20 or so books to trek to Downtown Disney and watch the fairy godmothers transform my daughter to Princess Shanae-nae with tiara and sandy blonde extensions affixed with combs and pins. Her Cinderella costume (that we carried with us) is snatching as her 6T body wears at the 2T-4T seams, but she is cute as a button, and very much a princess.
I realize these moments are priceless. If I had of stayed behind that table at booth 841 in the Orange County Convention Center Exhibit Hall I wouldn’t have been there to hear my daughter very coyly ask Mickey’s assistant, “Is Minnie, Mickey’s friend or girlfriend?” I would have never discovered that she is braver than me and willing to ride every roller coaster with her adventurous dad. I would never have heard her proclaim she had the best time ever.
In the end we had a magical time. I captured some fantastic photos with my digital camera, and yes, the smiles are genuine. All because we respected the mouse.
Sherryle Kiser Jackson
author of Soon and Very Soon
available at Barnes and Noble.com, Amazon.com, Target.com and Books A Million.com
Black In America
Black In America……..
Do we as Blacks really understand the essence of being black? Have we checked and rechecked our history? Have we stayed connected to both the positive and negative results of our ancestor’s struggles and plights? If we have we all and those hereafter wouldn’t give a second thought to obtaining an education, voting, or seeking to implement new laws. Welfare and other programs wouldn’t be a claim as the only way to live generation after generation. We wouldn’t accept community, education and living conditions that didn’t strive to be the best for our families. We wouldn’t accept our children sassing adults from the age of two or accept “Family Services” book terms to raise our homes and watch them as they take our children. We wouldn’t accept our children Telling us what they will or won’t do. We wouldn’t accept their criminal behavior, them ruining our homes and creating havoc in the schools. We wouldn’t accept the gang recruitment of our children. We would have a grasp on who we should be, are and want our generations to follow.
Do we as Blacks really understand the essence of being black? It brings responsibility. We will not receive the acres and the mule. The lie was told to add glamour to a trip to this country that has held us in bondage ever since the journey. The same glamour that is depicted in our videos, the bling of that acre and a mule. Our ancestors were foreigners that were used to build a nation, a nation that we need to embrace but remember we were foreigners. Foreigners can go to any country and succeed following the rules of that country. We complain about others who come to America and achieve………they learn the rules and succeed. They seek what their families can get from this loving government and succeed. They get financing, businesses, education, housing, health care and succeed. It is understood the policies that are made behind the closed doors but we as Blacks need to speak on what is afforded to those who now have the opportunities that exceed ours. But first we must follow the rules. We can’t sell drugs, loot, fail to attend community and school board meetings and expect things to just change. Millions watched CNN and complained but out of those how many parents are involved in their communities? How many attend their children’s Parent Teacher Meetings? How many know where their children are or who they’re with daily? I thank CNN for opening conversations, posing questions, recognizing there is a need for solutions. We as Blacks in America need to find solutions.
Do we as Blacks really understand the essence of being black? It brings determination. Our ancestors were survivals. They took on challenges and endured what very few claim they could live with or without. Today’s black families are scattered for various reasons. Our connection may be a result of societies pressures but really, families are not put together or torn apart because the Man influenced its makeup. Yes the economy takes two working parents and yes employment means that the educated have an advantage; but our cores in family are weak. There’s no longer “Mama” to bring the family together we they run everywhere but to church on Sunday. “Daddy” is not there to help the young men learn manhood begins when they no longer sit on the potty. Neither are there at the recitals, basketball games, or graduations. Neither is cutting of the videos, explaining sex education, spending quality time and this is not the responsibility of America. It is ours.
Black in America………..The topic is Do We understand The essence of being Black?
Nanette M. Buchanan
Author, Family Secrets Lies & Alibi's
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