Michael Datcher’s Raising Fences was the next Black Male author who blew me away. Reading his story felt familiar as if we knew each other. That feeling mainly was created because we are about the same age and share many of the same cultural references. Datcher, like Nathan McCall gave voice to his inner thoughts and feelings. Not just the defensive or angry feelings that are easiest to express but the softer, more vulnerable feelings like yearnings. It’s easy to read about how an author or character would like a new car or some other material possession but reading about the inner workings of the heart and soul is something totally different. With Raising Fences Michael Datcher delivered. His story about growing up in LA, yearning for his father or a father, resonates with the poignancy with which he was able to write. Most girls are taught to dream of being a wife and mother. However, it is quite different and, in a way, special, to read the words of a man who dreamed of being a husband and father. It is quite special indeed to read the words of one who could write of his dreams and struggles in the face of all the obstacles his socioeconomic status has in place that makes such dreams a long-shot. Raising Fences was a beautiful read from a gifted storyteller, telling the story of his life, his hopes and his dreams. When I finished reading the book, my heart felt light. Don’t just take my word for how good of a book this is, buy it! Or, borrow it from the library or from someone who owns it. Or “liberate” it from someone’s bookshelf to be definitely returned at a future date. Kindle or eBook seems not be an option unfortunately...
Category: Musings
Book Two: Makes Me Wanna Holler
Makes Me Wanna Holler by Nathan McCall made me want to – meet him. After having read his autobiography, I was blown away by his life story and the way in which he wrote about what life had been like for him growing up with the negative pressures exerted on young Black men. In his book, maybe for the first time, I was allowed a peek inside of a Black man’s feelings. The emotional honesty with which McCall wrote about his feelings regarding the various situations he confronted, for a moment, peeled away the layers to see and feel the heart of a Black man who displayed his feelings honestly and in print. I was in my early twenties when he wrote the book and I’m not sure when I read it. However, the concept of having a Black man share his deepest, most tender feelings was something I can honestly say I had not been exposed to in my formative years. The boy that McCall was in many ways seemed similar to the boys I grew up with. Not communicating. Communicating desire but not feelings. Creating an identity through posturing instead of being. Yet, the man that he became touched me with the simple honesty of his feelings.
Yes, Makes Me Wanna Holler made me wanna holler the way that you do when your soul is touched by a particularly moving sermon on Sunday. Makes Me Wanna Holler made me wanna holler the way a singer does when they are singing a song you know comes from their soul. Makes Me Wanna Holler made me want to meet the author – and I still do. Not to brag about having met The Nathan McCall but just to sit down and have a conversation about life with a Black man who can have an honest conversation about his feelings. That’s all. Don’t just take my word for how good of a book this is, buy it! Or, borrow it from the library or from someone who owns it. Or Kindle it. Or “liberate” it from someone’s bookshelf to be definitely returned at a future date.
Book One: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Eleventh grade. New high school. Literature class with Mrs. P. Smith who knew her literature and expected everyone else to know it as well. There was the required Shakespeare that not many are able to escape. To this day, I find Macbeth’s Soliloquy to be a very dramatic piece of literature that I would love to recite with high drama. Anything less than a dramatic rendering seems an insult to this particular piece.
Then came the big surprise in the small package. The option or the assignment to read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. At the time I read the book, Angelou was already an established author so she was already down the road of success when I “discovered” her. Reading Maya Angelou write of her story in Stamps, Arkansas allowed me to relate to her life growing up as a child in The South, navigating the idiosyncrasies of Southern living (or during her time, Southern surviving). That may have been one of the first times in literature that I actually related to what someone wrote without them having to over explain it. Yet, for a story so accessible and familiar, there was still so much more to learn. So much with which to find awe. There was a bold willingness to try new things that made her my first hero. The limitations of her environment were by no means a limitation to the possibilities that she saw in the future. Maya Angelou blazed a trail in her life that was not necessarily comparable to the fame-seekers of today. The world, in my opinion, is greater for it. Inspiration can come from many sources. Although I was writing prior to attending the second high school, Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings proved to be an early inspiration to continue writing. Don’t just take my word for how good of a book this is, buy it! Or, borrow it from the library or from someone who owns it. Or Kindle it. Or “liberate” it from someone’s bookshelf to be definitely returned at a future date.
The Black Experience in America
Yesterday was the first day of February which is Black History Month. In celebration of Black History Month, it would be interesting to not really highlight the historical facts of the Black Experience in America but to highlight the voices of those who lived and wrote about their story or created stories that helped to convey the full breadth and width of the Black Experience in America. I attended an all-Black high school my last two years and it was during that time I found myself immersed in literature written by Black authors. In years prior, I don’t really recall having been assigned any books by Black authors (I don’t remember many things and this could be one of the many things I don’t remember). Black History Month was usually devoted to the history of Great Black People. We learned and relearned and learned again the historical significance of such luminaries as Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass, Booker T. Washington and Martin Luther King, Jr. Yet, a whole new world opened itself when I read the words of Black authors describing or creating works detailing the subjective experience of life in these United States. In honor of authors of the far past, past and present, I will attempt to highlight a literary work by a Black author whose writing gives voice to the Black Experience in America. Official history has a way of reflecting the pieces of the story that those in power would like to have remembered. However, the true reality can be found in the stories that people tell in their own words.
When Reason & Religion Collide
Recently someone told me that they were God-fearing and wanted to get married in front of God. To clarify what I was hearing, I asked if what they meant to say was that they wanted/preferred to get married in a church. After all, if they believed in an omniscient, omnipresent God, anywhere they married, technically, would be in front of God… My early years were spent two doors down from a church and at a relatively early age, I attempted to combine reason with religion. My mother told me that God could see everything that I did. In my mind, he could see everything happening outside (there were no obstructions to his vision from above). However, I gave him the same limitations as humans when I decided he could not see through the roof. Thus, whenever I did something bad, I did it in the house using the roof as my cover (I was a merciless wall-writer). Reasoning didn’t just “happen” to spring forth from out of nowhere though. My mother and grandfather both were heavy Bible debaters amongst themselves or with people who would come over from time to time in order to discuss/debate the Bible. I even remember my mother being a champion in my eyes once when she debated a Jehovah’s Witness who came to the door with the ubiquitous Watchtower Magazine.
JW: Good afternoon, m’am. I’d like to talk to you today about Jehovah if you have time. Mother: Certainly, come in. JW: I’d first like to give you this copy of The Watchtower and discuss (current cover’s topic). Mother: I have no problems discussing (current cover’s topic) however, I will need you to make your case from this (big Bible sitting in the middle of the coffee table). JW: Well, m’am, Jehovah says blah, blah, blah (still reading from Watchtower) and it says right here that…. Mother: I understand you have your magazine, however, I read from this (big Bible sitting in the middle of the coffee table). Unless or until you can point to me where it says the same thing in THIS book, I will not be able to agree with what you are saying. JW: Thank you so much for your time m’am. Do you mind if I come back? Mother: No problem.
Needless to say, I don’t think that person or any others came back after that episode. Because there was so much debate going on while I was growing up, I do not debate religion with people. It’s like having a question that to the people answering, the answer is right to one person if he says yes and the answer is right to the other person if he says no. Knowing that, I tend to let religion happen around me. Ever so often, if I meet someone of an unfamiliar religion, I may ask questions. However, my typical approach is to let each person be. I’ve personally known people who come from Jewish, Muslim and Hindu backgrounds, learned about people who are Sikh and have read the names of countless other religions in passing (not sure I’ll ever meet a Zoroastrian or not). At times when I am with others from differing religious backgrounds, we just are. No debates.
On (My) Writing
I enjoy writing and someday plan to write a book – maybe. However, all writing is not my favorite. When I first started college immediately after high school, my teachers dissuaded me from trying to be the next WilliWear or Chanel so that I could use my other gift – writing. However, the directive to focus on writing didn’t come with any other instructions. As I attempted to narrow down the question of what are you going to do with your life, I was able to recognize my preferred writing style – subjective. I’ve picked up copies of The Wall Street Journal just so that I could read the human interest stories that are also featured on the front page (or at least they were). Once I finished reading the article, I would close the paper and put it away. My interest has always been in people and their subjective experience of life. Hard numbers hold an interest as well, but if I read about X number of people who suffer from ABC condition, my curiosity would lead me to want to know about an individual person’s experience of ABC condition. Knowing the number of people who share this condition is of secondary interest. Ultimately, my curiosity leads the way in many situations. Turning down random streets to see where it leads. Seeing people while out and wondering what kind of life they lead because of some random detail I noticed in passing. It’s all subjective. Yet, ever so often, when compelled or forced to, I can write something far more objective, filled with numbers and statistics. Just know that behind the numbers and statistics lies some subjective story along whose path I may have already meandered.
Secretary joke
Recently, a large corporation hired several cannibals to increase their diversity. ‘You are all part of our team now’, said the HR rep during the welcoming briefing. ‘You get all the usual benefits and you can go to the cafeteria for something to eat, but don’t eat any employees.’ The cannibals promised they would not. Four weeks later the cannibal chief remarked, ‘You’re all working very hard and I’m satisfied with your work. We have noticed a marked increase in the whole company’s performance. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?’ The cannibals all shook their heads. ‘No.’ After the boss had left, the chief of the cannibals said to the others, ‘Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?’ A hand rose hesitantly. ‘You fool!’ the leader raged. ‘For four weeks we’ve been eating managers and no one noticed anything. But NOOOooo, you had to go and eat someone who actually does something………….
A Thousand Kisses Deep
A thousand kisses deep. If one were to kiss once per day every day, Kiss 1000 would arrive around two years and nine months later. The idea of being a thousand kisses deep into a relationship (and beyond) holds a fascination for me.
When a relationship first starts, the intensity of feeling generally comes from the newness of it all. The mystery that is the other person holds an infinite degree of possibility waiting to be explored. The presence of that mystery typically coincides with “being in love.” However, the mystery fades as the other becomes known. Superman becomes a mortal man. Superwoman becomes a mortal woman. With the faded mystery often goes the feeling of being in love. Many relationships end there. However, it’s when you move beyond the waning feeling of being in love towards the knowing of the other that the action of loving begins. Loving the other with full awareness of all their foibles, inadequacies, and bad habits and off moments. Loving the other, often, in spite of themselves. Loving the other when their present-day reality is severely diminished in comparison to the dazzle of their initial possibilities. Being in love is a feeling, a state of being. A passive state, if you will. However, truly loving someone is an action. It is something that you do…
Years ago, I was a member of an old church built in 1867. The church was located in the center of Atlanta’s historic Black community and its members were especially active during the Civil Rights Movement. Unlike the mega-churches in Atlanta that offered prosperity preaching with a side of super-sized salvation, this church was small and simple. It was just the right size for my people watching. The people I watched the most? The older couples who came to church together most Sundays. Creatures of habit, most people sat in the same seats each week and I did the same (this goes for almost anywhere I go repeatedly). Each Sunday, I would look forward to watching couples in their seventies and even eighties arrive together and sit for worship. After having been together for decades, it seemed as if they were no longer two wholly separate individuals but two people who had spent the majority of their lives together to the point where they merged into a unit. They had their own synchronized rhythms about how they entered and sat down. Each Sunday as I sat watching the couples, I marveled at how serene and content they seemed to have been and wondered how could I ever move from being unceasingly, unrelentingly single to accomplishing that type of relationship longevity. I still don’t absolutely have the answer (or better yet, the relationship that reveals or supports the answer). But my guess is that along the road of their relationship they faced many types of hurdles, temptations, disappointments and setbacks. However, looking at the couples it seemed as if the act of loving, the commitment to the act of loving, in spite of the other circumstances, carried them forward to a point where foibles, bad habits, inadequacies and off moments were small, distant blips on a long-lived love. Truth is, no one is perfect. Not the person with whom I may fall in love. Nor me in the eyes of the person who may fall in love with me. I’ve experienced loving someone for a period long enough to know that, yes, I am capable of loving someone for who they truly are, in spite of themselves. At a certain point, I remember making conscious decisions to remain involved with him. I chose to continue the act of loving him. I could have just as easily chosen not to. At a later point, I did choose to love him differently – not in a relationship. The love is still there, the circumstances have changed. I’m sure the couples that I saw in church, years down the path of their relationships, had already passed the choice point(s) years ago and possibly several times but chose to remain. My relationship was obviously not meant to be one of longevity, although we do remain in contact as friends. The lesson(s) remain with me though. In spite of the ending and because of its occurrence, I still hold out hope for the relationship that goes “A Thousand Kisses Deep.” And beyond. Here is one of Leonard Cohen’s takes on the concept of a “Thousand Kisses Deep.” This piece has been a work in progress for years so this is only one variant. Not to be confused, he has a song with the title “A Thousand Kisses Deep” that is different from this.
I Shop Therefore I Am: When the Package Is More Important than the Contents
I lived in Atlanta for almost ten years. During that time, I was able to grow professionally (and exponentially) from my start as a front desk clerk to an executive assistant working for a telecommunications company. However, as I progressively moved up in Corporate America, in the success-oriented metropolis that is and was Atlanta, I realized something was afoot. I shopped frequently. My friends shopped frequently. Everywhere you turned, people were resplendent as they went to and fro in their daily lives. Only in Atlanta have I seen men dressed to the nines and looking so well put-together. And the women on their arms (or the others who wanted to be on their arms), were equally or more put-together. As an expert sewer who wished to be a fashion designer when I was in high school, I selected clothing that had rich visual appeal in addition to textures that I enjoyed against my skin. I would study the angle of a heel on a shoe and its relation to the overall shoe as if I were judging an architectural awards submission. My hair was usually cut and coiffed in the latest fashion. I’ve never been a big wearer of makeup but my skin shone from the unctions and potions I applied to it with daily care. I’ve never been a big wearer of nail polish either yet everyone chastised me about not having my nails “done.” Nail salons have hated me because I’ve gone to have a manicure and pedicure to remove any unwanted skin/cuticle (which is a fancy way of restating skin) but always insisted on no polish – not even clear. Special volumes of chastisement were devoted to the criminal offense of me wearing sandals, revealing my feet with unpolished toes. Maybe it was the nail polish debate with special emphasis on the feet that first gave me the feeling that something was – afoot. As more and more of my time was taken with conversations about what I bought, what my friends bought or what we were going to buy, I began to question is this all there is? I would meet men who would walk over to me when I was out and strike up a conversation. We both would be dressed in all of our finery. The initial stages of conversation would include a rundown of his material status. Within minutes I would know what luxury car he drove, the subdivision in which his house was located (or the general area), his title at his job and the company for whom he worked. After this dazzling array of information thrown in my direction, they would then ask me about myself. Although I was an executive assistant, I would drop my title a notch or two and reply that I was a secretary. With that response, quite frequently, I would see the back of the resplendent suit as the person wearing it walked away. Over time, it became somewhat of a sad game. Yet another bright-eyed person would saunter over and reveal his status to me, I would reveal myself as a secretary. Sometimes I would get the long drawn-out goodbye, which included a few lackluster phone calls. If so, I would then try to engage the person with questions about himself that would help me to know who he was as a person. What I found is that quite often, the package was far more important than the content. I would find myself regaled with stories about events on the job, successful moves up the ladder, and the thought process behind their house choice – all manner of things that avoided the essence of the person in question. Some went to church; if it were a mega-church I didn’t count that as real church – just an extension of networking. Sadly, most attended mega-churches. The process of meeting people, over time, became progressively arduous as I attempted to discover the content underneath the packaging and continued to find myself stymied by the continuous presentation of the packaging. Although I love packaging (after all, I wanted to be a designer of packaging), I longed for actual connection. Ever so often, I did meet people who peeled back the layers of packaging to reveal the content of their character and personality. Those relationships I valued. Now, I tend to have a varied package. When I work, I have an armada of professional clothes purchased during my Atlanta heyday that still reflects that I am a professional among professionals. However, while in college the last couple of years, I wore jeans and T-shirts that peeled a few years off my age. I don’t think most would have mistaken me for someone in my 20s but a few guys did find themselves surprised in initial conversations when I mentioned my age. I’m equally comfortable with packaging that says “I’m a professional” as I am in packaging that says “I’m as casual as can be because I’m going to class then home.” The reason? Despite the packaging, I try to put forth that the content beneath the packaging is what is relevant. Usually it works. A little bit of personality. A little bit of intellect. A “lotta” bit of humanity. That’s what lies beneath this packaging and I value the relationships that allow me to show it. I am; therefore, I am.
The existential peril of gun violence
http://www.truthdig.com/cartoon/item/on_your_mark_20120809/
Years ago, I was preparing for my first trip to Europe, Paris to be exact. Life and fate decreed that I would find the wherewithal to venture to the city of my childhood dreams about three months after the United States invaded Iraq. At the time, I had a coworker who was very concerned that a terrorist would potentially blow up the plane and a host of other tragic scenarios that ran through his mind. When he asked me why I wasn’t afraid or concerned enough to cancel my trip, my reply was something very lighthearted. However, the truth ran far deeper than my lighthearted response. The truth was and still is that I am far more frightened of the harm a fellow gun-wielding American can do to me than any terrorist scenario that someone can conceive. That is as it should be. Although there are always references to terrorist plots in the United States that were foiled, those are fewer and farther between than the average United States citizen, armed with legal machines of small-scale, yet still, mass destruction. At 19, I had a man in New Orleans threaten to shoot me, my friend and his friends (friendship wasn’t that precious to him obviously). I took that as a credible threat and said last prayers. Fortunately, I’ve lived to tell about it. However, whenever I make decisions they always include considerations for safety. Will I be out very late in a bad area? Bad is relative as I’ve spent my life living in cities that cling to the top 10 for crime in the United States. I remember being in high school when a fight broke out, from my position in the front of the crowd I saw one of the fighters reach in his clothing and pull out a gun. Needless to say, I NEVER attempted to watch a fight since then. Even Corporate America must contend with the existential peril of gun violence. I had a coworker that I knew owned a lot of guns. In different conversations with him, I became worried about what could happen if ever his job were threatened. Would he come to work with his collection of guns on his person and begin to kill his coworkers? I even wondered if there were a mechanism in place that would allow an employee to express concern for the potential violence they suspected a coworker could be capable of in a bad situation. At the time (and probably even now), stories were rife about disgruntled employees coming to work and killing coworkers – friends and enemies alike. And now, the narrative of gun violence has been expanded to include a former doctoral student in neuroscience. Just as bad is relative, so too is safe. Mike Luckovich’s cartoon is hilarious. However, the truth of the matter is that it is a sad state we live in when, as a country, we are so conditioned to the clear and present danger of our own gun violence while still obsessing over the potential threat from international terrorists.