Mister, is it true?


The Day of Reckoning is continuing its tumultuous peregrination across the entertainment, political and now sports domain.  Jerry "Mister" Richardson, the iconic, former NFL player turned franchise owner just abruptly declared he would be selling his team after an announced investigation into sexual misconduct centered around his "creepy old man" tendencies.  Richardson fashioned himself as a kind of antebellum-style Southern gentleman, regularly leaving personal notes and cash for his female employees to get manicures and ameliorate their appearance to meet the unspoken standards dictated by his expectations.

The aura and mannerisms of some NFL owners in general, a fraternity that is probably more exclusive than the clandestine Skull and Bones, engenders, at times, a kind of chauvinistic, if not sexist culture in which their pecuniary weight could be leveraged to allow them to rule like a plutocrat whose idiosyncrasies are not only never to be questioned, but ostensibly tolerated.  There is an ironic dichotomy in the allegations being levied against an owner whose influence placed him in the pantheon of the uber owners like Robert Kraft and Jerry Jones.  He has an Hispanic head coach Ron Rivera, an African American as the face of the franchise in quarterback Cam Newton, and a woman, Tina Becker, serving as chief operating officer of the team.  He will be forensically examined in light of the actual diversity his organization organically provides.  Somehow, one can not be mutually exclusive from the other.  Oh, did I mention that an allegation of a racial slur was part of the phalanx of offenses listed in the settlements.

NDAs (non-disclosure agreements) have become the legal instrument to shelter disparaging content of those accused.  From Harvey Weinstein to U.S Congressmen, this jurisprudent utility has become the de facto power play to protect from legal recourse after settlements have been reached.  Without fail the owners will close ranks and deflect, denounce or belittle the aspersions being cast on a towering figure such as Richardson.  His imprint in the state of North Carolina is legendary, almost folklorish.  Apparently "Mister" was just a man who liked to engage in "Jeans Day" at work with a kind of misogynistic indulgence that was supposed to be dismissive.  I guess he could not have known that the tsunami that began in Hollywood would transverse the country and find its way to little ol' Charlotte!

                                                                     Greek Life

The most recent deaths of Penn State, FSU and LSU pledges in the heralded, if not cloistered, world of Greek fraternities has brought the organizations under a much needed spotlight.  The question that under girds the tragedy of the senseless deaths of America's "best and brightest" at major universities is why would an otherwise erudite individual subject themselves to initiation rites that are tantamount to abuse at the high end and asinine, reckless, frat boy antics at the low end of the conduct spectrum?  Critics of the elitist, separatist culture of Greek organizations are going to launch a phalanx of  grievances to justify advocacy for the "death penalty"-expulsion of the chapters from the university.  Its proponents will market the virtues and societal benefit of these distinguished young men who when acculturated to the tenets of their charter embody all that's good in what will become the future leaders of this nation.

What's being lost in this tragic narrative is a Bacchanalian culture that permeates almost every secular university in this country. Alcohol, more specifically underage drinking, in its many incarnations, is as much a rite of passage on university campuses as going to sporting or social events.  Getting hammered, lit, wasted, totally drunk (sorry parents) is an inextricable and expected part of college life.  I have heard countless, gleeful recollections from alumni of prestigious schools about waking up in strangers' apartments or becoming so inebriated that their speech was slurred or projectile vomiting as their bodies fought to protect them from alcohol toxicity.

Beer kegs on the weekend ( actually it starts on Thursday evening)are transported like precious cargo to apartments, frat houses and private homes in every city in this country with a college campus.  Binge drinking is not an anomaly or aberration. National Lampoon's Animal House was not a caricature of college life to bemuse and dismiss.  A microcosm of this abusive alcohol culture in high definition can be seen at any Spring Break gathering.  If you believe that I embellish my position just look at the impact of cities that decided to ban alcohol consumption by college students during their forays into their zip codes for Hedonism 101.  Fort Lauderdale, FL for years was a prime destination for thousands of college students.  Intoxicated young men, plus high rise hotels was a petri dish for disaster.  In addition to students falling to their deaths because of alcohol impairment, the level of vandalism to properties became an untenable proposition no matter how many millions of dollars these spring breakers brought to the county coffers.

As a nation we rejected the idea of the prohibition of alcohol. We love our: bourbon, gin, vodka, whiskey, rum. tequila, brandy, wine, champagne and God knows BEER (ale, lager)! The ubiquity of alcohol is engendered by our do what thou wilt zeitgeist.  Thirty thousand plus people a year die from alcohol-related car accidents and thousands more die from alcohol-related diseases yet we WILL NOT  deny anyone over the age of 21 the "right" to imbibe at their leisure no matter the collateral damage to those who are not interested in luxuriating in the spirits so gleefully marketed with zest and fervor on every major network.  Miles Monroe said, "when purpose is not understood, abuse is inevitable." I have often wondered at what point the abusive element of the pledging process ( physical beatings, toxic level of alcohol consumption) became a measure of fraternal worthiness?

As a former naval officer, I understand and have gone through the indoctrination process, which in part mimics the physical and emotional rigor of the pledging process.  What is fundamentally different is that the "breaking down" process had a template and expected end in preparing me to become a commissioned officer in the United States military.  The ethos and pathos of Greek culture and their initiation process needs to be forensically examined and CHANGED!

                                                                When We Said I Do

Almost 24 years ago, the love of my life took a chance on forever by saying yes to my request to marry her.  This relationship has transversed three decades ( 90's, 2000's, 2010's) against a milieu of fashion trends, elastic social mores and ideological shifts that have dramatically altered the cultural landscape we once knew as newlyweds.

Our wedding, an endorphin-rich ceremony where I stood transfixed at my wife's transcendent beauty was the beginning of a journey of two hearts that had to do more than beat as one.  Our lives as a covenant-bound couple had begun and would usher in the "for richer, for poorer", the "sickness and in health", and test the notion of a love that is sealed by the Holy Spirit until death do us part. So much about the institution of marriage is conflated, distorted, and sadly vilified.  Many people approach it in a chemically-induced stupor, impaired by emotions, feelings and a belief that the rapturous high of each other's presence is sustainable no matter the rigors of life.

The truth is that the two becoming one flesh may be a seamless process physically, but emotionally, spiritually and ideologically the alchemy is a much more deliberative process.  I have long believed that God only allows certain things to be revealed within the covenant of marriage.  No matter how compatible, familiar and comfortable two people are before their vows, you are imbued with a new awareness, insight and understanding by God once you "jump the broom!"  Marriage is a fusion of at times antithetical views, life experiences, opinions and beliefs. The merging of two individuals as husband and wife is a life-long process- with love being the bonding agent, the sustenance supplied by God.

No matter how adept you are at planning the future, the vicissitudes of life will either serve as a sealant or corrosive agent to your union. The two will become three or more. Each year transforms the relationship into an amalgamation of new first:anniversaries, children's birthdays, promotions, home ownership, family trips, relocation and a variety of benchmarks to denote the new chapters of the ever unfolding life you share together.  One of the misunderstood components of this saga is the inevitable metamorphosis of each individual.  The two that became one flesh will evolve into mature incarnations of the doe-eyed couple that stood breathlessly awaiting to exchange their "forever' vows. The challenge within a marriage is to maintain a synergy, a synthesis as you two grow, mature, and develop into your future selves.  After the spectacular celebration of your public declaration of love and happiness, you will be inundated with moments that will either impenetrably seal your union or begin to form tiny fissures that, if left unaddressed, will over time become an almost uncrossable chasm.

 Stacy and I have been most fortunate to have raised two incredible daughters, opened our home to family and friends, donated countless resources anonymously to individuals and organizations and
yet imbibed deeply on the sweet and at times bitter moments of life. I am sharing this with you because after almost a quarter of a century of marriage, these tidbits are not things I picked up vicariously.  Even with the benefit of premarital counseling and incredible role models of robust, healthy marriages around me, these things were never explained to me in a measure that equipped me to navigate with confidence as these sometimes dystopic chapters had to be walked through.  Stacy Lynn Broussard, a young lady from the state of Louisiana changed my life.  She made me a husband, father, and provided me with life transforming love, support and insight.  What I want anyone reading this to realize is that the best marriages require diligence, patience, understanding and unequivocally the love of Christ to flourish.  I have had the time of my life with the love of my life!  I just want you to know that the optics of a great couple come with a lot of behind-the-scenes work which first and foremost include prayer for each other and the ability to acknowledge when you are wrong.  I believe in the incredible gift that is marriage.  I just want you to understand that it is not to be entered into lightly.  Selah

                                     I WISH IT WAS MORE THAN HIDDEN FIGURES

Another year of introspective review of artistry is probably how the more than 6000 members of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences would critique this year’s Oscars ceremony.  Even with Hollywood’s self-portrait as liberal, inclusive and a global repository of diversity and multicultural narratives, it always strikes me how the mosaic of black life in this country that is celebrated in film falls within a dystopic stricture of  grating dysfunction, marginalization and an existential threat of violence.

Slavery, civil rights and the slums is the corner store of ideas from which our American-ness can be transcribed.  A twenty-first century rendering of us as sentient beings is still representative of the glacial pace at which anecdotal offerings of the historicity of black people is being integrated.  The Birth of a Nation, after much pre-Oscar fanfare, was not only conspicuously absent from the list of nominees, but the polemic subject matter in light of the Dickensian political tone of the nation was unfortunate. For the first time ever, a black man won for best screenplay adaptation in Moonlight.

The rhetorical question is whether this particular effort was so substantially superior to the legions of others over the many decades before it that it singularly and finally warranted a statue? O.J: Made In America garnered an award and was considered by some critics a magnum opus of our culture on the issue of race and ambition.  What it masterfully chronicles in the seven and a half hour documentary is an existential dissociative disorder masked as ambitious assimilation. 

Ava Duvernay’s “13^th” graphically, pedantically and compellingly dispels the myth of the abolition of slavery legislated by the 13^th Amendment of the United States Constitution. It exposes the pathos and ethos that drives, nourishes and sustains the carceral state in this country.  It however, falls outside of the bandwidth of heralded discourse and content to be found in the black cinematic trinity (slavery, civil rights, slums) of Hollywood green-lighted projects.  Changing the tapestry of cinema to a more expansive, “blackish” diorama has everything to do with appetite and efficacy. 

Because our history is inextricably and violently interwoven into the broader conflicted, passion play of establishing a democracy, extracting stories that promulgate fully-evolved Americans of color comes with inherent risk.  Movie making has always been a collaborative environment.  The stakeholders may come with a holistic intent of exhuming the lives and biographies of those who were wantonly disregarded, but the financial viability always holds sway.  If the American cultural epicenter for cinema is going to be compelled to do more than tangentially mine the trace elements of black culture, then the voices, perspectives and eyes behind the camera, within the corridors of power must also be inclusive or this self-aggrandizing “awards” show will in short order return to its regressive mean of monochromatic expression. 

                                                   A Requiem on the Masculine Mystique


It seems that the ignominy of the Harvey Weinstein allegations has cast a shadow that looms like the sword of Damocles over power brokers in Hollywood, corporate America and Congress. The year after women, en masse, declined to endorse what would have been a watershed moment in Presidential politics--the election of Hillary Clinton-the "Me Too" hashtag has gathered inertia and rocked the sexist patriarchy of American culture.

The arc of power has always bent inordinately toward the male gender. Women have been subjugated to secondary, if not tertiary status across every strata of our culture that does not involve putative matriarchal functions. They have been commoditized, objectified and politicized since this country's inception.  What makes the national inertia behind this repudiation of sexual harassment so refreshing is that it comes in the shadow of the banal narcissism that inculcated this "boys will be boys" ethos in which women  were not only aware of the licentious environments that they could be subjected to in every arena, but the election of a President whose misogynistic behavior and edicts aggressively expanded the bandwidth by which this topic can be deliberated.

Women occupy executive boardrooms of Fortune 500 companies and Hollywood studios. They also serve as Presidents of major universities, four-star generals, commercial airline pilots, astronauts, and in the halls of Congress- all of which in as short as 50 years ago were untenable propositions. The patrician mindset that no only created glass ceilings for women, but condoned toxic environments (see Madmen or any television programming of a bygone era) in which women could be inundated with inappropriate comments, advances, touches and career-ending threats to yield to sexual propositions.  In the same year that DC Comics' "Wonder Woman" became a box-office bonanza, a galvanizing and liberating force has empowered legions of women to come forth and say "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

What had ostensibly become an accepted yet derisive term-the casting couch- as a segue to sexual impropriety as standard procedure to get roles in Hollywood has become a flash point to remove the private shame of those who felt powerless in yielding to the hedonistic culture of pay to play with human flesh.  To witness the ossification of a practice of abusing power as a modus operandi is revelatory. It also speaks to the dichotomy that so many men hold on to as cursory.  When venerated journalist Charlie Rose was sacked at PBS because of salacious allegations, it shattered the veneer of the predatory boss or employer who fostered a zeitgeist of denigrating women.  Far too many men are raised on an unhealthy diet of pornography and domestic violence as entertainment as part of their optics of men's interaction with women.  I am not implying that those outliers alone inculcated the kind of toxic enclaves driving the national backlash that is reaping a whirlwind for those who engendered behaviors that were not only abusive but flat out wrong.

The rhetorical question is simply will this moment of reckoning become the touchstone to fundamentally and permanently shift the paradigm of the acceptable treatment of women in the workplace or will it be an aberration whose bandwidth will eventually shrink and slither back into the toxic quagmire that has too long been a part of the status quo.  We shall see!                                                                     

                                                   The Real Heft of Hefner


There has been quite a bit of bandwidth dedicated to whom many consider the progenitor of the sexual revolution's most iconoclastic corporate emblem, Playboy. Hugh Hefner, reported to have an IQ north of 150, provided the lubricity to transubstantiate pornography from a seedy, slimey back-alley industry to mainstreamed, glamorized "sleaze"- the main freight being the objectification of women- book ended by serious journalism featuring such heralded writers as William F. Buckley and Alex Haley.

Hefner sought to philosophically deconstruct theological sanctions-repeal and replace if you will-the prudish, outdated sexual constraint promulgated by moral exegetes. The Playboy philosophy hinged upon this single edict," A man's morality, like his religion, is a personal affair best left to his own conscience."

The scientific construct for this borrowed heavily from the Kinsey Report, an ideological gateway to libertinism. Hefner sought to introduce a new morality, part Aleister Crowley's "Do What Thou Wilt" and progressive advancement of social mores emancipated from the stricture of the cultural, moral and spiritual imprint accreted from the Elizabethan Age.  This new orthodoxy, engorged with sexual iconoclasm, has been celebrated as "a pure lyric of expression of the appetite of human nature."  Hefner commiserated about the incongruity of what people said publicly about sex and sexuality and what they did privately noting that this country's appetite for the forbidden was voracious and he believed insatiable.

He transformed himself into the embodiment of the sexual renaissance man; a strange alchemy of psuedo-erudition and sartorial panache all the while engaging in an unfettered sexual appetite.  His joie de vive made him the imprimatur of this brand of hedonism he sought to repackage as  sophisticated, counter cultural and eminent. He is heralded as an iconoclast who donated to social justice and civil rights causes while simultaneously openly advocating the patrician constraints of his empire's most prized commodity-women as objects of licentiousness.

 The previous paragraphs is my version of the academic, high-brow rendering thus far of his legacy.  For regular folks,sadly, Playboy, the magazine, became a ubiquitous, right-of-passage parchment for prepubescent boys who would, on far too many occasions, discover the dirty magazine in their father's hidden stash. The Bill of Rights for the new sexual Constitution actually delivered a bill of wrongs for conceivably millions of boys whose raging hormones would be skewered by this misogynistic imprint of women and sexual intimacy.  The curating of fetishization, masturbation and promiscuity left scar tissue and a framework for addiction to pornography whose impact was so pronounced that it more than marginally altered the psycho-sexual construct by which they would develop. There would be scores of studies done to demonstrate the neurological damage of this new ethos.

Dr.Tony Evans said that," pornography use is one of the greatest indicators that a man has lost touch with his manhood."  We were indoctrinated into voyeurism and depictions of sex not only bereft of constraint but entangled with violence or Caligulan type escapades in which self-gratification was the primary focus. There is an unspoken malignancy tied to the playboy iconography.  He inculcated a passive recklessness by positing that technology ( the creation of vaccines,abortifacients) would outpace the proliferation of sexually-transmitted diseases, out of wedlock births, and abortions that followed this self-centered odyssey of indulgence. His prescience would be a partial truth.

The internet made access to copious amounts of pornographic material seamless and removed the stigma of having to leave the clandestine confines of one's home to indulge in the salacious, digital ecosystem that brought a dark web of perversion right to your desktop, laptop or phone. Ironically, this proliferation became the death knell of the revolutionary magazine that sought to mainstream the ribald as racy prose and the topography of women as the sole source stimuli for men. The collateral damage, the legacy of this sexual utopia, is far greater than the image of a centerfold burned into boys and men's memories. This contagion created pathogens that are still destroying households around the globe to this day.

                                                           Keepin' It Real
                   ( Have I therefore become your enemy because I tell you the truth?)
                                                                                                                 Gal 4:16



It was Socrates that posed the question, "What is the right way for a man to live?" This is a nation laden with aphorisms and edicts that declare what being an American is.  The Declaration of Independence starts with these hallowed words," When in the course of human events it becomes necessary".  But if I parse together a sentence by borrowing excerpts from the remainder of the first paragraph, it would look like this.  "To assume among the powers of the earth the Laws of Nature and Nature's God a decent respect to the opinions of mankind."

Under the cascading shower of diatribes surrounding the now very conflated event of protest in the NFL, I have simply been wondering, what is an acceptable concourse, narrative, discourse, anthropology for a man of color in the broader context of western civilization; but more specifically in America. The bandwidth for grievance has never been broad.  The two-ness that W.E.B Du Bois speaks about is something that almost makes you feel transgenic, a permutation of two cultures. "It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity."

My first experience of this peculiar sensation was as early as the fourth grade. The elasticity, the subtle nuance and duplicity of metrics for excellence, acceptance and recognition seemed esoteric.  Being an ambivert, I never really cared or explored this dangling participle of our culture.  I was taught to believe in the benefit of a great work ethic, treating people well and the inherent righteousness of the tenets and decrees of American folklore and history.  Even as I began to ask questions about the canned narratives that were an embedded part of all of the school's literature, textbooks and references I was directed to, the volume of the subtext began to get louder.

The only places where a reflection could be found in the expanse of the history of the U.S was on the plantations and the ghettos.  Between those sullied domiciles a smattering of relevance was mentioned in conflicts: Revolutionary War, War of 1812, Civil War, WW I & II et al.  Even the peculiar institution, the nation's Great Sin, as promulgated in history books was bereft of the depravity, savagery and gravitas.  Many of my friends from middle and high school would probably be puzzled after reading up to this point.  Let me be clear, I have never seen the United States through a dystopic lens and declared her an irredeemably racist nation with no redemptive characteristics; pockmarked with incongruity, hypocrisy and the pernicious underpinnings of her colonial progenitor.

But when I had an exchange with a former classmate who asked me why was I posting "so much racial stuff' on my FB page, it reminded me of the veracity of the Du Bois quote.  He took issue with the subject matter I was addressing.  When I cogently explained what my experiences had been in the military,education and financial services, his trite dismissal of the validity of my reality was symptomatic of what under girds the almost radioactive political climate today.  RACISM is this country's dead fly in the apothecary.  The parochial view of far too many Americans is that it is either embellished or the derisive tool of "race baiters,( erbody knows Al and Jesse) malcontents, or those who look for excuses when things don't go their way.  The shutdown, ( in their minds) tangential point is the untenable homicide rate among blacks,( blacks are 8 times more likely to be killed by each other) the peculiar, one-sided reference to black-on-black crime or the fact that 52 percent of all homicides according to FBI statistics are committed by that same people group. "Why aren't you protesting that?  When I take the time to give context (NEVER excuses) by showing the nexus socioeconomically between the past and the present.....again.....deflection or denunciation.

Even when providing statistical abstracts on the disparities in health, housing, incarceration rates, and economics to bolster your case about this yet existent social cancer, there is a collective yawn, side-eye and fade to black. "But Theo, you are a well-educated, successful man who hasn't had any barriers to realizing your potential." Well, you can be truthful but not accurate. The vast majority of successful black folks in this country have probably not had a "Mississippi Burning" experience or the kind of vile overt racist experiences that make your blood boil like a scene from the movie "12 Years a Slave." What will probably surprise you is the sheer volume of what has been termed micro aggressions that most have ignored or subjugated to the category of just an ignorant, uniformed exchange.

In 2017, terms like "Go back to Africa" or "You should be grateful" still drip like the anachronistic meanderings of "good people" from a century ago.  The President of the United States can call the White House a dump and say," the United States has done many bad things in the world" and somehow he is keeping it real. Yet without hesitation had his predecessor said the EXACT same things, many "nice folks" would have unloaded with profanity-laced, racial epithets an order of magnitude we would probably still be counting.  The bad things that America has done to its own citizens and the malignant residue that remains in the form of systemic constructs that still impede, encumber and prohibit is the keepin' it real that no one wants to talk about.  It is still the stain on the flag that seems to be evident only to the people that kneel, stand or sit.

           Silent Manifestos and Careless Whispers

         Thy word have I hidden in my heart that I might not sin against thee  Psalm 119:11

This week's national outrage, yeah we're up from monthly, is a 10-page manifesto by Google engineer James Damore who opines about the biological differences between men and women, among other things, and the unintended consequences of the diversity movement in corporate America.

The inner ballast that for centuries allowed our most specious thoughts, ideations, prejudices and incendiary beliefs to lie dormant in our hearts and minds has forever spilled over its banks.  Like the young lad with his finger in the dike to prevent it from bursting, technology's ubiquitous spillage has become Frankenstenian and Machiavellian.  Our long-held, not so secret ( many of these ideas find themselves embedded in socio-economic policy) beliefs can be found in Google's pending wage discrimination lawsuit and certain sexual harassment litigation to follow.  This revelatory manifesto that is getting surreptitious support from other employees and right of center echo chambers is incongruent with the founders of the company motto: "Don't Be Evil.  

This whole scrum is symptomatic of a larger challenge in our nation's culture.  We are indoctrinated at a very young age to believe and perceive certain things about not just people groups and gender, but capacity to adequately occupy a profession. The demographic that makes up most of what we perceive to be Silicon Valley is either, white, Asian, Asian-Indian and male.......period.  On Wall Street the archetype is white and male. In military and commercial aviation, same thing.  I brought up those particular environments because I have been peripherally involved with all three.  If I asked you the question, what image pops in your head when I list these professions: Software Architect, Urban Planner, Venture Capitalist, Hedge Fund Manager, Commercial Pilot, Fighter Pilot, Cruise ship captain, Silicon Valley maverick, Nobel Laureate, Ambassador to a nation......still thinking about it?

When the population of a workplace is homogeneous, the opinions tend to be as well. Points of access to the ruling class or centers of relevance are only questioned when that homogeneity seems to be disrupted by liberal ideology or if we are honest about perception- victim culture rhetoric. Questionable, if not specious, research from social scientists, biologists, neurologists and others have pedantically sought to justify racial and gender stratification in everything from education, housing to professional endeavors.  Our patrician culture, evolving from Father Knows Best to Modern Family, George Washington as the Father of this nation to the almost radioactive response to the election of this republic's first black President has been a segue to clarion calls of grievance to the crushing of the status quo.

This backlash is not seen as malevolent.  Oh no, like Dr.Samuel A. Cartwright's hypothesized, conjectural mental illness he entitled drapetomania ( a belief that slaves that ran away were mentally unstable) this indignant response to the feminization and browning of corridors of power or centers of relevance is simply believed to be a conservative stand.  After all, Bruce Hornsby was prescient in the lyrics to his hit "The Way It Is" when he wrote", That's just the way it is, some things will never change, that's just the way it is........... aah, ..don't you believe it!

         

                                                           SOMETIMES


Sometimes you need to go where nobody knows your name to get a fresh perspective

Sometimes you need to say hello and give a compliment to a complete stranger for your words
may be the only kind ones they hear that day

Sometimes you need to look out the window of an airliner at 40,000 feet to get a new vantage
 point of how little space we occupy in the world

Sometimes you need to turn up the silence to hear the melody of your heart

Sometimes the rhythm of life will be a dissonant symphony

Sometimes you will discover that without God's peace, having everything you ever wanted is
not enough

Sometimes you will realize that the love of your life, is the love that gives you life

Sometimes it is better to respond with silence

Sometimes you do not need to press send

Sometimes you need to be the one someone else can depend on

Sometimes discomfort is the prerequisite for growth

Sometimes love is all you need

                                                             BALLERS
                                                      (but not shot callers)


This past weekend, HBO ( informally known as the Hell, Bondage, and Oppression channel) according to one of my former pastors, provided a sneak preview weekend for non-subscribers.  I haven't had paid cable subscriptions for almost two decades so the highlights, updates and unfolding drama of popular shows featured in this environment are only learned vicariously.  As a true die-hard fan of the NFL ( not for long), I was curious to find out what all the buzz was concerning the show "Ballers"  starring Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson as an ex-player now turned financial concierge.  It also features the progeny of my generation's Sidney Poitier, Denzel Washington, who may look like his moms but sounds exactly like his pops.

I have an inordinate amount of love/hate for a league that ostensibly is seen as Beulah Land for hundreds of thousands of young men from hamlets and hoods all over this country.  After reading "League of Denial- The NFL Concussion Crisis" my fomenting disdain can't wait to see the game meander through this potential PR crisis.  I initially struggled with what felt like a moral dilemma.  The NFL, like most male-dominated sports that have machismo as a requisite part of their culture, is under girded by hypersexual, who am I kidding, gauche objectification of women and pornography as part and parcel of its cultural landscape.  "Scrip" clubs, precipitation (makin' it rain), and cursory drug use are as pervasive as team prayers that follow a profanity-laced motivational speech to get everybody jacked up.

Ballers features all of the seedy, salacious, narcissistic, materialistic, hedonism that the league works so diligently to keep under wraps in an effort to protect the brand. While the show at times looked and sounded like an over-the-top hip hop video trying to cram as many scantily-clad thots and f-bombs in a one-minute segment, it was quite transparent in exposing many of the challenges that young men given a king's ransom to play a kid's game face.

Now here's where I digress. ESPN's 30 for 30 did a feature on the 2001 Miami Hurricanes ( that was painful to type).  This team was chock full of NFL-ready players and is widely considered one of the most talented squads to ever suit up in Division 1 football.  Antrel Rolle, the cousin of the player featured in the picture for this blog said something that was both an epiphany and a tragedy.  "Me and my crew out the gate were looking at a 100 mil in contracts" he proudly heralded.  It was at that moment that I wish I had been afforded an opportunity to shift the paradigm of these young men from seeing themselves as 100 million dollar commodities to a consortium of potential ownership and financial leverage.

Ballers, in a most sinewy, profane, and transparent way removes the veneer in which 21-28 year olds have to fight to not only secure their childhood dream, but discern, cut, and limit the parasitic ties of family, friends, financial advisors and all manner of humanity who literally see them as everything from ATMs, seed money for specious investments and baby daddies to secure their future.  In the midst of all that testosterone being sloshed around with a constant enticing, if not toxic, presence of estrogen, fortunes were literally being lost, transferred and forfeited in this Bacchanalian field of dreams.

Where the show really gains traction and credibility is in its sub-narrative of players who find themselves at the crossroads, the back end of their microwave careers, where everything from the new rookie drafted to the non-contract offer lets them know that they are no longer welcome at Disney World. The lights, camera, action and commissioner that welcomed them onto Paradise Island is replaced by the ignominy of a cleaned out locker and a handshake.  The collective income of  the players is about half of the revenue of the league.  Even with that enormous financial leverage, the average player rarely sees himself as anything but an employee of the team.  Myron Rolle took the unusual approach to see the league as a means to an end, a utility, a revenue source to ultimately, conceivably fund his dream of being a neurosurgeon, ironically focusing on the untenable complexity of the human brain.  So many of these men , even with their front-loaded, multi-million dollar pensions don't seem to have much to foster an identity that doesn't involve full gear while passing, catching, running or tackling. The real ballers, the real shot callers are the ones who not only write them checks with a whole lot of zeros, but those who recognize that football is what they do and not who they are.  That way when their services are no longer needed, EVERY ONE gets fired-even Hall-of Famers, they can call the shots in the next phase of their life outside of football.

                                                 
                                          Don't Start Something You Can't Finish
                                                   ( A letter to young men)



I was recently listening to a broadcast featuring a panel of men that I have known for years and deeply respect.  A statement struck me as my car sped down the canopied road I was traveling.  The panelist said, "don't start something you can't finish.'  This phrase can have many applications; business, sports, personal goals and ambitions.  Somehow, in the context of the narrative being discussed on the radio, what came to mind was this phrase seductively pouring from the lips of a woman in response to the not so subtle amorous or sexual advances of a man.

I don't think it unreasonable to assume that as your brain undergoes a chemical bath ( you get all tingley inside as Major Payne would say) to stir arousal and you are hypnotized by the magnificence of the woman you are fixated on- that the idea of fatherhood possibly creeps into that highly sexualized space. The here and now overrules the there and later. Even with your attempt to take precautions by " "wrapping it up" your decision to walk into the valley of the shadow of potential lifelong responsibility still  holds sway.

This act of your will is eternal and indelible. The social debate about when life starts is a wildly swinging pendulum. I will make it simple.  At the moment of conception, someone eternal(their spirit) is formed. Your genetic imprint is embedded into that life and the fate of this encounter, whether it be a one-night stand, a girlfriend or wifey material will change the course of your life.
 We are not taught and it is not widely understood that what a man creates he is required to sustain, provide for, develop. If you "don't see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind" yet are repelled at the thought of putting a ring on the finger of the woman of your affection or infection- hey, these are the times, you might want to flee the scene of a potential generational crime.

You don't want to aid and abet the possibility of your child not being given everything they need to be all that they were created to be.  Is this hyperbole?  Is this an attempt to make something so simple as smashing, rubbin' her the right way and trusting a big butt and a smile complicated?  I am borrowing from some songs of the 90s that glorified this love em and leave em mindset to illustrate that we have made the pursuit of momentary pleasure without telling the rest of the story a national pastime.  You may say, "pardner', ain't nobody got time for these grandma lectures!  But unlike anything else you invest your resources into; clothes, shoes, a car, a 401k, a home- planting your seed into a woman makes you responsible for a human life-God's highest form of creation.

Unlike all of the inanimate objects I named, all just stuff, that life that you helped ( ain't no more immaculate conceptions) bring forth will require an investment of your time, talent and resources for the rest of your days!  Of all the things men are raised to fantasize about being: superheros, sports stars, secret agent, race car drivers,war hero, I can't recall being a great father ever being part of the list.  The thing is, those other dreams are not necessarily within your control.  Being a great father, making your imprint on eternity, however, is within your grasp.  I realize that some of you reading this find these thoughts strange and completely disconnected from your reality.  Maybe you are the progeny of a man, who like you, was never shown how to be anything more than a sperm donor, a womanizer, or an in-and-out father.  You can break that cycle.  It starts well before you start entertaining the thought of being a husband and father....in that order.  You literally carry a nation inside of you.  Start giving thought to what that actually means.

                                                            MIDDLEHOOD
                                                      ( In the middle of Age)


I'm not sure when I crossed this chronological milestone called middle-age.  It seems to be well removed from the freedom of childhood, the age of discovery that was my 20s and the coming into my own of my 30s.  The middle traditionally connotes being sandwiched by something above and beneath you. Surely we all recognize that we are aging and becoming something, someone, ultimately the person we were meant to be.

For most of us there are external signs of our passages through decades. Our clothing tends to trend with us. Our titles change..some of us recoiling at the first time a kid addresses you as sir. In addition to becoming  Sr. Manager, Chief of this, Director of that, Senior Partner, President or Chairman; you become, Uncle, Godfather and the sweetest of all Daddy. You go from your first car, your first purchased car to mini-van ( NEVER) and perhaps dream car. You transition from a singles apartment to maybe a McMansion with room for your brood, in-laws and friends when they visit.

There are however no territorial markings to say you have officially arrived. Sometimes I feel like I am on a trolley that has a continually shrinking view of Disney World, Universal Studios, my high school, college and the fun destinations of my youth as we continue to what lies ahead. It almost feels forbidden to look back, like Lot's wife, for fear of pointlessly frolicking in the memories of your adolescence and early adulthood.  This trolley is a mixture of the magic school bus and the ferry on the River Styx.  It never reverses but will stop for moments at a time.  I guess it would be stating the obvious to note that there is no steady state here in the land of middle. The advertisements for sports are for the most part as a spectator even though they do feature "senior" Olympics and activities that are not too strenuous.

For the first time, you feel the sandwich.  You surreptitiously become a parent and a caretaker of adults-your kids and your parents. This middle also includes a growing recognition of not only the mortality and growing frailty of the people that brought you into the world, but your own finitude. You want to believe that you still have more than a modicum of the strength, power and physical agility you possessed before the threshold of your transition into middlehood. You are thoroughly convinced that is the case until you play a pickup game of basketball, get coerced into a flag football game or hit the gym with one of your younger colleagues and try to match his activity lift for lift.

And then the next day.......... you are immobile, physically traumatized like Loki after the Hulk smashed him like a rag doll in a dismissive posture of his status as a demigod. The full measure of your status as a middle-aged mortal comes to bare as you gingerly walk in search of your once youthful dignity.  The recovery is gradual, almost mockingly slow so that you are more attentive to your surroundings, almost reflective. It also seemed to be a time to ponder what lies ahead.  Not so much to spoil the beauty of the only eternity we can really process which is the immediacy of now.  But as my journey through middlehood gets me closer to the outskirts of seniorhood, to the extent that the days of my youth start to lose their vividness and fade to black and white, almost archaic, I continue to relish the one sweet spot in this land of in between.

 My relationship with God is bereft of the emerging frailties of my dust-formed body.

 His indwelling Spirit has matured mine to the point that my ability to see His attributes,understand His word,appreciate the splendor of His creation, and recognize His purpose and plan amazes me.

 To see His sovereignty in the lives of people that are marginalized and rejected as I walk through these territories, these hoods, has been the sweetest exchange-His immortality for my brief mortality.   You see, as my eyes require assistance, I see with unfettered clarity through His eyes.  As my body begins to show, as much as I fight it, the evidence of my residence in the middlehood, the influence of His spirit over the past 40 years allows me to face principalities, powers, spiritual wickedness in high places with the fervor of a young David against the giant from Gath known as Goliath.  In my weakness, in my acknowledged limited state, He is made strong.  As the encroachment of my next hood, traditionally filled with rubbing balms, pharmaceuticals and support hosiery, incrementally creeps into my existing space, I honestly don't fret.  As the psalmist said, " yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"(that is a reality whether you are young or old) I fear not what the future holds because I have been engrafted into the family of the One who holds the future.  Here's to the life in the middle!


 

UNPLUG

Why is it that people doing the most amazing, transformative, mind-blowing things are virtually anonymous? Fame used to have a little meat and bones with it, a pinch of substance.

It was curated by major studios, it was skillfully marketed to create an aura around people who achieved feats that were extraordinary, displayed gifts and talents that were exceptional, rare and even awe-inspiring. It occupied a good portion of the narrow bandwidth in which the white hot light of " stardom" effusively showered its denizens.

Our insatiable ability to be distracted by a phalanx of supposed newsworthy stories ( what does that even mean anymore) is the nadir of our ADD culture. There were 189 trending "stories" on my Yahoo thread falling under 7 categories:
World news ( very broad)
Celebrity ( What is a Blac Chyna?) absolute national obsession with this category
Sports   da-da-dum, da-da-dum (ESPN theme)
Politics
Entertainment
Business
Style

We have dubiously fostered the notion of edutainment as erudition. We have become massive consumers of EVERYTHING connoting pop culture. We can talk at length about the minutia attached to the life of celebutantes, actors, athletes, rappers, singers, and the biggest reality star in this country- one Donald J Trump.

But those blurbs, snippets about business, science, politics, international affairs get scrolled on by. Here is the conundrum, the meat and potatoes, the gluten-free substance that has a material impact on your life is found in the subject matter that will NEVER be click-bait!

The people that are the financial guardians of your investments, pensions, authors of legislative policy and taxation, healthcare, employment projections, infrastructure and real estate are more likely to know what's going on in the Black China Sea than know or care who Blac Chyna is.

This national obsession with mind-numbing entertainment by substituting being well-versed in pop culture versus the germane topics that impact your life is not by accident or coincidental. A low-information population, Jay-Z made a million dollars in a few days on 4:44-adding nam penny to your net worth-is a panacea for plutocrats, kleptocrats and the ruling political class.

We don't desire the meat of cogent information. We continue to feast on the calorie dense, no substance pablum of edutainment while the things that matter most pass on by like the Macy's parade!

Unplug!

                                                  HEATHCLIFF IS THAT YOU?

         " A word to the wise isn't necessary, it is the stupid ones who need all the advice"
                                                                                                                     Bill Cosby


William Henry "Bill" Cosby Jr was the author of language, cultural imagery and iconography that influenced my childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. The stand-up comedian, actor, musician and author who would get his Doctor of Education from the University of Massachusetts broke barriers in television not just for being  the first black man with a leading role on NBC's I Spy, but crushing the myopic, dystopic, monolithic portrayal of the black family and expanding the narrative of the richness of black culture in America by executive producing the eponymous ground-breaking "The Cosby Show" from 1984 to 1992.
"

Bill Cosby not only became transcendent as"America's dad," but he became an enormous economic engine for NBC spawning an additional spotlight into black culture by expanding the narrative to include a snapshot of life at HBCUs through the creation of the show " A Different World".  Our collective chests swelled with pride as this brother from Philly, a four sport athlete, Navy veteran and just plain ol' funny guy was blazing the networks with unprecedented positive exposure of our culture.  We would anxiously wait to see what college he would be "reppin' by wearing one of their sweatshirts during an episode.  A Different World literally encouraged tens of thousands of black students to explore the previously hidden environs of historically black colleges and universities and become doctors, lawyers, engineers, software designers, college professors, Fortune 500 executives and university presidents.

Bill was OUR dude!  It seemed every university in the country was wrestling to get him to be the keynote speaker at their commencements. He was awarded a battery of Honorary Doctorates.  I will never forget when he accepted an invitation from my alma mater; Florida A&M University.  The anticipation was epic and the atmosphere was electric.  Mr. Cosby was gregarious, warm and naturally....funny.  FAMU, like so many other institutions of higher learning considered it a feather in their cap to have had the corporation that was Cosby Inc to have adorned the halls of their campus.

After the Cosby show went off the air and Mr. Jello pudding stopped being the imprimatur of guaranteed ratings sweeps, Bill seemed to change.  In the early 2000s he started to become very critical of the black community, more accurately what some would characterize as the hood element.  His "pound cake" speech; his public remarks in May of 2004 in which he was critical of African Americans who put higher priorities on sports, fashion and "acting hard" than on education,self-respect and self improvement drew howls from everybody from Michael Eric Dyson to the Congressional Black Caucus.  For the most part we were dismissive. We chalked it up to Cosby getting older and sitting on top of his stack of nearly half a billion dollars. Like our elders who spoke their mind, he was just going off because he could.

And then the rumors,........ followed by allegations,.......... followed by settlements.

All at once, Claire Huxtable's chill, pipe-smoking, bad-dancing, surgery-performing husband slowly began to turn into somebody we could not have known. Some could have possibly forgiven him for being a "playa from the Himalayas."  But over the course of four decades, allegations about not just infidelity, but drug-assisted sexual assaults from over 50 women began to flow like magma from a volcano.  Our Dr. Huxtable was transforming into a salacious, non-board certified, monster known as Dr. Clyde Hyde!  Universities started revoking their honorary doctorates and the venerated and iconic show bearing his name was yanked off of every network, even BET!.  This insidious dichotomy, this Shakespearean tragedy in which people were saying "oh hell no" to Othello was borderline iconoclastic.

Suddenly, the name Cosby, Huxtable, Healthcliff became anathema!  There is a sad irony in the progressive loss of William Cosby's sight.  It is lock step in conjunction with our inability to even remotely transplant him back into one of the most robust chapters in television history where black folks all over the country literally set their watches to the broadcast time of two of his creations. Heathcliff, it was never you!!!

                                                            BAE-WATCH



Summer seems to be the one season in which we are made intimately aware of our bodies unlike any other time of the year.  As a son of the South, rising temperatures make the prospect of being layered in anything  other than shorts and a t-shirt foolhardy.  The Sunshine state offers many natural amenities that encourage you to come outside and not only play but beckon you to explore our abundance of lakes, sinkholes and some of the world's most beautiful beaches providing the opportunity for a water wonderland type of escape.  The challenge with the call of the outdoors, especially pools, water parks and large bodies of water is that the requisite garb requires that your "beach body' be on point.

A typical trip to the coast can either be seen as adventurous or angst ridden. My family's recent trip to the beautiful, emerald green water of a nearby coastal hot spot was an epiphany of sorts. Television has always curated what I call the masculine and feminine ideal.  Simply put, the body types highlighted on almost every prime time show, outside of caricatures, are a mixture of imagery drawn from runways, fitness magazines and a lens that rarely if ever captures what the average American now looks like.  Body dysmorphia is rarely a topic associated with men. As my wife and daughters enthusiastically changed into their bathing suits, I politely declined the offer to join them-resisting the powerful childhood affinity I had to swim in any body of water I found myself near.

The parade of humanity that walked up and down the shore line displayed a kind of confidence, a freedom in defiance of Michelangelo's David one comes to expect when any one dares disrobe in public.  Even with the sun bearing down on me like molten lava, and a pair of trunks available in the truck, there was nothing that would compel me to exchange the cool caress of Gulf waters for the slow bake I was enduring on the shore.

I don't know if former elite athletes who in peak condition looked like an anatomy chart now struggle when the cuts and  "dents" as my best friend used to call them seem to have been erased with age and lifestyle changes. This is more than feeling like you have fallen into the category of "dad bod'. What I was battling was more than an awareness of my mortality; it was a recognition that no matter how powerful one might appear to people, my muffin top shrouded any trace Herculean elements that I might be able to identify.

I have often noted that just around the age that the average woman reaches menopause, men of the same age begin to look like they are in their first or second trimester of pregnancy.  I am being transparent not to body shame, but to share how even the most stoic, seemingly confident people wrestle with this whole concept of being fit, Being a permutation of your best self can create enormous internal strife.  What kept me on the shore baking like a California raisin had more to do than me being partially naked and afraid.  Fearful that with each piece of clothing removed, my Kryptonian passport would be revoked and I would be relegated to the zone of mortals bereft of even a silhouette that looked like themselves in their former glory.

The epiphany was simply recognizing that in the confines of that vacationer's paradise, people who were at various stages of undress, nakedness if you will, were carefree.  Free of the enormous weight of soul-withering self criticism and just simply enjoying the incredible natural concourse of sand, ocean air and saltwater.  No pretense, no airs,  It's refreshing how people act when they are no longer bound to the dictates of what is deemed beautiful.

I THOUGHT

     


I thought I would never see the day when people chose to be entertained versus being informed

I thought I would never see the day when people would willingly, almost sheepishly, sacrifice liberty for the illusion of safety

I thought I would never see the day when human life would be discounted to such a level that to express a concern would spawn vituperative scorn

I thought I would never see the day when adults would wantonly make decisions that would have disastrous effects on children

I thought I would never see the day when the moral arc of justice would bend in the direction of injustice

I thought I would never see the day when august comportment would be replaced by base, primal behavior as normative

I thought I would never see the day when the United States of America lost its moral compass

I thought I would never see the day that people would prefer to interact with a device more than with other individuals

I thought I would never see the day when to say I love this country would be deemed arrogant and become a pejorative called exceptionalism

I thought I would never see the day when having a bibliocentric world view would singularly be construed anti-everything

I thought I would never see the day when absolute truth would be perniciously executed in the public square and folks would gleefully celebrate without context or understanding of consequences

I thought I would never see the day when civil discourse literally became a foreign concept

I thought I would never see the day when a nation's insatiable appetite for drugs ( prescribed, illicit and legal) would rise to the level of a deadly obsession

I thought I would never see the day when familial dysfunction would clog the national bandwidth as entertainment

I thought I would never see the day when I realized that praying for my family, friends, community and this nation would not just be a luxury, but an ABSOLUTE necessity.

                                         A Letter to Dez Bryant

Should have quoted him

Dez, I couldn't help but pause when I read your Instagram quotes.  You start by saying you usually mind your own business.  You then say that it is not our job to carry the burden, but to lead by example.  I am trying to understand what compelled you to now be a spokesperson for your people by echoing the sentiments of a retired basketball player? For your statement to hold court it would have to be substantiated by facts versus a very popular, tired trope that all of the ills indigenous, but not exclusive, to the black community lie singularly in the choices that they have made and any convo to the contrary is simply parroting the victim culture that in some people's minds is unmerited or exaggerated. Let me be clear, I BELIEVE in personal responsibility

The closing line of venerated television broadcaster Walter Cronkite was “and that’s the way it is” to conclude the major network’s evening news program.  It seems that the specious argument that the occurrence of racism has subsided to the point of being relegated to the margins of our culture has become the new trending topic.  I know you meant well in your pronouncement, and the Conservatives have been reposting your “blurb” with impunity but let me give you a little context Mr.”I Quote Charles Barkley” for history.

If one speaks of micro aggression or racially-tinged innuendo, articles or codified pejoratives being used in business or leisure communication there is now a backlash of charges of race baiting or the more ominous phrase “pulling the race card.”  Revisionists now have expunged any narrative that gives context to why this social cancer is not only still present, but is palpably metastasizing. 

The question becomes in what form has this societal ill morphed?  The rabidly racist had become pariahs, ( well at least until the last Presidential election) hiding in the digital underbelly of social media and ostensibly banished as outliers and aberrations or relics of the days gone by.  The pundits would assuage that any voicing of inequity, injustice or discrimination is predicated on a “culture of complaint”, victimization or whining in which plaintiffs are simply seeking concessions versus being required to meet the established criteria like everyone else. Even worse, the mere suggestion that an individual or organization is a purveyor of racist ideations, practices, policies or procedures is asinine and replete with an ulterior motive of getting over.

So, in this post-racial era there is a national mandate to absolutely forget the past and its incendiary parts.  Give no context to oppression, terrorism, injustice and de jure and de facto practices that at a minimum were affronts to the Constitution.  The retort has become life is about choices.  You can’t reasonably expect people to continue to give latitude to decisions that you make as justification for your cause be it Black Lives Matter, anti-police brutality rallies or

 protest against discriminatory lending and housing practices.

Racism as a social construct has intrinsically been about control and oppression of a targeted people group.  Its insidious outcroppings have been the extralegal practice of lynching, racial profiling, disparate sentencing guidelines, redlining, higher interest rates on everything from cars to mortgages and restrictive covenants and deeds.  It also spawned eugenics which advocated egregious pseudo-scientific experiments that included everything from deliberately infecting participants with highly contagious diseases to medical experimentation that was fatal.  Remember, all of this is post slavery! But, you seem to have limited your historical narrative to the stalwart verbal musings of Mr. “Turrible” who is well versed in the turpitude of American history?!

Legions of successful blacks are highlighted as proof positive that the wealth, education and class disparity rest singularly with the choices of those on the margins.  The 70 percent of households that are without fathers, the black-on-black crime, the unemployment rate, the recidivism rate, the over representation in social metrics that are negative are all because of choices of the identified group.

The penchant to ascribe many of the disparities to systemic racism doesn’t pass muster.  William Ernest Henley’s humanist poem “Invictus” declares that we are the captains of our fate, the masters of our soul, so this dribble about inequity and injustice tied to race is a dissonant chorus of reckless irresponsibility. So, we will continue to disagree on this topic even with a mountain of empirical data to show the nexus between the past and the present.  Black people, the message is clear: Shut up, get up, pull your boot straps up, own up, get your hustle up, pull your pants up,(you know something about that) clean your neighborhoods up, put your guns up, get your grades up, get your representation up, build your wealth up, get your home ownership up, get your business ownership up, get your identity as an American up,……. wake-up this is a new era and your pandering usage of this tired trope of racism will no longer be tolerated.  And that, is still, just the way it is!!!

On the 8th Day

                                                               

                                                                      On the 8^th Day

From the moment I stood in the room alone with my dad’s spiritless body, the cadence of time accelerated with a rapidity that compressed days into hours, and hours into moments that just allowed me to grab the sustenance I needed to greet the cascade of mourners and well-wishers.  In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, I was fatherless and the son of a widow. For the first time in my life, the epistemology of son ship had to be revisited.  Existentially, I am still the son of my father but the veil of death has given me pause; a new permanent tense to address fatherhood-he was.

The seven days, the 168 hours, the confluence of planning, meeting, calling, cancelling, notifying, buying, untying, discarding, undoing gives you an illusion of subduing the stillness.  All of the accoutrements that are tagged to my father are now on static display, frozen in time, never to be held, directed, worn or guided by his savvy, insight and wisdom.  Death, the stranger that we will all be introduced to has interjected a dissonance that is disruptive and cohesive. My siblings and I have marshaled our time and resources to protect our mother for her gradation of pain would be the most intense of the three of us. At times I would see the erudite, seasoned world traveler morph into the fragile, devastated teenager mourning the loss of her first love, her heartbeat, her Boaz.

No one told me that the little boy in me would grieve the loss of the first real-life superhero he ever knew and emotions would vacillate between the present father, son, and husband to the lost little boy who does not know how to mourn the immortal.  Psalm 91:1, 2 became my solace.  It states, “He that dwells in the secret place of the most High, shall abide in the shadow of the Almighty, I will say to the Lord He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in Him will I trust.”

We are given the feast of kings for consecutive days and invite all those that provide to also partake. Mi familia is now more than ever the body of Christ manifest through kindness; the aroma of the fruit of the spirit effervesces throughout my parents’ home.  The staccato of the phone punctuates the robust conversations filling every room in the foyer, den and kitchen. Day becomes evening, evening becomes night and mornings roll out like the baker’s bread. Alas, the close of this eternity where we will see for the first time since I prayed over my father’s body, him lying in repose, the last of the things he occupied on static display.

The unfettered presence of God is beyond the reason, understanding and comprehension of our finite minds yet a part of you wants the spirit of your loved one to repopulate the body they left behind and give you one more moment in time. But the magnificence articulated in scripture makes it clear that even the compounded love of everyone in this chapel has no order of magnitude to compare with the love of God that my father experienced the moment he transitioned.  So, we anguish and celebrate simultaneously. He looks peaceful, without pain, discomfort or anguish. My father has ascended into the bosom of Jesus, the one he ultimately lived for.

The celebration of his life required a certain comportment, restraint, dignity.  The temple filled with rapturous sounds from choirs that shook the rafters with powerful melodies, hymns and songs. The cavernous hole seemed to begin to fill somewhat with the exuberance of the service, an event my father would have enjoyed especially with the overwhelming turn out of family, friends and acquaintances.  Our words were heartfelt, hilarious and touching. The pastor delivered what was most important to my father, the word of God and the honors at his internment were powerful and awash in respect.  This celebration bolstered our spirits through the remainder of the evening and allowed us to reunite with decades-old friends. The chapter closed at midnight and the advent of the eighth day would have to be in part fueled by the residue of the previous week.  The presence of my father filled the home that was now to be singularly occupied by his bride of 57 years. It is now that Abba father, Daddy God, begins to provide the comfort, the peace, the strength to do more than muster for the day.  To greet each new moment of each day with a verve and energy that He alone can provide in abundance.  Our new normal is predicated on an attempt to navigate without the patriarch that provided stability, guidance, humor and comfort. He is faithful to give us what we need. 

A Better Place

                                                        A Better Place

                      

                   Better is the existential constant being pursued by all of us

                    While leaving the carnage of good and okay strewn in the streets,

                                 Hamlets and homes from shore to shore

                                 The crush of affluence singes the nerves

                          Slowly weakening one’s ability to rest in sufficiency

             The stench of poverty removes, deadens one’s sense of taste and smell

                         Food is no longer for pleasure; it’s now sustenance and life

           Better is illusory, it’s the next moment, the next opportunity, the next relationship

           The next job, the next house, the next high, the next thrill, the next record broken

                           And it creeps away into the surly bonds of eternity

                            For better is omnipresent, sitting between now and next

                            It drives commerce, technology, leisure and romance

                         It is the precursor to next, casting constant shade on now,

                       withering this piece of eternity, making it not as sweet, as good as it

                                         needs to be for you and me

An Homage to NFL Sundays (The Back draft)

                              

                                             

In about a week, an event tantamount to the lottery will  occur in the city of Philadelphia.  It will symbolically represent the culmination of the childhood dreams of millions of young men from every walk of life, from every part of the country.  I couldn’t help but be captivated by an open letter to all the potential draftees from perennial Pro-bowler Larry Fitzgerald.  In his letter, as only one who has had the experience could, he encapsulates the palpable emotions, anticipation, anxiety and sheer rush of having your name called by the commissioner of the NFL.

More importantly he poignantly shares the iterations from high school, college and now the exclusive, hyper-competitive environment of the professional gridiron, replete with athletes that are all hungry, talented and seeking a place in one of the world’s most exclusive fraternities.  He cautions them to not make simply getting drafted the biggest accomplishment of their lives. With sage articulation he advises them to evaluate their inner-circle, understanding that some of their homeboys won’t make the cut.  He doesn’t attempt to propagate abstract notions of this field of endeavor, Fitz keeps it straight 100 with no chaser.

In an age of selfies-, self-aggrandizement, and swag, he tells them to come in observing the veterans who have become what they seek to be and SHUT UP!  His anecdotal renderings are instantly credible because he is that seasoned, successful veteran who has held it down both on and off the field.  Somehow, even after reading that compelling composition, I couldn’t shake a nagging, back story that has become a part of the ambient temperature of feel-good narratives that will be spun up through the draft this evening.

For a number of these NFL prospects, tonight represents a literal, generational change of fortune with instant riches possessing the capacity to alter their future family tree.  This proverbial lottery will not only remove them from the ominous existential threat of violence that is a quotidian part of their urban hamlets, but serve as an “underground railroad” for family members and friends stuck in the sweltering confines of de-industrialization, failed social policies, suffocating poverty and urban blight.

What I frustratingly feel has been lost in the backdrop of these ongoing, feel-good stories is this lack of context that created these pockets of despair or what I call urban “Dante’s Infernos.”  James Harden, star point guard for the Houston Rockets, described his neighborhood as a bowl.  The only things that seem to be able to create enough momentum for escape velocity from these vestiges of our apartheid past is extraordinary academic aptitude or mutant-like athleticism. An exposition featuring the full living palette of our nation’s sordid history that spawned and ultimately contributed to the festering dysfunction in these bowls is at best a sidebar that we have become culturally oblivious to.

Our vicarious connection was made organic through beats and rhymes and videos of street poets spewing hood lyrics of genocidal violence, drug infestation and inner-city despair.  This dystopian theatre allowed us to hear without seeing, touching or, if truth be told, really caring.  We were mesmerized by the poetic brilliance yet polarized concerning causation.  For every one of these young men that are able to grasp the golden ring of the NFL, thousands are not just left in their wake, but will continue to populate the Siberian wasteland that is their home.  The almost billion dollars in contractual agreements that will transfer instant wealth to these twenty-somethings will affect little material change on the “domain of lost souls” from which they escaped.

Like the designated land for dumps that are part of the municipal ecosystem to treat waste, these ghettos, hoods, hamlets or whatever you choose to call them will geographically exist on the periphery and be noted as the birthplace of these now venerated professional athletes.  What is unspoken is that in some instances, the deleterious imprint of these confines shapes the decision making of these newly-minted thousandnaires and millionaires.  The systemic dysfunction comes with emotional and social ties that constantly call like the alluring and dangerous Sirens of Homer’s Odyssey.

Those that heed the call of their homies who pledge allegiance to the code of the street find their lifetime dreams derailed, delayed and in some extreme instances denied. Like Icarus failing to heed the instruction of his father not to fly too close to the sun, their tribal attachment to the inferno sears their ties to their childhood dream leaving them crashing back into the barren land they had worked all their young lives to escape. This tired trope is not a frequent occurrence but the point of this missive is not about how often it happens.  The real objective is to get people to start asking why these desolate places exist on the scale and scope that they do. 

The last feature I saw highlighting the “escape” of another promising athlete fully engulfed visually the random substance abuse, fratricide, poverty and other societal ills as if they were implacable. We seem to have collectively accepted not just that “the poor will always be with us” as anecdotal, but that the archetype for poverty will overwhelmingly be this people group devoid of de facto and de jure practices that facilitated it.  It is my hope that these Horatio Alger stories will stop being so antiseptic and start peeling the hideous scabs away and drill down into this uncomfortable, real-life Twilight Zone.