Blog Talk Radio: The Prison Industrial Complex Episode: Is the Criminal Justice System the New Jim Crow?

Where it concerns the criminal justice system and the minority communities—primarily African American and Hispanic, something has changed. Perhaps my experience is unique, but when I was a child, those families in my community with family members incarcerated were few and far between, at least, as far as we knew because going to prison, or the “pen” as my grandmother called it, was deemed disgraceful, so families often went to great pains to hide the incarceration of a family member. But today there is hardly any family that has not been affected the incarceration of a family member. According to the numbers, in 1980 only 350,000 were incarcerated; by the turn of the century, that number had increased to over 2 million.

But let me ask you this question: Why do you believe this is so? Is it because things have gotten so bad in our neighborhoods and in society at large that this level of incarceration is warranted? But what if I told you that actual crime rates are incommensurate with actual rates of incarceration, that though crime rates have remained relatively stable, incarceration rates have continued to rise?

Is it the overall effectiveness of “The War on Drugs”? Or is it warranted because of the prevalence of drugs, particularly crack cocaine, in our neighborhoods? But what if I informed you that “The War on Drugs” actually predates the emergence of the crack cocaine epidemic and was mainly a political ploy to attract swing voters? Or that when “The War on Drugs” was precipitated, drug use was on the decline; in fact, at that time, only 2% of Americans thought that drug abuse was an actual problem?

I have always held the assumption that the criminal justice system’s primary function was that of public safety; it worked to maintain an overall sense of public security by keeping our streets safe and putting those dangerous individuals who threatened that sense of safety behind bars where they belong. However, after reading Michelle Alexander’s book The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness and consulting various sources, I am prepared to change my views.

What are your views about the current criminal justice system? Do you think it fairly dispenses justice, or does it unfairly target minorities and the poor? What are your experiences with the criminal justice system?

Join us at Freedom thru Speech Radio as we discuss this nation’s criminal justice system and seek to answer these questions and more. Tonight we will be introducing our new co-host, The Janitor of the blog Urban Politico. Also, gracing us with their presence are Eddie Rosario of the blog [un]Common Sense, The Prisoner’s Wife of the blog This Side of the Wall and LoveBabz of the blog Lovebabz: A Life in Transition.

Tonight’s show airs at 8 PM EST, and you can join us and just listen or have your say by going to our BlogTalkRadio platform by clicking here, or dialing in at 914-803-4881.

Negar-Nigger-Niggra-Colored-Negro-Black-African American-Negro?: The 2010 U.S. Census and the Evolution of an Appellation

So the big day finally arrived! For some reason, my children have been anticipating the arrival of the 2010 census form like Christmas. They found out that the census is only taken every ten years, and their schools and television commercials have been hyping it up so much that they saw it as a big cultural and societal event.

So, my wife filled out our part, person one and person two. She put herself first on the form, but it’s all good. Then she passed the form to my son so he could fill in the information for person three. And it went well until he got to the choices for race.

He read off the choices: “African American, Black, Negro. Negro? Wait a minute. Which block do I check?”

I informed him that he should just check that box and move on so his sister could fill out her section, but he refused to move on. Indignantly he said, “I’m African American. I’ll accept Black. But I’m not a Negro. If I check this box, I’m agreeing that I am indeed a Negro.”

Now, I’ve been looking on from the periphery at the whole controversy about “Negro” being included on the census. I haven’t paid very much attention to it, though, because it didn’t seem that much of a big deal. Keep in mind, two weeks or so ago I was called a nigger by a student, so Negro pales in comparison.

But can someone tell me what’s so wrong about the term Negro? And I am aware of the negative connotations surrounding the word; however, that does not mean I understand even after my son explained to me that when he hears the word, his mind automatically conjures up images of a servile, obsequious figure, debasing themselves so that they might receive favor. He says this is not what he seeks to be, and this is not what I’ve taught him up, so he does not understand why I do not understand why he objects so strongly to the word.

But at one time, even within my lifetime, Negro was the acceptable term used for African Americans. Is it generational?

I wonder what those “twenty or something odd Negars” dropped off by the Dutch slaver at Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619, and who were counted as part of the census the following year, thought of being referred to as Negars?

Perhaps because they were Africans, and as such, still held a memory of a homeland, a village, a place, a history—an identity, they resented being referred to as Negars. But then again, the term Negar simply meant black, so they might have accepted it without thought. Nevertheless, they did not possess the power or influence—the agency--to determine the term by which they would be referred.

And only within the crucible of slavery would the term Negar be bastardized to nigger, and because meaning is not inherent in language, the first blacks to be referred to as nigger probably did not think nothing of it at all, but after hundreds of years of degradation and dehumanization, black folk began to attach their treatment and their condition to the word, and the word began to gather the power and negativity still associated with it even until the current day.

I imagine, though, at some time somebody protested against the use of the word because in those old newsreel films and film footage taken of whites in the 1950’s and 1960’s, those “proper” whites who considered themselves more well-bred and genteel began to use “niggra” in place of “nigger” although I’m not quite sure of the actual difference it made; the semantics remained constant.

But as African Americans gained power and influence, where we could we began to define ourselves and part and parcel of defining ourselves was insisting that neither of those terms, nigger or niggra, be used in referring to us. I’m not certain which came first, colored or negro, or if they were even used simultaneously; I do, however, remember be referred to as both. In fact, until my eighty-five year grandmother died last year, she preferred the term colored.

However, now even colored appears to be deemed derogatory. Take a look at the following clip. The reporter inadvertently uses the term “colored” in discussing the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People with NAACP chairman Ben Jealous. A few minutes later he feels the need, or maybe he was coerced, to come back and apologize:


I do remember the Black Power Movement of the late 1960’s and 1970’s rejecting the term Negro for the same reasons my son mentions in favor of the term Black, and that was what we were referred to most often when I was a child—Blacks. However, in the same instance, I remember reading or hearing a speech by Malcom X which pre-dates the Black Power Movement in which he stated that the proper term was Afro-American which, of course, became African American at some time or another.

But I don’t even recall being referred to as African American with any frequency or consistency or seeing it show up as a choice on paperwork until about the late 1980’s. Maybe I will pull out some of my old army paperwork from that time and check there.

But anyway, over the course of my lifetime, I have watched as we have gained the agency to determine who we are and what we should be called. But of course, African America is not a monolith. Every African American does not think the same way or share the same principles and/or convictions, so it is natural that we should differ in the meaning and import of the term Negro showing up on the census.

However, just as I explained to my son, what is most important is who and what you think you are and who and what you know yourself to be and what actions you take toward that ideal; your definition and determination of self is more important than the definition and determination of those outside forces.

So, perhaps in the spirit of self-definition and becoming and the memory of those who came previous, it would be best to simply check the box other and write in “Negar,” and then with our actions and deeds, show the world who we really are.

Why Do We Do What We Do?: A Question for the Black Blogger

So, on yesterday I wrote that there were two occurrences over the winter break which caused me to sit down and seriously assess and reassess the motivations and reasons behind some of my actions and activities. I presented you with one then. I shall present you with another now.

The weekend before Christmas I attended a birthday party for a member of my wife’s family. During a discussion with some of the attendees, the conversation turned to my blog. I was pretty much surprised that this particular group even had knowledge of it. However, it seemed that they had actually read a post here and there, and they were supportive of my efforts.

But then came the question. It didn’t surprise me because I could see the conversation heading in that direction. How much money do you make from blogging?

Of course I had to answer nothing, not one red cent, which seemed to surprise them because for some reason they seemed to have believed me to be raking in money hand over foot. And then came the inevitable question: “Then why do you do it? You seem to invest a considerable amount of time and energy in blogging, but it makes no sense to put that much time in something that pays you nothing.”

As I set at home during the winter break, this question returned to my mind again and again.

However, during the winter break I began a special project. Wayne Hicks of The Electronic Village and the AfroSpear blog think tank and network had been keeping the Black Blog Rankings (BBR) which ranked blogs owned and operated by African Americans. However, because of changes in the rating system at Technorati, he decided to discontinue the BBR. I asked could I pick up where he left off, and he graciously gave me permission.

During the break, I speak quite a few hours combing through about 1,700 blogs as I verified their URLs, and transferred them to a new rating system. From time to time, I came across the original AfroSpear blogs, some of which dated back to as early as 2006 [see The History of the AfroSpear].

What I found was a group of intrepid of men and women from various backgrounds representing various schools of thought and political affiliations who had nothing in common but the melanin in their skins and a unique voice and perspective that would not be denied, that could and would not be silenced or marginalized.

And from their earliest beginnings, the group sometimes spoke softly and individually; at other times they combined their voices until the pitch reached a cacophonic roar. Through their blogs, they argued and debated the various issues affecting the people of the African Diaspora, always with an eye toward definite and pronounced progress.

These voices gradually built to a crescendo which peaked around the election of President Barack Obama. Then gradually many of these original voices began to exit the stage as they pursued other endeavors and followed other avenues.

Now, as I check the black blogosphere, the number of black owned and operated blogs has grown by leaps and bounds. The number of African American owned and operated blogs grows each day. Additionally, many black owned and operated sites are moving upward into the rarified air of the upper reaches of the blogosphere with unprecedented reach and influence.

Also, at this time I find the gossip, hip-hop, and pop culture sites dominating the rankings. But that doesn’t mean that I do not believe there is a place in the black blogosphere for these sites; all voices are important and have a place.

However, I do look forward to a resurgence of those booming voices, new and old, that are willing to reach across the imaginary lines of color, class, gender, political affiliation, and whatever else divides as, in constructive and productive conversation and debate as we work toward uplifting brown and black peoples.

So, maybe I have managed to answer my own question. Maybe I have sat here and written and revised long enough until I have answered my own query. I blog because I feel I have something to say. I feel that I have a voice that is like none other. And with that voice I can sometimes speak in dulcet tones of compassion, forgiveness, and empathy, and at other times, I can speak in loud, bellowing tones of rage and disbelief.

And some days many others drop by to hear which voice I use while other days those that pass through are few. And some days many compliment me on my voice for that day and even stop to engage me in conversation while other days I get no feedback at all.

But nonetheless, this is my voice. This is my platform. This is why I do it. But the question then becomes, why do you do it?

Why Do We Do What We Do?: Collective Black Uplift or Individual Black Privilege?

This past holiday season I got a rare but needed chance to just rest, relax, and reflect. And I guess that because I am an intrinsically introspective person, one or two occurrences gave me occasion to seriously ponder and assess why I do some things that I invest a considerable amount of time in doing. I will present one today and one tomorrow with the hope that I might learn from your collective wisdom and experience.

The first caused my wife and I to have a short but intense quarrel; however, upon returning to the instance again and again in my mind, I suspect that she might be correct in her assessment. I will give you the details as I remember them. I will endeavor not to leave anything out.

We attended a nighttime charity Christmas function at an inner-city institution. As we were leaving, I found that I needed to stop for fuel. However, at the first station we came to I found the fuel cost two or three cents a gallon above what I usually pay. So, I kept driving, but at every station I came to, fuel cost roughly the same.

I muttered about a “poverty tax” for a minute before my wife pointed out that the further we drove out of the way, by the time we found a station with an acceptable price I would have effectively negated whatever savings I hoped to achieve. So, reluctantly I pulled into the next station I came to.

I got out. I tried to use my credit card at the pump. It did not work. I got into my car and drove to the next pump. I tried to use my credit card at the pump. Again, it did not work. I got into the car. I drove around the island. I tried once again to use my credit card at the pump. And again it did not work.

Just then my wife leaned out of the car and suggested that perhaps the pay-at-the-pump option had been disabled, and I should go inside and pay and not waste anymore time. Just then I noticed a disheveled, unkempt black man of about fifty sweeping the lot and emptying the trash. He confirmed what my wife said and directed me inside to pay. My wife decided she wanted some mints, so she accompanied me into the store.

Upon entering the store, I noticed the clerk who seemed to be of Eastern Indian origin thoroughly ensconced in a booth surrounded by about two inches of glass separating him from the customers. Now, I really, really dislike going into an establishment like this; that two inches of glass always seems to say to me that the person behind the glass does not trust me, fears me even.

I pushed my card through the slot in the glass and informed the clerk of the amount of fuel I would like to purchase. He picked up the card. He looked at it. Then he looked at me for a second. Then he asked for ID. I was somewhat taken aback because I was not used to being asked for my ID to use a credit card. But I acquiesced.

Then I remembered the mints, so I asked for a pack of mints since all the gum and mints seemed to be locked in the glass booth with the clerk. But he seemed not to understand. “Mints,” I repeated and pointed through the glass at the mints behind him.

He grabbed a package of small plastic bags from the shelf and held them up. Shocked, I repeated myself, and pointed emphatically at the shelf. “No, mints!” He turned, picked up a little glass tube with a rose in it and held it up.

Now, I was insulted. I tried to maintain my cool; I had no desire to quarrel with another person of color. I thought it might just be a language problem, but that theory was disproved when the disheveled, unkempt black gentleman from outside came into the door, and the clerk launched into a profane tirade against him because of something he had neglected to do. The black man simply looked down at his feet like a child.

At that point, I had had enough. I loudly and emphatically chastised the clerk for talking to the black gentleman in that manner. After all, he was a man? He was a human, right?

And I chastised him for using foul language in front of my wife. And then I chastised him for overcharging the people in the neighborhood and separating himself from them behind two inches of glass like they were all highway robbers and crooks.

Just then a little black lady who had come in after us and waited behind us in line urged me to just pay and go. She said she was in a hurry to get home. She said that no one had asked me to stand up for them and that the black man who still stood in the door staring at his feet was nothing but a crackhead anyway. But what she said next stung me—“You are not from around here anyway. Go on back to where you came from with that old bougie bullshit.”

On the way home my wife was uncharacteristically quiet, so I knew she was not pleased.

“You embarrassed me,” she told me.

“But,” I sarcastically argued, “I was just attempting to stand up for you and the rest of the black folk, but y’all seem less than pleased with my efforts. Maybe y’all like being talked to like a dog.”

Then she explained to me, “It was never about black folks. I was never about that black man. It was never even about me. That was all about you. You were inconvenienced, and that frustrated you.

She went on, “You expected, and you expect, deferential treatment because of what and who you perceive yourself to be, and when you do not achieve deferential treatment, you fall back on your blackness. You get extra black, and you pull all black folks into your fight with you. Most of the time, you are sincere in your efforts, but not this time. If everything had gone your way, if you had not felt as if you had been insulted and demeaned, you would not have said a word. Even when he cursed that man, you would not have said a word. You wish to claim the very privilege you decry.”

And I did protest. I did attempt to defend myself. But the longer the quarrel went, the more evidence she offered up to defend her position, and finally I could only fall silent and ponder within myself if there was any such thing as black privilege.

An Imitation of An Imitation of Life: The Tiger Woods Fiasco and Racial Identity

[photo credit: cablinasian like me]

I am not one to deal in idle gossip, and I know you all are probably so done with the whole Tiger Woods saga, but even as the story appears to die out and the media seems to want to move on, new details emerge.

For instance, the total number of women with possible romantic ties to Tiger has grown to nine, possibly ten. And if that was not enough, two of the women stated that he did not like to use condoms, so he put not only himself but his wife and other partners in danger as well. Had enough yet? But there’s more.

It was also reported that one of the women involved is offering nude pictures taken from his cell phone for sale to the highest bidder, and additionally, the allegations that some of the trysts took place in his Florida home he shared with his wife and children have caused his wife to move out.

Admittedly, I have no idea how much of this is true and how much is simply rumor and innuendo, but I do know that if you repeat a lie often enough, it sometimes takes on the guise of truth.

And in speaking to others about Tiger’s future and according to experts, the general consensus was that this incident would have not bearing on his career or his many endorsement deals. However, that was before the other women started coming out of the woodwork, and the other potentially damaging information came to light. Now, Tiger’s character is really called into question, and his future seems up in the air.

But the question I have is, if things really begin to go downhill for him, if the whole situation begins to spiral completely out of control, as it appears it is doing, and he stands to lose everything—the support of his sponsors and the concomitant lucrative endorsement deals—what will his posture be toward his ethic background then?

If you remember, when Tiger won the Master’s Tournament at age twenty-one, he made the infamous comment to Oprah that he did not identify as Black but as Cablinasian, a combination of Caucasian, Black, Indian, and Asian. He went even further in stating that it troubled him to be identified as Black.

However, if you look at recent history, many who did not identify as Black, or who seemingly had cut their ties to the Black community, came rushing back when the chips were down.

Do you remember the case of one Orenthal James (O.J.) Simpson? Before his 1995 trial for the death of his wife Nicole Simpson and her friend Ronald Goldman, Simpson seemed wholly disconnected from the African American community. However, following his acquittal by a practically all-Black jury, Simpson became ultra-Black. Suddenly, he was being photographed all up in Watts and Compton with Uncle Al Sharpton, eating soul food and offering praise and worship to Black Jesus in Black congregations.

It seems that facing a prison term of life without parole helps a man finally make up his mind in matters of race and religion.

And what about Michael Jackson? People were questioning both his commitment to the Black community as well as his desire to even remain Black when his legal troubles convinced him that “It Doesn’t Matter If You Are Black or White,” the long arm of the law will come after you. And then after his album “Invincible” tanked, he too sought out Uncle Al Sharpton to shepherd him back into Blackness.

The Black community welcomed both men back with open arms. Adoring crowds even greeted Simpson in Watts as if he were some kind of conquering hero. But both these men shared a pre-fame affinity with Black folks. O.J. grew up in a predominately Black, inner-city neighborhood and shared a similar narrative with Black folk. And though fame came to Michael Jackson when he was yet very young, most Black folk of a certain age still remembered a pre-plastic surgery Michael with the negroid nose and clung tenaciously to this image.

Additionally, both men engaged in an activity that Black folk readily identified with and participated in, football and music, whereas until Tiger came along, not many Black folk had anything to do with golf.

But Tiger does not have any of these advantages; though we have claimed him and embraced him, we have never really known him, and he has never expressed any pressing need to get to know us. I wonder if Uncle Al Sharpton would be available for a back to Black tour for him?

However, in the final analysis, this is how the ball bounces. Despite his malfeasance, I feel a sense of pity for him. Deviant behavior does not just occur out of nowhere; usually it can be traced back to some root cause.

And I do not claim to be some kind of psychologist, but I seem to sense in Tiger a lost, lonely child. Just like Michael Jackson, he has been a prodigy for most of his life. He has had people continually telling him how great he is, how wonderful he is, and stroking his ego. Until now, I do not ever recall him receiving any bad press.

Now, suddenly, he has been put right squarely on front street. Now all those women who he thought really loved him—because after all, he is Tiger Woods—are requiring a check for their silence.

Also, if his wife has really left him, and she has every reason to do so, I am sure he is feeling really alone right about now. He is perhaps bewildered and confused by this whole turn of events. Not too long ago, everyone seemed to be singing his praises; he was the golden boy, and his character went unquestioned. Today he is a punch line in an SNL spoof.

But how far will his descent go? Will things get so bad that he will feel the need to become Black?

The Psychology behind Black Friday: The Big Bone Theory

Okay, Thanksgiving has finally come and gone, and I had a wonderful day. I hope you found equal enjoyment in the day.

And I am more than aware of the history of imperialism and genocide subtending the holiday; if we really view the holiday with a critical eye, it is almost as if the nation takes a day off and feasts in celebration of the decimation of a people.

However, even in light of this, I choose to observe Thanksgiving. Notice I didn’t use the word celebrate. I choose to spend the day with my family and friends. Sometimes life becomes so hectic that I get to see these people, even those living only a five minute drive from me, only infrequently, and this day becomes one in which we can all get together and put aside petty internecine quarrels and just enjoy each others’ company.

But I still cannot for the life of me understand the psychology behind Black Friday. Even as Thanksgiving wound down and we worked to sweep away the remains of the day, I could hear people making plans for Black Friday.

Some of them planned not to even sleep. They had set an itinerary that included visiting Toys R Us at twelve midnight, then swinging by Old Navy at three in the morning, followed by a trip to Best Buy at five, and ending with an excursion to Walmart.

As they formulated their plans, I watched their faces twist into masks of almost sinister, diabolical anticipation. Mothers who only moments before had lovingly prepared plates of food for their children and had gently swept the crumbs from their laps and wiped their cherubic little faces were suddenly given to masterminding hostile shopping forays into various locales throughout the city.

And as I looked on not knowing whether or not I should also be afraid, I wondered what drove them, what motivated them. What could transform mild mannered mothers and grandmothers into marauding shopping soldiers? Then I glanced across the room at my children’s dog, and I began to formulate a theory.

Sometime following Thanksgiving dinner, someone thought it would be hilarious to give my children’s nine pound rat terrier a huge ham bone. The bone was so big, almost as big as he is, that he could only move it inches at a time, but to the delight of the crowd, he doggedly (pun unintended) pushed and pulled that bone until he got it right where he wanted it, and then set to stripping it of whatever meat that remained.

Now he and his bare bone are ensconced in a corner where he vigilantly stands guard over it; however, the children are using his big bone ambitions to manipulate him. If they want him to go into another room, they simply grab his bone and protesting all the while, he follows behind. They are using the bone to force him to do all kind of tricks that I didn’t even know he knew how to do. Evidently, this dog is some kind of canine savant who has kept his talents hidden all this time.

And also I am seeing a side of him that I have never seen before. In his pre-big bone life he was a mild manner, playful little pup, but suddenly, when you get near his big bone, he turns absolutely viscous. This animal is suddenly exhibiting traits I never knew him to have, and it took the big bone to bring them out.

I may be oversimplifying this whole Black Friday thing a bit, but based on my empirical data, Black Friday is the simply the equivalent of my children’s little dog’s big bone. The department stores and other retail outlets offer us a big bone in the form of fantastic deals on merchandise that has been steeply marked up in the first place, and we lose our collective minds. We rush from store to store in the wee hours of the morning spending, and in most cases overspending, obscene amounts of money, and then we go home to sleep, consoled by the thought of how much stuff we managed to amass and how much we saved in the process of doing so.

Then a week later, the same stores run the same sales all over again. And as we get closer and closer to Christmas, and the stores get more determined and desperate to move as much merchandise as possible, the deals get even better, so we go out and spend even more money.

Come New Year’s when the spell wears off, reality sets in, and we begin to receive those credit card statements, we’ll all probably be cursing our collective selves. But I am not trying to chastise or criticize anyone. I just got way too much time on my hands today just to sit around and come up with stupid theories and philosophize about nothing.

Plus my wife and mother-in-law are out there somewhere in that barbarian horde of shoppers. When they left here, I could not even recognize them as the people I have grown to love over all these years. It was almost as if they were in some kind of trance. Their eyes were glazed over, and they moved methodically, robotically like cyborgs. So please don’t even tell her I wrote this, or she’ll probably return home and in her frenzied, out-of-mind state, hit me upside the head with that same big bone that inspired this post.

Recommended reading: “A Brief History of Black Friday”

Evolution Is Beautiful by Nature: The Revolution Inherent in Evolution

This morning I awoke and ventured over to my poet friend Poet Rhythm’s site, SisterGarten, where she has composed a wonderful piece dealing with musical artists and artistic evolution entitled “In the Shadows of Our Younger Selves.”

And even as I was finishing my comment on the post, the phone rang, and on the line was a cousin from home calling to see if I would be coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. As I spoke to him, a line from Poet Rhythm’s post suddenly came to mind—“Evolution is beautiful by nature”.

As a young person, everyone has that favorite cousin, that cousin a few years older than you that you completely idolize, that you follow doggedly behind and try to emulate in all things. Well for me, that cousin who phoned this morning is that cousin.

When we were children and young men, we were so close that when someone saw one of us, they naturally looked around for the other. However, as adults there is a certain distance between us, both literally and figuratively.

At one time after I left home, we spoke on the phone frequently, at least once a week. Then the frequency slowed to once every few weeks. Then, we spoke only every few months or so. Now we usually only speak when I drop into town.

And it’s not that my affection for my cousin has lessened in any way. I wish that we could speak more. I really wish that we could find more occasions to laugh together, to enjoy each other’s company. But now our conversations have ceased to be unique; each is an exact facsimile of the rest. The main topics he wishes to discuss are women, cars, and weed,and in that exact order.

Additionally, he still lives with his mother. He has several children by several different women which I suspect he doesn’t support because he only works enough to take care of his car, the only thing he owns. The attention he gives that car baffles me.

He is the same person I idolized as a young man, that I sought to emulate. And that is the problem.

I know so many people, and I meet so many people who seem unwilling or unable to change, to evolve. They are the same people today that they were last year. And the year before. And the year before that.

And I hear these people complaining, bemoaning the fact that they seem to find themselves in a rut, wishing that somehow, someway, something different, something spectacular, something dynamic occurs in their lives to make their lives better, but when you suggest that they might want to change a few things, they balk at the notion. Perhaps the familiar, even if it is inimical to their happiness, to their self-fulfillment, is more desirable than the unfamiliar as suggested by change.

But I believe change to be necessary. I see change as inevitable. In fact, to not change or evolve is unnatural. If you are the same person right now that you were last week, or last month, or last year, or five or ten years ago, something is wrong. To change, to embrace change, to embrace evolution is naturally beautiful.

To be able to stand back and take account of yourself, to be able to honestly assess and admit your faults and shortcomings, is a necessary part of change, of evolution, and is truly a revolutionary act. Most of us would rather close our eyes to the worst parts of ourselves and remain stagnant rather than evolve into the best person that we can possibly be.

But back to my cousin. I last saw him this past summer. In the cool of the evening, we sat under a shade tree in his mother’s front yard just as did as young people. We talked, we laughed, and we teased one another just as we did as young people.

And at some point in the evening we decided to walk to the corner grocery just as we had as young people. To my surprise, the corner grocery had not changed all that much since I had last been there about twenty years ago, except then it was owned by a Jewish family, and now it is owned by a Palestinian family.

When we returned from the store, he uncapped his quart of Colt 45 malt liquor, poured out just a bit for the brothers no longer with us, tilted the bottle to his lips, and took a long, deep swig. He then held the bottle in my direction just as he would have when we were young people. But at that moment I hesitated for just a moment before finally accepting the bottle and taking my turn.

When I gave the bottle back, he looked at me for a long second. And as he examined my face, I suddenly felt ashamed. I felt out of place. Suddenly this familiar front yard of this familiar house is this familiar neighborhood felt so strange, so foreign.

“You’ve changed,” he finally told me as he gazed at some unidentifiable point across the street. And as I struggled to come up with a rebuttal, as I struggled to come up with a reasonable argument to defend myself, he let me know that it didn’t matter. That he was proud of my change. He was proud of the man I had become. That he wished he too could change, but he simply did not know how.

Brown People

Recently while looking through a series of family photo albums, I ran across a photograph that I had all but forgotten about. It is a photo of my youngest daughter posed against a palimpsest of black people of varying hues. Her eyes are wide open as if she is surprised, and the biggest smile she could possibly muster is spread across her face. In front of her, her hands are clasped together in utter glee.

When I showed this old photograph to my wife, the two of us almost laughed until crying while remembering that moment and the events that lead up to it.

When my son and daughter were still very young and forming their view of the world, they perceived and spoke of everything around them literally. For instance, they divided their world to the extent of their knowledge into two groups of people—brown people and white people. And when a white classmate asked my daughter why she was black and how she got that way, my daughter promptly corrected her and informed her that she was not black; she was indeed brown.

But that incident sparked a journey of discovery on my daughter’s behalf to somehow learn all she could about brown and white peoples and the differences thereof. She became a keen observer of people. Often either my wife or I would catch her just staring at people, until one day she finally declared that she really could not tell the difference between brown people and white people except for their skin color.

Then one weekend, my wife and I took our children along with us to Tallahassee, Florida, as we went to celebrate Florida Agricultural & Mechanical University’s (FAMU) homecoming. And if you have ever been to Tallahassee, Florida, during FAMU’s homecoming week, you know that the locals pretty much vacate the city, leaving it to the family, friends, and alumni of the predominantly black university.

So, for a period of about a week, we were virtually surrounded by “brown people.” We dined with them and worshiped with them in attending an ecumenical service. We went to an old-school concert with them. We went to pep-rallies and tailgate parties with them. We even managed to catch a step-show, my children's first, the battle of the bands, and finally the game.

And this whole time my children’s eyes, especially my daughter’s, were big as saucers as my grandmother was found of saying. I don’t know if it was all the excitement and festivities; I don’t know if she was surprised by seeing so many “brown people” she did not know in one place. Nevertheless, she soaked it all in.

Then there was that one particular moment that occurred just as we were leaving the stadium. I’m not certain what happened, but as the crowd surged out of the stadium entrance, a bottle neck occurred preventing anyone from moving forward. And I expected the worse. I expected people to begin pushing and shoving and cursing one another, but that did not happened. Instead, the crowd, that huge throng of “brown people” broke into an impromptu rendition of the Negro National Anthem “Lift Every Voice and Sing” as they swayed back and forth in time to the melody.

As a warm wave of emotion, well-bring, and community spread through the crowd, my daughter must have gotten caught up in the fervor of the moment because she suddenly threw her arms up in absolute delight and exhilaration, brought them down and in clasping them in front of herself exclaimed, “I JUST LOVE BROWN PEOPLE! I LOVE BEING A BROWN PERSON!” Those within earshot of her proclamation laughed at her temerity. It was at that moment that my wife snapped the picture.

Since then my daughter has learned a little more about the world. Since then the realities of race have become a bit clearer and a bit more complicated to her. Since then she has witnessed “brown people” at our very best as well as at our very worst. She often admits in frustration and utter disbelief that she cannot understand for the life of her why we act the way we do sometimes. But in the same instance, I watched her swell with pride on election night in 2008.

She had gone along with us as we canvassed neighborhoods and attended rallies and other campaign functions. She felt as if she was a part of and had helped contribute to the moment she was witnessing.

After her mother and I had finished laughing and reminiscing, we called her in, showed her the photograph and asked if she still remembered that moment. She just smiled, chuckled a little, and nodded her head yes. So, I went a step further. I asked her that in knowing all she knew about “brown people” now, did she still love them? Did she still love being a “brown person.”

She fingered the photograph for a moment, and she ran her finger across the backdrop of “brown people,” and she told me unequivocally, “Yes, I still do. And perhaps now more than ever. I love ‘brown people,’ and I really love being a ‘brown person.’”

It was really a moment for all of us which my son promptly ruined by only half playfully spouting some nonsensical stream of black power rhetoric in the background. I know that he loves "brown people" too. He just expresses it differently.

And by all means, love yourself and be a blessing to somebody today!

I Have a Church Home (Gimme that old time religion)

Occasionally I have documented my frequent crises in faith here on my blog. As someone who views the world with a critical eye, those glaring contradictions in religious teaching and religious practice seem to stand out even the more and have caused me to shy away from organized religion. But as one raised in the church, as a scion of a family of ministers, the guilt of being out of church, of being outside the circle of fellowship always weighs heavily on my mind.

Yet, I’ve come to terms with this. After going from church to church and being thoroughly dismayed at what I’ve found, after watching the church seemingly change its mission and focus away from the more pressing needs of the community and toward more secular and political ends, after watching Christians seemingly become more critical and condemning of supposed sinners and not the sin, all the while ignoring their own propensity toward hypocrisy, I have chosen to follow Christ and not men; I have chosen to worship God in deed and not rhetoric while all the while praying and reading my Bible and seeking the Truth.

However, I always get tongue tied when faced with that one question: “Just where is your church home?”. That old feeling of guilt returns when I am forced to answer that I don’t have a church home. They become impatient and incredulous and, more often than not, insulted when I attempt to explain why.

But then on last evening during a moment of prayerful contemplation, I had a sudden revelation. My mind traveled back over a span of time to a specific moment in my life. And I realized that I do have a church home and have had one for quite some time.

In 1972, I joined and was baptized into the Cane Creek Road Missionary Baptist Church in the small, rural enclave of Bemis, Tennessee, right outside Jackson, Tennessee. That was the same year that a visiting church caused a scandal when, in the middle of a hymn, they jazzed it out a bit and began to sway in time with the music.

That year Cane Creek Road Missionary Baptist Church was an old turn of the century clapboard building that sat at the end of a long, winding, dusty, unpaved rural road. I don’t remember how the building was heated during the winter, but I do remember that during the summer, the deacons opened the windows in a vain attempt to catch a breeze from the outside while a row of rotating fans hanging from the ceiling did all they could.

But it seemed to never be enough because everyone, all the sisters in the church anyway, always seemed to be fanning themselves with those paddle like fans with advertisements for Stephenson-Shaw Funeral Home one side and a big picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. or John Kennedy on the other. And from my family’s place in the pews, out of the raised window I could see the cemetery adjacent to the church where generations and generations of my family were buried, where my grandfather and grandmother are now buried, where I have instructed my wife to spread my ashes in the event of my demise.

Cane Creek Missionary Baptist Church is the church my grandparents were married in. It is also the church in which my mother and her siblings were raised and baptized in and married in. And it is the church in which my first and most basic concepts of religion and Christianity were formed.

It is where I learned that love and not hate was the most important Christian message, that Christ has no respect of person, of position. It is where I learned the concept of community. It is where I learned to recognize and acknowledge and acknowledge the humanity in every human being.

The service was not aired on the radio or televised; perhaps no one even knew of the church’s existence outside those in the immediate community. But for that handful of people the church did reach, the experience was real. On Sunday morning and throughout the week, the church served God by serving the community from the highest member down to the very lowest member.

Its purpose, its mission, was one of uplift. It was there to provide solace and a place of respite to those trying to make the most out of an already precarious and complicated existence. And if I am not mistaken, despite my time away, despite the distance separating me from the brick and mortar edifice, I am still a member of that church; I have never abdicated my membership.

So, it took me a while to remember, to recall, but I do have a church home.

Max Reddick Supports Single Mothers

I have a friend, a very good friend; her beauty and spirit never cease to amaze me, to intrigue me. And my friend also happens to be a single mother.

We communicate fairly often though not as often as we once did. However, in the middle of the night while I am up thinking, writing, enjoying the solitude, I sometimes get forlorn, frantic messages from her: “Did you read what she said today? Can you believe that? I think she is singling me out.”

Evidently, somewhere out there in cyberspace an African American woman runs a site for women that seems to disparage single motherhood. The site seems to find fault with those who just happen to find themselves raising their children on their own. But I don’t think the blog author means to be disparaging. I really don’t. However, I do see how her commentary might be misinterpreted that way.

And for a young single mother already questioning the choices she’s made, already trying to piece together a life out of the emotional fragments of a failed loved affair, already trying to find her way in a world that seems dead set in preventing her from moving onward and upward, already struggling with the many exigencies of raising a child or children alone, I see how the blog author’s remarks might seem disheartening and sometimes insulting even.

So I try to calm my friend. I try to offer whatever salve I have for wounds—a poem, a short story, a song, a bawdy joke—but nevertheless I don’t think it is ever enough. So, I try to simply let her know I understand, that about eighteen years or so ago for a timeframe of about a year and a half, I too found myself in the situation of being a single parent.

Mostly what I remember about that time frame is the constant fatigue that dogged me. And I remember having to set aside my dreams, my aspirations for the sake of someone else. I remember being lonely, very lonely for the company and affection of another adult.

I had to work to keep a roof over our head and so that we could continue eating. I did get child support, but even with that support, it seems like I was always short of cash, always behind playing catch-up, always struggling. So , I had to take extra hours at work, but when I did so, I always felt so guilty about being away from my child for such long periods of time. Not only that, I had to make time for karate and football practice and the many other extracurricular activities children participate in.

And when he came to stay with me, I was in school pursuing my degree, but school became the first casualty. I found that school and work and parenting seemed so unmanageable, so I limped through that semester, and it would be almost a year before I could resume my studies.

Also, in seeking out companionship of the opposite sex, I was always tried to remain cognizant of the fact that I had a young one at home; I did not want to give my son the wrong idea about relationships between men and women by parading a string of women in front of him. And perhaps I was not always as cognizant as I should have been, but I did my best.

But the greatest effect I believe this period to have had on my son was the absence of an alternate worldview. In other words, because I am male, the way in which I attempted to raise my son, and the values I attempted to inculcate in my son, were informed by my positioning as a black male. And at that time I had that whole manly man thing going, so I didn’t see the need to hug him or to teach him that it was okay to feel and show emotion; I thought it would make him a soft man. However, looking back now I realize that perhaps had I sometimes placed my arms around him and hugged him and told him I loved him that perhaps he may have been an even better person because of it, especially during this period of adjustment following the split between his mother and me.

But I was blessed to have found someone who would eventually become my spouse who joined with me in assisting me in raising my son. Not only that, his mother always remained in the picture and partnered with me in assuring that my son had those things he needed both emotionally as well as materially.

In addition, I don’t think I ever felt the stigma often associated with single parenthood as I understand many women to feel. Many people judge single mothers without ever taking the time to consider how they came to be single mothers in the first place or judging the father by the same standards.

Recently a colleague informed me that she used her married name for fifteen years following her divorce simply because she didn’t want to be judged by outsiders, and she didn’t want her children to be stigmatized in school as being the children of a single mother. But because I was a single father, which perhaps was fairly rare at the time, people bent over backwards to help me, to praise me. And that sentiment perhaps still exists.

However, I do know that with time things will get better. But for the time being, keep in mind those things you want for you and your child or children. For the time being, decide what you want for yourself. Then seek out every opportunity that will move you closer to these goals, every opportunity that will make the lives of you and your child or children better.

And surround yourself with a network of people who will not judge you and offer you the emotional support you need and go about the business of raising your child or children. And if it means anything at all, you have my undying understanding, admiration, and support. I know firsthand that it ain’t easy, but you are doing it. You are doing it.

Oh, the Places We Could Go: Just Think of the Possibilities If We Would Step Out of Our Zone of Comfort

A couple of months or so ago at the end of the summer, my wife and I planned a trip with a few other African American couples we know just to have one last bit of fun before summer ended. When we first conceived of the idea, we bandied about several suggestions, but all of them seemed so absolutely done.

Someone suggested a cookout at the beach, but I was beached out, and I don’t particularly find the beach all that fun. Of course, Disney and/or Universal Studios in Orlando were offered, but we go to Orlando several times a year already so that was out. And in that same vein, someone suggested Busch Gardens in Tampa, but that too was voted down.

Then my wife suggested that we go somewhere and do something none of us had ever done, something unlikely. And we finally decided on a destination and an activity. But on the eve of our trip, one by one the couples and families called us to say that they had to cancel, that they would not be going. And each couple and family proffered the same excuse: “We all talked and decided that that’s just something black folk don’t do.”

Evidently, all of the black folk got together, or at least enough to form a quorum, and decided that black folk didn’t do such things.

And when we arrived at our destination, we found that they seemed to be very right in their assessment. My family was the only African American family present. The other African Americans there were there either with their white spouses or partners or friends.

But nonetheless, we had the time of our lives, and my children talked about the experience for days afterward. This was an experience that they, that we, will never forget and our lives are richer because of it.

In thinking about this, I remember something my grandfather said on numerous occasions when I was a young man, but I didn’t understand then. He would say that if black folk had to discover anything, it would never be found because black folk didn’t like to step outside the familiar.

And this might seem to be a small thing to you, but the implications are much bigger. Perhaps, we can best look at this through philosopher Wittgenstein’s notion of the umvelt. Wittgenstein used that notion to explain that an individual’s knowledge of the world was limited only by the limits of that individual’s access to the world.

In other words, experience translates to knowledge, and we can further extrapolate that knowledge translates to opportunity. So, when we limit our experiences, we limit our knowledge, thus we limit our opportunities.

And I see this all too often when I am out in the community. Too often I encounter African American children not living up to their full intellectual potential simply because they believe studying and achieving is simply something little black kids do not do. And when I inquire of their dreams and aspirations as adults, the very few who do not want to be rappers or singers or professional athletes all name the same handful of occupations: cosmetologist, firemen, policemen, teacher, doctor, lawyer.

Not that these are not noble, worthwhile occupations, but there are so many others to choose from. They are so grossly uninformed of the wide range of possibilities, of opportunities, open to them simply because of their dearth of experiences.

And when I inform them of all the possibilities outside those few mentioned, the response is always the same: “Is that something black folk really do?”

You know, I had a friend in graduate school, a young African American man, who was studying something like forestry management science or national park management science or something of that nature. I don’t remember exactly what it was, but I do remember it was something that black folk don’t usually do.

And the National Forestry Service was so anxious to attract black folk to do it that they were willing to pay for him to receive a master’s degree and a doctoral degree and then hire him right out of school at a starting salary of about $65,000. When I saw his contract, I kind of wish that it was something this black man had done.

But if we are to increase the opportunities available to us and our kids, we must increase our willingness to explore our world. We must explore the full range of experiences available to us. We must step outside our zone of comfort, and go to those places we have never been before, and try those things we have never tried before. And if we begin to do this, oh the places we could go.

When something like this happens, you must ask yourself, "Where were the adults?"

Psychologists have long observed and commented on a phenomenon in which an individual caught up in a large group of people absorbs the ethos of that group. If I might explain it further for the purposes of clarification, the excitement, the emotion, the raw electricity of the moment engulfs a crowd of people like a tidal wave, and an individual caught up in that crowd, no matter how meek or mild that individual might be, gets swept along right along with the crowd and often commits acts far outside the character and personality of the individual that he or she later regrets and cannot even offer explanation.

I mention this phenomenon because it has been the explanation most offered up to as a reason for the atrocity that occurred in Richmond, California*, this past weekend. In Richmond, for two hours on Saturday night following a school homecoming dance, a fifteen year old child was beaten, robbed and repeatedly raped by several suspects over a two hour period.

These details alone should be enough to make one pause for a moment in an effort to catch their breath even as their heart pounds within their chest in outrage. This should be enough to cause one to shake their head rapidly and violently to and fro in utter disbelief, but the story only worsens from here because this atrocity took place in front of an audience.

As the girl lay semi-conscious on a bench, on-lookers and passerby looked on without offering help or assistance or even reporting it. In fact, some laughed, some took pictures, and some even took the time to strip her of her jewelry. [Click here for original report.]

But the notion of the mob mentality is in no way sufficient as an explanation because implicit in that explanation is the notion that somehow those involved just got caught up in the moment and could not control themselves, and not only that, this explanation does not account for those who watched or who might have passed by without attempting to intervene or even get help.

However, I believe what is most telling in this incident is the fact that those who have been arrested or have been identified as involved thus far all range in age from 15 to 19. In other words, this is a case of young people victimizing young people. It seems as if those most threatening the safety of young people are not adults but young people themselves. And before we begin to make the old charge that young people today have lost their minds, I must ask you, “Where were the adults in all this?”

Maybe, just maybe, my childlike imagination gets the best of me sometimes, and maybe the images conjured up by my subconscious tend to sometimes be overly fantastical, but the image that comes most readily to mind is that image from the movie Dawn of the Dead in which the zombies roam the street in hordes, moving slowly and decidedly toward their next victim.

There used to be commercial that ran each night that posed the question, “It is ten o’clock. Do you know where your children are?” I suspect more and more the answer for a lot of parents would be no.

And I know this is being to sound like every other thing that I have written, but the point I continue to attempt to drive home is our responsibility as responsible adults for our kids, not just our biological children but all children. Any society or any culture or, better still, community is measured first and foremost by the condition of its children or by how well it cares for its young. And it follows from this incident that we are doing really poorly protecting our young people from themselves.

How can someone so young commit an act so heinous? How can someone so young be so callous as to stand and watch and/or even participate in a crime of this magnitude? Where were all the adults when this crime occured, and where were all the adults when their hearts began to harden?

I do not offer any apologies for the young men involved, and my heart goes out to the young girl and her family. However, allow me please just to make this point. This crime was committed by young people who were entrusted to the care of adults. But somewhere the process of childrearing fell through. Somewhere, perhaps, someone failed in their duties. But if we remain a community, it becomes incumbent on us to put into place the necessary measures to see that all our children, all our young people are cared for, even those that do not bear our name.

And perhaps you are doing as you are supposed to do. Perhaps you are loving and raising your children just as you have been charged to do. But what of those in our community raising themselves? What of those in our community not receiving the requisite nurturing or training? These are the ones who most constitute a direct threat to your own. These are the ones in which the mob mentality is a constant state of mind. And where are you in all this?

* When I originally made this post, a reader pointed out that erroneously reported the city as Oakland when it is in actuality Richmond, California; however, in my recall of the Bay Area, I mistakenly conflated the two areas.

Also of interest:

“Violence Against Women: A Spectator Event” by Beautiful Curare of Methodological Madness

You Cannot Change the Schools Until You Change the Community: Max Reddick’s Commonsense Argument for the Betterment of Minority Education

This weekend I ran across an interesting post over at Prometheus 6 which concerned minority education. The post centered around an article featured in The Washington Post, “Making the Grade Isn’t about Race: It’s about Parents,” written by a high school teacher in Alexandria Virginia.

The basic premise of the article is that the educational problems and failures of minority students is due, in the main, to the lack of parental involvement in their children’s education and, most specifically, the dearth of fathers and male role models in minority communities.

I have heard and read this argument ad nauseum, and let me say beforehand that I do not discount the writer’s premise altogether; there is some truth to that argument. However, that argument is wholly incomplete. The answer is more complex than that. The lack of parental involvement and the dearth of fathers and male role models are but symptoms of a greater problem that must be overcome if minority children are to take full advantage of the benefits of education—poverty and its effects.

In my opinion, based on my experience in and around education for the past fifteen years or so there are two main reasons minority children are having the problems they are having in schools. Each of these reasons is closely tied to the other: 1. More and more, schools are being called upon to perform functions that they are not equipped to handle, and 2. Governmental energies, emphasis and dollars are being mis-targeted.

At one time, many different institutions took responsibility for the rearing and education of children. Namely those institutions were the community at large, the church, and the family. However, as these institutions are either failing or falling down in their responsibilities, the functions of these institutions are being charged to the schools who are poorly equipped to handle them. Schools were barely able to meet the function of education, and now they are being asked to be agents of socialization, agents of discipline, mental health providers, childcare providers, and a myriad of other disparate functions. And among all these functions, the most basic function of education is pushed to the side.

To prove this next point, allow me please to use the Duval County Public School district here in Jacksonville, Florida, as an example. There are three high schools here which are predominantly and historically black. For the past several years these schools have led the county in every conceivable negative indicator. Duval County and the State of Florida first responded by threatening to close these schools down and bus the students to other schools who were performing up to standard. However, the because of the historical nature of these schools, the county and the state backed off.

So, the district and the state then responded by pumping absolutely obscene amounts of money into the schools. However, much to their chagrin, this did not work either. The schools continue to perform well below standard and continue to lead the county and some parts of the state in every conceivable negative indicator.

However, no one has thought to take a hard look at the communities from which the students attending these schools are arriving. In at least two of the schools, a good portion of the student population are from the housing projects and/or poverty stricken communities surrounding the schools located. In all the schools, the vast majority of the students are from families mired in poverty.

Poverty works to produce a certain unique mentality, a certain mindset. And this mentality, this mindset must be overcome if educational efforts are to be successful. A good study in this regards is Ruby Payne's A Framework for Understanding Poverty. But to get to the meat of my argument, the millions the county and state are pouring into these schools to no avail could be put to better use by working to alleviate the effects of poverty in the communities the students are arriving from. The millions could be used to revitalize the communities and provide opportunities for growth and development outside of school.

Also, keep in mind that old theory by psychologist Abraham Maslow which posits the notion that before an individual can perform at optimal levels, certain needs must first be meet beginning with the most basic physiological needs such food, followed closely by safety:

In other words, the negative indicators will never decrease until the mentality of the parents and students change and the community is able to insure that the most basic needs of its members are met. You can put the best resources in place, you can employ the best teachers, you can use the latest pedagogical methods, you can do whatever, but until those students come to school with their most basic needs met, having the correct mindset, able to imagine a future greater that the present, and willing and ready to learn, we are simply jousting with windmills.

And as a postscript, with the huge amounts of money to be made "reforming" dysfunctional schools, is there really an incentive to do so? If we find a working solution to "reform" our schools, a lot of people would stand to lose a lot of money. I cannot tell you how many paid consultants and experts are in the employ of the county and state for the purposes of improving education. Yet, the system does not seem to be moving forward. I would even be without a significant portion of my income; I have cashed more than a few of those consultant checks myself.