Yes, Mr. Giuliani, Our President Does Not Love "Your" America. And Why I Love This President.

How DID you grow up, Mr. Mayor?

I had to weigh in on the recent debacle concerning Rudolph Giuliani's comment that the believes that the U.S. President of the United States, who has sworn an oath to uphold the Constitution of the United States, to defend against enemies - domestic and foreign - does not like America. 

What is apparent to me, in Mr. Giuliani's comments, is that it is he - Giuliani - who does not like America.  America's once Mayor,does not like what America has become, and is chastising the President for not reveling in its halcyon post World War II past, one that he and his Republican cohorts still cherish. Giuliani's claims that Barack Hussein Obama didn't "grow up" like most Americans somehow makes the President seem other than ... can he say the same to the millions of other immigrants who did not grow up in America? Are they any less American?

According to Giuliani: yes.

According to Giuliani, there's only one way to grow up in America.

America Accepts Everyone, Mr. Giuliani. Even You.

The irony is that Italians were not considered Americans, even when they grew up here.  They were called every derogatory name in the book, and were considered strange, with their garlic smells and pasta and accents, opera, and alleged hyper-sexuality. They worshiped a man other than the President, who lived in Italy and wore strange robes.

What a difference four decades makes.  Now, Giuliani would have you believing he was part of the White Anglo-Saxon Ozzie and Harriet family.

What does Mr. Giuliani say to the children of parents in our Armed Forces and our diplomatic missions who live in secluded American communities, going to American schools in foreign countries? Are they not American?  What does Mr. Giuliani say to the Japanese gardeners populating California in the 1940s and '50s, who tended people's gardens and lawns, but whose children grew up speaking fluent English--yet were put in concentration camps in the USA? Were they not Americans, too?

Oh, right. They were Americans.

Just the wrong Americans.

Was Elvis Presley an American, growing up singing and gyrating his hips like a Black man?
What was America before the African slaves brought watermelon, yams, okra, and any number of "foreign" foods to the American natives' shores?

What does it mean when an Indian woman wears a sari, or a Muslim woman wears a hijab? Does that make them any less American? When Catholic women wore scarves on their heads when attending mass, were they less American?



What does it mean to "grow up like us?"  Mr. Giuliani thinks it means living in a community whose only foreign food was Chinese take-out and whose only foreign language knowledge was the words  "Adios muchacho." That was fifty years ago. And Giuliani and his ilk want all of us to go back there.

The Giuliani faction of the Republican party is like overweight men who still talk about their high- school touchdowns as if they were yesterday.  We all grow old. And America will always change.

This President understands that.

Barack Hussein Obama, in name alone, is a bridge from the past to the future. He knows that his Presidency is a harbinger of a real recognition that the storytellers have not scribed: this country belongs to no one and everyone.  We are learning that being American is a state of mind, and those minds can beg to differ about what it means to be an American.  And that's why a faction of the Republican party does not like this President. And the very reason why I love him.


Mr. Giuliani is upset. That he isn't Presidential material, and that his own greatness as America's Mayor has been eclipsed by a two-term President who speaks and communicates to the world with respect and equality, not the superior might that White means right.

And where are the voices of Italian Americans who could silence Giuliani?

Quiet.

They are exercising the privilege of being White now, something this half-White President cannot do.

Shame on Giuliani.

Warning: Being Famous Can Kill You.

Drug overdose (?)

In thinking about what to blog about next, I had a list of options, but the one I've chosen is not the topic I wish to write about.  However, much like my novel, I have to write it, to have my say, before I can move on to other things.

My heart has been heavy for the past week.  Famed singer Whitney Houston's daughter, Bobbi Kristina Brown, may die in the next couple of days, perhaps on February 11, 2015, the three year anniversary of her mother's death. I hope that I am proven wrong about this, so I'm perfectly fine if it turns out to be the case.  And tonight, the Grammy's will be televised, feting the musical accomplishments of some of America's most popular singers. You will note that I did not say, "talented." I believe that term has been lost in translation, nowadays, as it is personalities that become celebrities, not artists, necessarily.

No need to explain this one.

Clive Davis, the mogul who has created mega-stars, throws a Gala, every Grammy night, anticipating his artists' big wins before the Grammys airs on television. In fact, he was partying in the hotel in 2012 year when his top-grossing singer was lying in a bathtub, dying of a drug overdose, upstairs. Alone. A victim of his genius. And treachery.  He is a poster boy for so many other "maestros," handlers (managers, agents, posses, handlers, hangers-on, and sheer leeches) of talent, who breed and nurture fame, like a plant, but then let it go wild and choke itself with too much sycophantic, and ultimately, murderous adoration. Anyone who can shepherd the talent of a young, raw, street-talking songstress into the epitome of American beauty, grace, and talent should also know the heart of his client, know of her troubles, her weaknesses, and nurse her to mental health with the same acuity and adroitness with which he nursed her talent as a singer. And let us not forget those bereaved who eulogized her at her memorial service. They were actually lamenting their own scarlet letter A, not for adulterer, but for being "At Fault," for using the carcass, eating it alive, siphoning away the money and life joys from artists too disturbed by drugs and fame to know what was happening to them.

Adulation is the ultimate orgasm, nowadays. And the problem is that we have chosen fame as a career goal, without the job title that goes with it.  It is enough to "party like a rock star." I wonder if any of our dead stars would want their anonymity back, to be alive and on Earth now.

Natalie Wood - drowned at a drunken
yacht party

Except for historians, no one wants to hear God Bless America sung by Kate Smith. Now, it is Houston's rousing, soul-filled, heart-stirring Star Spangled Banner, lifting our military's voices to kill Iraqis soon after the first unnecessary Persian Gulf War. Whitney Houston was trotted out like Helen of Troy, her [voice] hailing the launch of a thousand rockets (instead of a thousand ships), of U.S. "bombs bursting in air."  This iconographic woman, who marshaled our nation's military might, would find herself vulnerably alone, naked, in a warm tub, retreating into the womb of Mother Earth, a reverse embryo on the verge of nothingness.


Fame is our crack cocaine.  The human ego has reached gargantuan solipsistic navel-gazing to a degree that even the famous can't get enough of themselves. I recall my stupefaction learning that when he was younger, even Prince William, already a teenage heartthrob and legendary heir to the Windsor throne professed his desire to be...an actor.

Let that sink in.

River Phoenix -- drug overdose

This then-boy, likely already the most famous "son" in Western civilization, whose mother, Princess Diana, Duchess of Wales, died a horrible death from being hounded by paparazzi, could not get enough adulation for being born to a rich family who crowned themselves rulers of the Western hemisphere. He wanted more. And when he visited the United States, his blushing wife, in tow, where did he go? To meet legendary Jay-Z and his wife, Beyonce, American icons: the swashbuckling, hip-gyrating, songstress-rapping storytelling duo that has whipped the world into a frenzy of adulation so much so that old moneyed uber super stars want to be aligned with them to secure the street cred to "rule" the future Britannia even better.

I haven't touched on the infamous famous, like Monica Lewinsky, who is a household name because she performed fellatio on the President of the United States.  Having accomplished this Herculean feat, she is now qualified to write articles for Vanity Fair, sitting among a pantheon of meritorious writers.

It is not the love of money that is the root of all evil.  It is the love of fame that is evil. It is a cancer that has infected our world and it will only get worse, as the masses continue to be fed stories of "rags-to-riches" triumph that inevitably crash and burn in a drug-addicted death, a dangerous driving accident, or a tragic life of looking everywhere for love, not realizing that loving yourself is the best admiration to which one could ever hope to aspire.

I have shied away from idolizing any living person except my grandmother, when she was alive, and my mother, who lives and breathes--yet, she, too is only human. We can all cast our gaze and applaud the feats of hard-working individuals who have climbed from anonymity to be known to the world. But don't get it twisted. For those who seek only fame, it comes at a price.

Michael Jackson, Drug overdose

Bobbi Kristina is paying for it, as are Michael Jackson's children.  And our nation is paying for it, too, while we spend hours reading the gossip sheets and internet sites, reveling in our celebrities' latest perils, instead of helping each other solve our own.  Our nation is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, addicted to being everyone but our individual selves. We are in a perennial state of youth, where nobody grows old, and everybody is consumed with consuming like a rock star.

Whitney Houston's death, and her daughter's impending one, should remind us all of the price we pay for fame that no one is accustomed to handling without special assistance. We would all do better to  wish for a long life of happiness, creativity, self-improvement, an income in which to live comfortably, and the love of family and friends. 

Grow up...and old, America.  It's better than dying young. And famous for dying so young.

My Cautionary Tale [or Ten Questions to Ask a Prospective Agent].

Agents with an Ulterior Motive.

For those who haven't read all of my blogs, you may have the impression that I am a New Englander.  Although I have lived in New Hampshire for almost 13 years, I have only called it my true home for the last four years, and had a previous life growing up in Ohio and the suburbs of Los Angeles. Most of my wonderful siblings live in southern California, and my dearly departed grandmother (she passed away at 104 in 2013) lived there, too. She was always a catalyst for my calling California home.

When I decided to leave the security of my employment as an attorney, in Washington, D.C., I took a vow of poverty. After doing my Peace Corps stint in the Philippines on an island village where there was no running water or electricity, I understood that living well is a relative term.  My older sister and her doting husband let me live in their home in the South Bay area of Los Angeles so that I could pursue a television writing career.   My belongings were in storage in DC, still, but I had my hybrid bicycle, clothes, and a nice comfy bed, and virtual hegemony over their home office while they worked.  In exchange for their largesse, all I had to do was wash dishes, and run errands for them.  I had my computer, that I had bought from a Writers Guild of America East Foundation screenwriting competition that had garnered me $4000 many years earlier.  Mind you, I wasn't the only winner. There were 11 of us. Although we were supposed to receive an established screenwriting mentor to assist us in our screenwriting pursuits, mine never materialized. But I was busy as an attorney then, and had developed an interest in making my own film. But I digress.

While in Los Angeles, I wrote a spec script for a television series, and a television pilot named, "CON LAW," a proposed series about new law school students matriculating at the same time one of their professors is killed.

Over a decade later, after moving to New Hampshire, I would receive a notice in the mail that I was potentially a member of a class of writers who had been discriminated against by the industry, meaning, "Hollywood," as, apparently, I was an older writer who had been thrown in the dustbin with other more successful writers.  Considering that my attempts to enter the industry were unsuccessful, I was flummoxed as to how I could even belong to the class of writers.  I was not successful, so how could I be getting the letter?  Then it dawned on me.

I had an agent. Once.

How could I forget that I had an agent? I couldn't even remember the agency's name. I had to look up my records to be reminded that I had signed a contract to potentially write for a very popular television series dealing with Washington, D.C., where I had hailed for 11 years as an international criminal attorney for the US government. The contract was for one already successful television series. The agency didn't plan to represent me for any other potential writing gig.  When I called the Writers Guild of America, West, the union for writers, to ask them about how usual that practice was for one to be represented for one show only, they said that they had never heard of such a thing.  The literary agency that sought to represent me for the one project was a boutique agency with lots of established writers, but no big names from what I could gather (although, truth be told, I was interested in #screenwriting, not literature, so most writers' names would fall on my deaf ears). I would place this agency in the second or third tier of literary agencies; but they had nice offices, and seemed quite legitimate.  And, apparently, the agency was one of the defendants, among others in the lawsuit. Mind you, some of those plaintiffs were already established writers, whose sell-by date had passed.  It's no secret that Hollywood wants nubile, impregnable youth, not seasoned adults running around a set, hence the colossal lawsuit by the elder statesmen #writers, to which I haphazardly belonged because I had an agent for all of -- not even six months.

Fanfare for the Uncommon Agent, Jerry Maguire

I severed ties with the agency after querying about the progress of my entree into writing for the already-established television series, once I learned that the writer of the successful series had used my work.  It was the type of show that hinged upon the lead writer finishing his or her writing so that the show could immediately go into production and air two weeks later. I saw my work in three or four episodes of the then current season, and into the next season.  When I returned to the agency to ask what happened, an Englishman, with a decidedly stuffy voice, whom I'd never met before said, "We never gave it to them."

Welcome to the whoring world of agents.  I don't know anyone besides the football player in Jerry Maguire who had a good relationship with one (and, well, you know how truthful that is). 

Never in the annals of moneymaking has there been a more bloodsucking species of human being than a Hollywood agent or manager.  They manage the careers of people who do all the work, have all the talent, but who are indebted to the agent--for doing what?  Talking about them in passing with their friends. Because that's all that happens. Most agents are struggling to be seen, or have their calls returned by anyone; and more often than not, they are more interested in establishing relationships with "Hollywood" or the publishing houses, themselves, than helping you, an upstart, to get your foot in the door.  Two other literary agents whom I approached (about this blog posts novel, yet to reach Amazon virtual shelves), one in NYC--who asked for my work, the other, in the UK to whom I sent my novel's synopsis--gave my work to already established writers, to review, who, rejecting my work, instead incorporated it into their own. You can purchase their versions of my novel on shelves to this day.

I know there are people who swear that their agents are a godsend. However, everyone I know seems to get their work on their own, and they do all the hustling to be known, to create a buzz, to get attention.  Think about it: agents have many clients, not just one, so how can you expect them to be singing your praises at all times?  And then you pay them 15%? For me that's like charging the New England Patriots a fee for liking them.  I know that some agents do much more. But, for the life of me, most people that I know bemoan the difficulties of getting their agent to pay any attention to them, or they chafe when an agent says that s/he was responsible for getting the agent a gig--that the client had told them about.

Agents usually want you when you're famous and a known commodity who, unequivocally, can add income to their wallet because you've earned the money already.  So, think twice about signing on the dotted line to give away your hard-earned money to somebody who merely "likes you" because they think you have promise (at making money on your own that you can then give to them).  If you are going to look for an agent, ask your prospect or consider the following questions:

You'll Have a Devil of a Time finding a Good Agent

1. Do you work out of your home, and if so, how frequently do you visit potential contacts, such as publishers, editors, book designers?

2. Ask for a look at the telephone directory on their smartphone or tablet. If there aren't hundreds of names in it, don't use that agent. You want an agent with contacts.

3. Name 10 people whom you know (not just that you've met) who are influential in your field. 

4. Who won't return your phone calls? If they can't list names, run for the hills. They are lying.

5. What role does social media play in your life as an agent? Is s/he a dinosaur, or contemporary?

6. How does the agent dress? Is s/he stylish, or frumpy, with bread crumbs all over her clothing? Is his tie stained?

7. Does the agent have an opinion about any other agencies that s/he respects or reviles?

8. Has the agent committed to the Association of Author Representative's Canon of Ethics? If s/he answers yes, s/he's likely a liar; (at least 2/3rds of agents don't belong to it).

9. What does the agent really do to earn income? Is he or she moonlighting, hoping to make it big?

10. Get a list of the clients the agent wishes s/he represented. That will tell you about where you fit in. 


People bemoan lawyers. I bemoan #agents.  If someone has an agent that s/he truly respects, share his or her name with others (I don't need to know them), and spread the word. There are too many bad ones out there making it hard for the good ones to get any screen time, as it were.

The members of the TV writers' age discrimination class action lawsuit were given a time period to pick up their settlement check(s). Of course, one of the conditions was that anyone receiving the checks could not talk about the terms of the settlement or the lawsuit.  I didn't sign online to receive the check, which in my case was only a couple of thousand dollars, and let the time lapse, as the strictly worded acceptance instructions provided.  However, someone actually called me to confirm that I wasn't accepting the check.

I didn't want to accept the settlement amount, not because it wasn't a large amount, but, because my voice means too much to me.  I'm older now. I don't care. I do what I want to, say what I want to, and as I'm not running for office, have no filter on my opinions. I didn't want their hush money.

I'm writing this missive about agents tongue-in-cheek, of course, because if a big agent approached me and said, "we want to represent you...." I'd likely say:

"No. I mean, maybe."

"Let me think about it."

Naaaa. Here's my answer: "Go to hell."

Oops? Am I burning bridges?

To hell?

I'll take the long walk, any day.

On Which Shelf Do I Belong?

Book shelf color codes: where do non-urban Black writers fit in?

This philosophical question has been nagging me for the 13 years it has taken me to research and write my novel.  The ubiquitous "they" say that one should know one's audience.  Well, I wrote this novel for myself. I was tired of not seeing characters like mine. I was tired of publishers ignoring people like me. I was tired of reading characters whose identities are wrapped up more in their accoutrements and wealth. Wealth is not a bad thing, mind you. But not all of us live with it.

I wanted to create a black female character who is inherently proud of her blackness, but who is also aware of the fact that she is a minority in a country that extols whiteness. She is not bitter about it.  Lula Logan lives her life. She does the best she can to achieve in her chosen field, forensic anthropology, and has dedicated herself to learning her craft. She is a professional. She is not arrogant about her knowledge. She is comfortable with herself.  Period.  Unlike so many female protagonists (of all races) nowadays, who are awash in aspirational upper-income trappings of owning designer-labeled this and that, Lula doesn't equate her worth with what she owns, and, like most women, appreciates fashion, in her own style. She doesn't subscribe to fashion magazines, as she has no time for that.  She likes attending concerts, listens to music of all kinds, and usually has it playing in the background. She is a quiet intellectual.

Lula Logan is navigating through life alone, in search of the right partner, but not letting the world stop for lack of a soul mate.  She has dated different men, preferably of her race, but has not succumbed to an Afrocentrism that prevents her from seeing the merits of men from other backgrounds.  She lived in Oakland, growing up, but went to majority white colleges and universities.

Lula is a university professor at a majority white college, and works in a small rural town doing slave burial research in an open field where she works in a solitary atmosphere. She has few friends where she lives, as the town, though interracial, is segregated, and has not met people of her educational background.  She doesn't live a life of quiet desperation, but she's also waiting for something.  Her boyfriend is a Creole police officer with whom she has a comfortable relationship; the chemistry is there, but she questions whether the relationship is going anywhere.  

As far as protagonists are concerned, she prefers to blend in rather than draw attention to herself. She is strong in her resolve, but not dictatorial. She's not angry, disillusioned, or unhappy.  She's living her life on her own terms. My quest was to create a character that eschews the negative stereotypes of the "boss bitch," "the temptress," "the monstrous hellion," in books that make it to the shelves for Black masses quicker than you can say, "urban fiction." As my earlier blog post discussed the issue, I'm not totally dismissing rap, hip hop, or urban fiction as sources of entertainment, but not all Black writers can successfully write the urban fiction genres,  nor do we want to contribute to their already crowded shelves.

That's the back story of my character.  But that's not the novel's plot.

The novel is about a scientist whose work entangles her in the intersecting quirky worlds of macho police officers, wealthy eccentrics, and struggling working-class inhabitants in real town America-- who are trying to live their small town normal lives as well as they can.  I like to think that I am writing about real people, living in real time. 

So, here's my dilemma: does creating a black protagonist seal the deal in putting me on the shelf among other black writers?  I ask this, rhetorically, because when I read my first Alex Cross mystery, I swore that James Patterson, the author, was Black (although a couple of phrases or explanations didn't exactly jibe with me).  Does the fact that the famous author is not Black give him "cultural waiver" that allows him to be considered merely a "novelist?" I asked the question on a website for independent writers and was pilloried for race-baiting (I thought I was opening up a discussion from which I could learn, too, actually). I do think it's an interesting question, nevertheless.  I also asked whether it was best to get a Black agent for my novel about a Black protagonist. The answers were that I should. Yet, again, I wonder if James Patterson has a black agent.

Don't get it twisted. I am not running from my own Black race in asking this question. I hope that my Black brethren voraciously consume what I have to say. But the story that needs to be read need not only be read by Black people. We know our Black lives. We live them.

I wonder aloud if my quandary will be resolved once I decide whether to label it crime fiction or a mystery (I've yet to discern the difference between the two genres). I have a hint, however. In doing research about the labeling of Black writers, of course, the most famous Black mystery writer around, comes to mind: Walter Mosley.  Mosley is half-Black and half-Jewish (the latter of which was news to me), surely an asset to both groups to which he belongs. But even Wikipedia explained the dilemma of on what shelf to put him:

In 2010, there was a debate in academic literary circles as to whether Mosley's work should be considered Jewish literature. Similar debate has occurred as to whether he should be described as a black author, given his status as a best-selling writer. Mosley has said that he prefers to be called a novelist. He explains his desire to write about "black male heroes" saying "hardly anybody in America has written about black male heroes... There are black male protagonists and black male supporting characters, but nobody else writes about black male heroes.”^[8]

'Twer it that easy...

Even Time Magazine had to give him his due that he belonged to a hallowed category of ethnic writer's whose work "transcends category and qualifies as serious literature." I know it's a compliment, but it speaks volumes, essentially, saying, "Even though he's Black, we accept him as one of us." Which is offensive.  I've heard no Black critics exclaim that "Alex Cross has crossed the line to become Black like us." Can we not be Americans of different persuasions, without meeting a litmus test for acceptability because some of us might be ethnically different than the rest of our writing breed? 

“A writer whose work transcends category and qualifies as serious - See more at: http://www.waltermosley.com/#sthash.07Fs8BRO.dpuf

“A writer whose work transcends category and qualifies as serious - See more at: http://www.waltermosley.com/#sthash.07Fs8BRO.dpuf

“A writer whose work transcends category and qualifies as serious - See more at: http://www.waltermosley.com/#sthash.07Fs8BRO.dpuf

“A writer whose work transcends category and qualifies as serious

I am neither a journalist nor a professor; such  cache that would give me entree as an author worth of serious consideration.  So what happens to novice Black writers? How can we appeal to a larger audience? Do we sit on a shelf and hope a non-Black person walks by, or must we wait for Black celebrity status to be considered noteworthy for the masses?  I suspect that my literary identifier will become, like for most of my race, my pigmentation, rather than my strengths as a writer.  Other than being a descendant of slaves, slave-owners, and a half-Irish, half-Native American great-great grandmother whom I never met, I, like so many other Black Americans, are the amalgam of slave ownerships through the centuries, of forced sex, abuse of power, and perverse desire stigmatized by history's transgressions. But we're trying to live in the now.  That's what I write about. The now of being an educated Black woman in America.  The living day to day.


I am pretty sure that I won't have a photo on my ebook or hardback cover, because I don't think my face will sell novels.  Furthermore, my novel's jacket will likely not show colorful people or African mosaics publishers like to use as the code for "ethnic"--so you'll just have to keep your eye out for my title, I guess.  I might lose readers. But it's more important to me not to pander to the racial definition of what book is or is not shelf-worthy--merely based upon my pigmentation.

Don't get me wrong. I am going to be marketing the hell out of this book to a largely Black American audience and will welcome any attention my own people give to my writing. But the question still stands: can an intelligent writer "of color" get equal footing in America as a writer without waiting for a green light by Whites? Do white people visit the ghettos of the Black shelves in bookstores? Especially if you are not Black, share your thoughts. You will not be pilloried for your thoughtful answers.

A True Black Man, Quiet as a Mouse, but all About Power.

A  brother with a quiet resolve

One mouse has already changed the world.  Not Mickey Mouse.  It's the mouse at your fingertips.  I have learned so much from it.  The world's economy is an ecommerce economy: we get our news online, watch movies online, date online, and shop online.  But our voices are online, too. Lately, with the events of Ferguson and exposure of police-instigated deaths of Black men in the U.S., that little mouse has made us all roar like lions on the #Twittersphere.

On #Twitter, especially, we speak our minds, we share ideas, and we are all pitching something for people to hear.  But, truthfully, raising our online hands to speak is like an audience member in a stadium yelling, "Choose me! Choose me!" amidst the cacophony of other people yelling the same words.  Can one hear anything else yelling herself?

Everyone is selling their jewelry, marketing/editing/writing services, and books, and I am no different.  After all, this blog is about my novel.  I do want to get followers so that when my novel does come out, some of you might be inclined to read it.  So, I cannot pretend that I do not want some level of notoriety or recognition through writing my book (I just don't think you need to know what I look like). Would I like for it to be a bestseller? Of course! But I have no delusions. I am grateful for each read that I get on my blog, here, and I'll be equally grateful should any of you purchase my ebook.


All the above kinda-sorta leads me to this brother that I met on Twitter.  When he likes what you tweet, he retweets it. He might say a couple of words to you, now and then, such that whenever I got an RT from him, it really meant something to me.  Then, I started to wonder why.  His Twitter avatar shows a handsome Black man with a kind face that also shows resolve, a Malcolm X kind of quiet.   He has a cool Twitter personality. Understated. And powerful, because he's not saying, "Look at me! Listen to me! I'm more important to listen to!" I recognized and understood his true depth when he tweeted a link to a Vimeo of a British documentary that totally shocked my conscience (first video), about how Americans have always been duped into being consumers more than people of conscience. It has confirmed what I always believed; but to realize that our consumerism was orchestrated as far back as the early 1900s was mind-boggling.  So, somehow we got to dialoguing on our direct message and I learned a bit about him. Who is this man, who seems too cool for school, who is perfectly alright with sitting on the sidelines?


The @TrueBlackPower handle belongs to Carl. He lives in Michigan, went to a four year university, but couldn't finish. He was happily married until he lost his wife to an aneurysm.  He grew up in a family that believed in striving, and had small home-based businesses (soul food dinners) in their local neighborhood. He is a student of a martial arts style called Isshinryu Karate.  He explained it as an Okinawan-based style of marshal arts derived from peasants who found ways to fight off invaders using common sense or practical tools and methods. He explained that he was bullied, growing up, and martial arts has equipped him with the tools to "redirect the pain and disappointment from many."


A quiet warrior.  

His moniker says it all. And so do his tweets: they are informative, commanding one's attention.  This brother keeps his nose to the grindstone and channels information for Black and other followers who want to be educated about the great history, culture, and sociopolitical plight of Black Americans.  His tweets are selective and each one is a treasure trove of information. Almost every tweet has info worth reading.  Given his tweets, and acknowledging his choice of identity, I thought to ask him via email where his head was at where Black people are concerned. His answers to my questions about what we regular folk can do about our circumstances were very commonsensical, real, and, though brief, are worthy of repetition:

Q: What about our economic situation? How do we, as Blacks, handle the economy?

A.  The problem is that many of us get stuck. We become used to one way and when things begin to change, we reject the change so we all suffer from generational stubbornness.  We also lack resources knowledge, and pride.  I'm all for celebrating our accomplishments as a people but many times it's condescending and used against us.  We should learn where we live, and understand that we cannot trust the financial industry. That's the first step for economic empowerment. The second is to just do our thing and keep our mouth closed while doing it. Third is to use and know all defense mechanisms for our survival and teach it through the generations.

Q.  How do we reconcile Blacks' contribution to the rampant commercialism in this country; are we not victims of it, too?

A.  The "haves" use media and culture to psychologically keep us, "the have nots," down, which is why the Internet is so dangerous. We now have the ability to research and think for ourselves. Nowadays, ignorance is voluntary. As for our victimization, Blacks are victims because we love our families and want to protect them and provide for them. But, of course, our families are in danger.  The suffering of our people is not as worse as our not fighting back.  We must go about our business, collectively, leave petty differences alone, and be realistic. In moving forward, disruptions are going to come our way, and will always be the case.  But we must adjust quickly and with purpose.  Once we learn to adapt and adjust more quickly, and with purpose, and we do our part for each other as a people, we will assert our power, sending a clear message: enough with the B.S.

I'm highlighting Carl on my blog because he is an example of how the struggle will be won: quietly, purposefully, and with resolve.  @TrueBlackPower

Explore more on Google + links below - I have not vetted the sites, so please research at your own peril. 

• #Racism
• #Ferguson
• #Obama
• #PresidentObama
• #President
• #Activism
• #Black
• #MichaelBrown
• #America
• #MikeBrown
• #CivilRights
• #FergusonDecision
• #AfricanAmericans

Happy New Year.  I wish all readers a prosperous New Year.  And thanks for reading my Blog!

A poem: "Our Beautiful Black Struggle."

 

Our struggle.

Our drama.

Our fortitude.

Our strength.

Our capacities for kindness.

Our diverse hair lengths.

Our skin color tells the whole world to behold.

Our hue is our badge...and yes, it is bold.

Our blackness.

Our brown-ness.

Our tans and our yellows.

Our genes in all races (though they murmur and bellow).

Our wheeling.

Our dealing.

Our hurt.

 









Our anger.

Our ability to speak truth to any stranger.

Our laughter.

Our humor.

Our creativity.

Our steadfast in the face of incivility.

Our passions.

Our sadness.

Our intelligence.

Our defiance against government intransigence.

Our Thurgoods.

Our Tubmans.

Our Kings.

Our Truths.

Our Garveys.

 

Our Xs.

 

Our African roots.

Our ability to withstand the slings and the arrows.

Our greatness is world-known, right down to our marrow.

Our hearts.

Our smiles.

Our true reality?

We are innocent compared to man's inhumanity.

Copyright (c)  2014 by VL Towler 
All rights reserved. 
No copyright claim to photographs.

**** I just learned that another author used the title, "Our Beautiful Struggle," for his widely-celebrated book, which I have not read and about which I was not consciously aware until today 11/29/15. To the extent that I may have subconsciously heard it, I will be the first to state that the other author thought of the title first.

This Year Will be a "Kwanzaa" Christmas.

When my mother announced to me that we will not be celebrating Christmas this year, I could not hide my shock. If you knew my mother, you would understand my reaction.

My mother has always lived for holidays.  When we were young, she would give us cards for St. Patrick's Day (in honor of her dark-skinned father, my grandfather, who was part-Irish), Happy Sweetest Day, Halloween, Easter, Christmas--you name it. I have boxes of cards from her over my lifetime.  She is always eager to take down the storage boxes for whatever holiday is approaching so she can decorate the house.  She does things in reverse order and it is always a source of rancor in our two-person household: I prefer to clean, then decorate; she prefers to decorate, then clean.

I get it.  She's had a very, very hard life in this country of her birth.  Her only country.  That denied her so much because she was Black and brilliant. When her career as a classically-trained pianist dictated that she would only be able to have a career in Europe, she opted to get married, instead, and raise six children with her husband, my father, a carpenter.  While raising us, working four jobs, and being in a marriage devoid of a true partnership and love, she overcame alcoholism and addiction to pills.  Finding happiness in other less deleterious outlets, like celebrating holidays, is essential, I guess. It beat drinking.

Ergo, for my mother--holidays were something to live for.

Until the Eric Garner verdict.

It is as though a light-bulb went off in her head.  She had bought into a system that only wanted her to buy happiness, not experience it. America wants Black money, but doesn't want Black participation in daily life. If we're on stage performing, making people happy, we're good to go.  But can we shop in any store we want to, walk down the middle of the street, even sell a cheap cigarette and not get killed? Black people can be killed for petty crimes, while society gets away with wholesale purposeful subjugation of a whole people because they had the temerity to stay alive and not jump overboard on the way to slavery in America?

And we are still alive. And boy, do we love to shop. We can look good, even if society hates us. We give money to a country that does not want us. Our whole government system is based upon our subjugation:

1. The electoral college was created so that Blacks couldn't numerically overwhelm the white electorate in the South.
2.  Grand juries are supposed to rubber-stamp a prosecutor's predilection for putting Black people in prison, disproportionate to our numbers.
3.  Corporations owned by White shareholders could get tax breaks, while Black men who could not find work were forced to abandon their families so their wives could get assistance.

But the one part of American life we are asked to wholeheartedly participate in is consumerism. And we are the most patriotic on the planet. The world watches us shop, then buys what we buy.  And we buy White.

Yes, me, too:

I used to buy designer Ferragamo and Bruno Magli shoes.
Tag Hauer and Longines watches.
The Tommy Hilfiger outlet has some really affordable buys.
Jones of New York suits when the brand was still good.
European bras.

I am not immune to wanting quality clothing and accessories.  But in whose pockets was that money going and was any of it going into the Black community? Of course not.

Black Americans need to stop supporting an economic system that does not support us.  There are millions of Black Americans who came to this conclusion years before my mother's light-bulb moment.

To Buy Black is not to hate Whites. It means you are proud of your heritage and support it.
Irish support Irish.
Italians support Italians.
Asians support Asians.
Latinos have businesses that support each other.

What happens when Blacks congregate?

We're asked why we're eating together at the lunch tables in school, segregating ourselves.
Black men are not allowed to congregate in threes.
Besides Barbershops and hair salons that specialize in Black hair care, economically, Black Americans support every race on the planet.
Certain institutions historically do not want Blacks to have rights--just spend money and make them rich.

In declaring this manifesto, are we planning to sever ties with our White friends? Of course not. We know that the pain of the verdict is felt in the hearts of many people who are not Black. We have spent numerous Christmas dinners with our close friends, who, though White, are like family, to us, and this Christmas will be no different. 

To affirm our ethnic solidarity is not heresy. It is pride. It is a conscious decision to uplift our brethren, economically.  We have been doing it for low-income job seekers as resume-writers for over 12 years now, but that's another story. 

Kwanzaa was always "in" in our family, but, now it's going to be 365 days of the year.

Black America may be late to the game. But the game isn't over. We can become the economic powerhouse that we should be. Buy Black. Support Black.

There are hundreds of businesses who have been preaching the gospel for years.  Here is a directory to get you started in your searches.


http://www.blackownedbiz.com/directory/
http://www.msoyonline.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BlackFolkHotSpots
http://www.blackbusinesslist.com/
http://bbala.org/

Add your organizations names to this list in the comments section.