One of my Best Year s(EVER)ed. The ebook is here.

Taking a refrain from President Barack Obama's tune to almost any new policy he implements, I echo his lyrics:

"No one said it was going to be easy..."

Cheers, Mr. President. You said it.

But I did it. I wrote my novel.


I put pen to paper (more like fingers to keyboard), traveled, interviewed, researched, wrote, and researched some more—then traveled some more; worked with an editor, a proofreader, another proofreader, and a couple more readers with a critical eye. It's still being corrected as words here and there crop up that hurt "translation," as it were.  The paperback book won't even be ready for another month, most likely.


After 15 years of sorting out the mystery, taking months and sometimes a year to think about things— it has all worked out.  I did it. I put my ideas down, and now they are in print.

At least three people have approached me to help them write their books, now (as if it's truly that easy for me to write now that my first novel is published).

Everyone says that marketing is where the work begins.

Not for me. I accomplished my feat.

Sure, I want people to read my novel, but I'll deal with the marketing stuff next year (which is coming up soon enough). For now, I'm just learning how to live separate from something that has been inside me for so long. And I want to revel in the feeling.

My Editor, Phyllis Ring, told me that I would go through postpartum depression. And, it has been an emotional roller coaster for me as I re-assign myself a new identity from "aspiring writer," to "author."

But, I'm over that already, too.  I'm luxuriating in the new feeling.

I have so much to do, but, honestly, after 15 years of working on this, for whatever comes next—I have all the time in the world. 

I'm proud of my work.  It's absolutely the best that I could do under my circumstances. And right now, that's all that matters to me.

Oh yeah. And I was admitted to the New Hampshire bar this year. So, it's been a great year. 

Black Physical and Mental Health: Toward A Self-Help Paradigm

For my faithful readers who have wondered if I dropped off the face of the earth, this post is proof that I am still alive. That being said, it's been a rough year for me physically and mentally.  I had no idea how all-consuming it would be to finish the novel, and it has taken a toll on me: sleepless nights, fever blisters, non-stop colds--I'm basically drained. My predicament made me think about the travails of the health of Black folk, in general, which inspired me to write this blog post. 

Many articles have come out recently about the mental health of Americans, in general, which leads me to broach the topic of the mental health of Black Americans. The lives we live are not easy ones, despite all of our singing and dancing portrayed in the media. I know that dancing is therapeutic, and being in touch with one's body is a good thing. But we can't necessarily only dance  our way to better health. So, what do we do when we're at our wits end, fighting the fight: unemployment, food deserts, #blacklivesmatter protests -- just trying to stay alive?

Many of us may have better access to health care but still don't get the Cadillac services that other groups get. We are overlooked, under-diagnosed, over-drugged, and ignored. Many doctors don't know how to handle Black people, in general, as normal patients, which has inspired a term called, "cultural competency." It's another way of saying, "how to treat non-whites like humans."

If one looks at the history of government policies towards Black health, it's understandable that Blacks might have issues with trusting our health care system.  We were experimented on when we thought we were being treated, and our level of health attention is much poorer than in the mainstream, because our lives were never and are not now valued. The Nestle debacle in Africa and other developing countries is indicative of how the little babies of color's lives mattered: http://multinationalmonitor.org/hyper/issues/1987/04/formula.html

[Companies such as Nestle] used to hire 'milk nurses' to visit patients in the maternity wards of hospitals to promote bottle feeding. The business of these "so-called nurses is to sell milk, not look after the health of the children," said Dr. Cicely D. Williams, a British doctor who worked in hospitals throughout the Third World. "In Africa, I wouldn't let them in. They came to me about it, but I said no, not as long as I'm here." Williams said she found the same thing in Singapore where Nestle used women dressed as nurses to convince new mothers to use infant formula.

Blacks have always been pitched to by stronger nicotine-content cigarette manufacturing brands, like Kools and Newport, and higher alcohol-content beers, creating consumers who would become addicted to products that harm them.  But that's the American way:  the consumer can stop, we're told. Of course, that's easier said than done, as Americans as a whole have a wider away of health problems than our parents and grandparents had back in the day.


There's a movement afoot led by scientists such as Jennifer Hutchison, who are encouraging Black Americans to "heal thyself." She's not just wishing or hoping, however.  She attended Agnes Scott College, an all-women’s liberal arts school in Georgia, where she received a Bachelor’s degree in Biology.  Subsequently, she earned two Masters degrees (Biology and Physiology). Her physiology Master's dissertation concerned the cellular and molecular pathways involved in metastatic colon cancer.

Jennifer Hutchison of Senebti Botanicals

Jennifer has always had a passion to help others and a keen interest in medicine. After taking a graduate course called Mechanisms of Disease and learning about how the body has a natural ability heal itself, she used what she learned to investigate her own health problems. Eventually, Jennifer decided to incorporate her passion for medicine and health with her love for plants (a product of her mother’s green thumb).

Jennifer also began studying the therapeutic ways of ancient Africans and other indigenous peoples that used the earth for healing and renewal as a natural supplement to health.  She became certified as a Clinical Master Herbalist, and started her company Senebti Botanicals. The word Senebti comes from the ancient African language of Medu Neter “Ankh Udja Seneb,” which means life, prosperity and health.

"We must realize that Mother Earth and our universe is a biological system in which we are innately connected. No laboratory drug can safely balance the internal energy of your bodies in the same way plant medicines can."

At the same time, Jennifer believes that society is not a healthy one for Black Americans. How does that translate to the care we get from our medical system in the U.S.?

"[Black Americans] are susceptible to more disease because we are not in our natural environment socially or geographically. In addition, the way we are treated by professionals has a tendency to weaken our system on a spiritual level, too. In other words, when African-Americans go to the doctor, which is usually late, chances are they are in a worsened condition. That means, not only [do] they have a lesser chance of recovery, but the negative energy about their condition is 'in the air', transferred to them by the doctors and nurses who treat them. So what happens is, instead of being encouraged that they can get better, they get a vibe that things are worse, and they take that on and actually do get worse. And we have worse outcomes."

This is why Jennifer believes that Black Americans should have "our own medical system in place to help Black people."

When asked how that "treatment" would take place, given America's health care system, which is still the envy of most nations, she explained further how African-based traditions and beliefs need to filter into how Blacks are treated, and that we need more Black health professionals with whom we can work.

"Allopathic medicine is treating a symptom, whereas African traditional medicine (and all other healing practices) are formed from a culture. America has no real culture of millennial or centuries' practices that they can culturally rely upon as medicine. Africans and many other cultures focus on energy and balance in the life as a whole."

When I asked Jennifer about the dilemma of Black Americans who are divorced from our African homeland, she defended that Black Americans do have traditional African beliefs even though we are very westernized.

"Our people are confused and brainwashed. That energy I speak of has been modified to only respond to low vibration stimulation whether that be foods, music, or other people." The American system, which is rooted in the historical subjugation of Black people, must be replaced by an emphasis on the earth, which provides healing and renewal. "The earth has everything you need to survive – and we should use its healing power!" There is a whole world of medicinal herbs that can heal almost any medical issue, from Arthritis to zits, she explained.

"There's so much negativity that bombards us," Jennifer believes. "Meditation, spirituality, and prayer are essential to our well-being."

She posits that Blacks need to reunite with our ancestors, and look outside of the traditional norms to heal ourselves. As a student of those traditions, Jennifer holds online classes to educate others about health and well-being. She serves the public, but is especially committed to helping Black Americans.

You can hear more about her thinking by visiting her website: https://senebtibotanicals.com/; she also has a school http://www.senebtischool.com; nubiahoodradio.com also features her on Saturday talks; you can also hear her in a more informative blogtalkradio post: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/katinalove/2015/10/04/the-story-of-an-herbalist

A Book Review of "Igboland."

Igboland by Jeff Gardiner

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I had been eyeing this book for some time, mainly because I have always been interested in understanding what happened in Biafra in the 1960s. In the 1990s, I had traveled to Nigeria on several occasions, usually for an average of one week or so, but was always on official U.S. government business, so I didn't have much in the way of knowledge or history of the country. I was just doing my job as a functionary, as it were, and wasn't permitted to travel outside of Lagos or Abuja, the capital.

Mr. Gardiner has done a good job of weaving the history of the war with the lives of a British missionary (Clem) and his young wife (Lydia), the latter who is still coming to terms with her beliefs about God and religion. As she's only nineteen years old, she has a lot to learn, and gets swept up in the lives of the Igbos of her community. She learns a lot about the Igbo "religious" traditions, which are not religious at all, but a way of thinking that pervade their being as a people that makes her feel a bit self-conscious about her husband's efforts to spread the Christian gospel.

The story touches on the war, mainly in regard to the logistics of what was happening around where the missionaries lived. Travel was spotty because of road blocks and fighting, and there was animosity against them by some Africans. But overall, we see a people tolerant of the British presence in their land. Considering the mayhem caused by British support of the Nigerian government forces and their resources, I would have liked to understand more about Clem's politics and whether he had any guilt in being from a country which was causing so much bloodshed through its military support which was devastating the people he wanted to help.

Mostly, the author weaves a good story of characters together, with the biggest backdrop being the Igbo people themselves. This might be the first book that I've read that gives me a glimpse into African spirituality, something I know exists, especially ancestor worship, as I have those same beliefs as an African-American, but don't know from whence those beliefs of mine originate. Much because I am Westernized and indoctrinated by those beliefs, it gives me a jumping off point through which I can explore further.

The novel is part travel-journal, part drama, as we see the world through a housewife, who is left to her own devices because her husband travels so much of the time.  We see the insecurity of a young woman who knows she's not as interesting as Charlotte, a missionary who is very much at home in Nigeria, and with whom her husband spends (too much) time. I would have liked to learn a bit more about what brought Clem and Lydia together in the first place besides her naivete. The fact that he was sexually awkward with her, and oh-so British didn't do him justice, at least in my opinion. Clem was a very committed and brave man, who risked a lot to do his work, putting himself in danger especially amongst a people who were questioning the White man's presence in their country. I'm not sure why his passions for Jesus didn't somehow transfer to his display of love for his wife.

This book is good on so many levels. At points it got monotonous as the fact of cars and their cock-ups and the terrain got a bit tedious. I couldn't help but see the male author trying to marry his inclinations as a writer, with trying to sound feminine enough as the protagonist. He did his research, however, and his descriptions of Lydia's physical transformation, as it were, seemed quite authentic.

I'm giving the book four stars as a great effort. He's done his hard work. He's told a good story, while teaching us about life in Igboland; the characters were believable, especially Grace, who was a scene-stealer, of sorts.




View all my reviews

Getting Closer. Help Me Get There! Book Cover 1, 2 or 3?

I'm excited to share my sample book covers (still in draft form), designed by Gail Anderson www.gailycurl.com

Please weigh in. Let me know which you like? Feedback, please! I can take it! 

Here is #1

Here is #2

Here is #3

Five Lessons My Editor Taught Me About Writing (and Why My Life Is Not Wasted Waiting So Long to Learn Them).

I set out to write my soon-to-be published novel over 13 years ago when I moved to New England after my mother's second husband passed away.  With no income to speak of, and no friends, I aimed to write a novel after my foray into screen and television writing in California (where I grew up)  foundered.  Don't get me wrong. I've had a great career in movies, television, and even an off Broadway play--just none of it is attributed to me, although my fingerprints are everywhere, even on television series that you are watching today.

But the Play button must be pushed. Life goes on. 

I met my editor, Phyllis, before I knew that I would be using her as an editor. She had written a large cover-article in the Portsmouth Herald about the writing duo my mother and I had become after I realized that we could fill a big void in the area by helping people with their resumes. New England is expensive and the majority of jobs are low-wage.  Most can't afford to pay $400 for a resume, so we provide an alternative.  Phyllis did such a wonderful job that she restored my faith in journalism. Everything was written well.  The only problem? The Portsmouth Herald didn't put the information of where people could contact us! It wasn't Phyllis's fault and she felt terrible about it.  But I was still grateful for her work then, for reasons I'm sharing now. 

The Black community here has known for some time that I have been writing this novel; and when I was invited to speak about my process, Phyllis was there, listening intently. I was grateful she took the time to attend. I was not a keynote speaker, mind you, as there were more illustrious, accomplished writers who had more to say than I.  After I had read an excerpt, Phyllis approached me, lauding the visuals of the scene that I had written.  That was great news for me; I was buoyed by her comments, she being a legitimate writer, in my eyes.

Years earlier, I had finished my novel, when it was much longer and not as "finished," but had an offer from a publisher to publish it--without his having even finished reading it.  I could be on my 8th novel by now, of course. Maybe it was my low self-esteem, but I didn't trust that the novel was ready, and declined.  That publisher has since moved on to greener pastures. Still, I was right in my decision. 


I needed someone who could help me make the novel better.

I wanted to publish something about which I can be proud, and just speaking the Queen's English wasn't enough. I know that I sound fairly educated when I write, but that wasn't my goal. I wanted to tell a story: an intricate story with layers, about real personalities that we all know exist--not stereotypes, especially when it came to my Black protagonist, Dr. Lula Logan. When another esteemed critic gave me feedback about my novel's shortcomings in 2007, I went back to the drawing board and "re-thunk" everything.  I returned to Phyllis when I thought I was ready, and asked her, last year, to edit my novel.  And this is what she taught me:


1. Recording what you see is not writing.

I am visual.  When my characters speak to me, I see them. I see their gestures, like a camera closes in on a subject in a film. I had verbatim descriptions of what my characters were doing. If someone picked up a glass, I explained how they did it, when they sipped, and how they set it down again.  If they refilled the glass, I talked about how they did it.  Mind you, there was likely a conversation going on during the pantomime of action, but the description of the visuals tended to get in the way of the story.

2.  Just because the sentence is written doesn't mean it's the final sentence.

Because I write what I see, I didn't realize that, notwithstanding putting ink on paper, I still wasn't writing. My sentences were complete, but still very "incomplete," because I was being too graphic. Sometimes the reader needs a more holistic view of what the writer is trying to say.  For me, I never detached myself from what I had written to actually study the sentence--to make it better.  The only time I did that kind of introspection was while writing descriptions.

3.  Narration by itself is useless if it doesn't advance the story.

The most humbling part of my editing experience was realizing that one paragraph that I had spent hours crafting would end up on the cutting-room floor because it didn't advance the story.  My story is about rural America, whose pace is necessarily slower than that of the big city.  I live in a rural state, so I know of what I speak. There is much beauty to living in a rural area, one being that one can take more time to appreciate the bucolic atmosphere that it affords--but it can be incongruent when you're trying to build suspense. So, gone are the paragraphs describing the countryside that I spent time in Louisiana studying to lend authenticity to my novel. That part hurt the most, I believe. But when I took out those paragraphs that she crossed out in pencil, I had to admit that the story moved more quickly. When writing suspense, the author wants to create anticipation,  not wanting the reader to skip whole pages in order to cut to the chase.

4.  Using too many adjectives mitigates what you're trying to achieve.

"Hot and muggy". "Ecstatic and jubilated". These aren't phrases I actually used, but you get the point. One must have confidence in one's language. By using more than one adjective to describe an object, what I was actually showing was indecision. Own your words. Just choose them wisely. Again, I was seeing, not thinking. Now, I will ponder which word to use, using more introspection than just throwing a word out there that describes what I see.

5.  Too many points of view spoil the story. 

I'm cinematic.  I tend to show and tell.  But as an author, I tended to not only show and tell, but I would give you some insights into the characters' thoughts  That's not a problem if you have a few characters.  But, as Phyllis commented, my novel rivals "Gone with the Wind" in its plethora of personalities. This might be the problem of having listened to the one critic who told me that I needed more back story for my characters, and, being the literal person that I am, by golly, I did that.  Showing the points of view of every person can get crowded.  We can't read the minds of every person we encounter, so I learned that I have to be more careful about entering the minds of every peripheral character in the story.

It will take me another month or two to finish this novel, because I still have some thinking to do. Phyllis cautioned me that some characters have too much screen time, as it were, and I have to figure out what to do about that without sacrificing the plot. I'm trying to weave characters together who have nearly incestuous relationships, in a rural town where lives constantly intersect.  In small towns, that's what happens, and I can attest to it, over and over again.

Just recently, I attended my squash "daughter," Ellie Hayes,' graduation (UNH) dinner and was leaving early to return to my editing. While saying my goodbyes, I realized that I had met the woman at the other end of the table, as we had played squash together in Portland, Maine.  Her husband was the man sitting next to me at the dinner table. Again, coincidentally, he was becoming a Unitarian Universalist the next day (I am Unitarian), at a church whose pastor had visited our Fellowship in New Hampshire a year or two ago, and who had given the most thoughtful and beautiful speech I had ever heard, which had reduced me to quiet tears.  It's a small world.  It's that world that I wanted to write about, albeit removed in place--for me--to  Louisiana, instead of New Hampshire (In the first draft of my novel, New Hampshire did figure prominently, but I followed the advice of someone who told me to keep the mystery in one locale).

Phyllis' novel, Snow Fence Road, about small town life in coastal Maine, convinced me that she had the chops to tackle my subject.  Apparently, my novel is quite a bit more complex than hers, however, and she admitted that it was a challenge to edit it. Based upon what I've learned from her edits, not only was she up to the task, but she taught me how never again make another editor go through the pains she so willingly undertook on my behalf.

This novel will have a sequel, but thanks to Phyllis, it won't take years to write it. 







 

The Caste of Characters in My Novel Set in Rural America.

The canopy of trees also covers a diversity of wealth in rural America.

As a writer from the lower middle class, who has only peeked around the corner to catch glimpses of wealth, I do not wish to put wealth on a pedestal. In my novel, "Severed," I don't drop too many designer names and I purposefully stay away from the bling-bling trappings of so many contemporary American novelists, who place wealth as the real protagonist. However, the concept of wealth is a very important subtext to the novel. The lengths that people go through to become wealthy forms part of the mystery.

Set in a rural pocket of Northwestern Louisiana, Nakadee is a university town with a population of under 40,000.  Luscious in its comparison to swampy, crowded New Orleans and its northern neighbor, a complacently citified Shreveport, Nakadee is a fictional sleepy hollow that is likely to grow in leaps and bounds given a potential natural gas pipeline construction project which will change its economy.  Some Nakadee residents can't wait, while others don't care: the rich will only get richer, however, the lower classes might get some good jobs, for a change.

The citizens of Nakadee, whose ancestors have lived there for several hundred years, while trapped in its relative remoteness, are thankful for its refuge. They purposefully wish to live life in the slow lane.  The town is a mix of Americans, Black, European, Creole and Cajun, the latter two a melange resulting from questionable "hookups," over the centuries, between the first two racial groups, that defied racial sexual taboos back in the day. Nearly every native of Louisiana is a variation on that theme.  All citizens have their crosses to bear in living, out loud, the ancient roles of slaveholder, slave, today, as a Louisianan.

Even rural roads lead to power

The wealth of those groups is also relative of one's color. But there are exceptions, and my novel explores it through the eyes of the protagonist, Dr. Lula Logan, a Northerner Black woman who grew up solidly lower middle-class.  Hailing from California, her father had a secure job in the U.S. Postal Service, and scrimped and saved for his only child. He was frugal to a fault, and managed to handle his government benefits wisely enough to grow a trust for her that is worth several million dollars.  Lula's mother, his widow, is still alive and Lula is gainfully employed, with no need to draw upon her inheritance. 

Growing up, Lula lived on the periphery of the Black social circles of debutante balls and elite Black social clubs. Not prone to class-isms or people-pleasing, she is more intellectual than social. While no stranger to the good life, she knows she has to pay for it herself, so when the investigation in which she becomes involved relates to several wealthy individuals, she's intrigued by what she witnesses, and must, herself, decide whether she has any biases against the people she comes across as part of the investigation.

Mind you, the wealthy she's dealing with are not the nouveaux riches Kimyes and Jay-Zs of the world who sing about their acquisitions, but old money and old power, whose wealth is very much unseen, and more hidden in their closed door Congressional offices.  Lula must come to terms with her professed values and her feelings, which are muddled after meeting Congressman Girabeaux.

A Black Republican who is from a family of freeman who owned slaves in the antebellum South; the other, an older, more traditional White Congressman whose patted enough backs and greased enough palms to place him next to the highest players in Hollywood, his constituency.  Though they are rich, they are only bit players in a grand scheme. In fact, they are hired guns of the real power brokers of the uber wealthy--twelve degrees, instead of six degrees of separation. But they know that to stay in power they must do someone else's bidding, even if they never meet the person whose interests they represent.

When Lula meets the Black Congressman, despite her progressive politics, she finds herself falling under his spell.  Is it the limousine driver or his personal chef that makes him so appealing? And what does she truly feel about her ex-boyfriend, a Creole detective, the only one of color on the police force, who is comfortable with his place in town, but who, to Lula, manages to always play it safe?

In the U.S., we witness the lives of the rich and famous on television. But how do you handle it when you see it up close and personal? The cast of characters in the novel is large, and wide, intentionally so; any small town has its own variety. In this investigation, however, when severed fingers start to appear in different parts of the small town, Lula comes across some of the town's characters beneath the surface of notoriety, but characters just the same.

The South is one big caste system through which Lula must negotiate. Although never on the surface, her beliefs about race are a major factor in her own metamorphosis as she comes to terms with her new home in Nakadee, Louisiana.

I Used to Like the Police--Until I Stopped Working For Them

The television show Girl From Uncle, one of America's first female law enforcement protagonists, was the bomb when I was growing up.  Stephanie Powers was the coolest woman on the planet, as far as I was concerned. I remember pretending to have a Walkie-Talkie (sounds funny, now, doesn't it, given smart phones), talking loud enough so my colleague, Donald, another kid with a vivid imagination, could hear me through his own device around the corners of the neighborhood houses where we'd hide out, going after our invisible prey. I'm not sure what we held in our hands. It wasn't Walkie-Talkies.  It might have been cardboard candy boxes. Who knows.

Back then in 1966, my family and I were living on 41st Street, close to downtown L.A., where, one evening, I sat outside on my grandparents' porch with my friend, watching the flames from a local riot nearby light up the sky a deep orange. I didn't know what was going on. Apparently, it was a left-over remnant of the Watts riots, a release of pent-up anger of the infamous mostly White police control over a poor Black community.

My family hailed from a college town in Ohio, a bastion of interracial marriage and co-ed education, and were thrust into an all Black environment, something quite alien to the six of us kids. Our new peers in L.A., thought we were from England because of our mid-Western accents, and we found them to be a rowdy for our Northerner bookworm tastes. But I knew to love my black brethren, because we were all living under a yoke none of us asked for.

For many years I did play de facto real life "detective" as an attorney for the federal government, where I learned close hand how law enforcement works.  Or doesn't work. I left when I realized that I was feeding into a system that was propagated to pursue only the most vulnerable, not the most criminal.  Drug dealers were being set-up for capture while corporations were getting away with untold criminal acts; monied interests were untouchables, their schemes too difficult to comprehend.  So, I took an interest in white collar crime cases.  Ironically, notwithstanding my biases against the rich and infamous, my work led me to assist in prosecuting Africans, which I felt duty-bound and compelled to do because Americans were being bilked out of millions of dollars.

I had become the go-to person for handling international inquiries concerning Nigerian organized white collar crimes. I had created a task force among federal government agencies to tackle those letters from Nigeria--you know--the ones from "Prince Okoye," inviting the recipient to provide bank account numbers and permissions to deposit alleged millions into the lucky American [sucker's] bank accounts.  Those letters were called "419" in Nigeria, and advance fee fraud here in the U.S.  From rocket scientists to retirees, the American victims' love of money caused them to conspire with faceless Nigerians with the smarts to know Americans' obsession with being rich. 

My work had garnered me an Atlantic Fellowship in Public Policy, an appointment by United States Attorney General Janet Reno, which allowed me to live in the UK for a year.  My thinking was that by isolating Nigerians from other Blacks in the diaspora, law enforcement would learn how to distinguish them from other Blacks, instead of painting all of us with the same brush stroke. It was a burden for all Blacks to be responsible for every other Black persons crimes, because the only definition of a suspect might be that s/he was "Black."

Publicity wasn't stemming the tide of Americans who were "corralled" by the Nigerian scammers. When I suggested that prosecutions of Americans for being co-conspirators (aligning themselves with individuals who were conspiring to secret money away from coffers in Nigeria to the U.S.) would be a good deterrent, that fell on deaf ears. The inference in the push-back was that law enforcement did not want to have to prosecute White people.

Criminals were criminals, I thought.

Not in America.

Criminals are Black, in America.  We are drug dealers, thieves and sexual predators, a perception drilled into the American conscience by Hollywood.  Are Blacks innocent of all those negative labels? No more so than any other group or nationality. But, like cowboys on horseback killing Indians, back in the day (well, centuries ago), going after Black people is today's bloodsport; only the horsepower is an automobile.

The people in law enforcement with whom I worked were good people, overall.  They carried out their duties diligently. They believed in their mission.  I was never treated with any disrespect. In fact, I was feted by the government agencies with whom I worked.

The problem with American law enforcement is that those tasked with investigating and nabbing criminals are trained to do only that.  They are not trained in the bigger picture history, or in other techniques and methods--only those missions championed by their own. They are like guard dogs whose job is to find the culprit, and are rewarded with a dog biscuit in the end: a bonus, a promotion.

When I worked with Scotland Yard, I was impressed with their level of investigatory research. They knew they were dealing with people, and they sought to learn who those people were. Their charts and graphs of operations were truly phenomenal (before computer technology could create sophisticated graphs).  I can't say the same for law enforcement in the U.S, because I was an attorney, as opposed to an agent, so I wasn't one of them, and never learned their operational tactics and techniques. But the Secret Service agents were eager to learn from Scotland Yard, and we traveled there and Nigeria. One White agent, Tom Johnston, was exceptionally engaged in understanding Nigerian crime and, eventually, used my policy paper for a class he taught at a local college in Georgia. He had a heart attack after returning to the US on a family emergency, after traveling on assignment in Nigeria to work closely with Nigerian police.

Mind you, I worked for federal law enforcement, which has a more amorphous mandate than going after bad guys on the street. The agents I worked with all had college degrees, as was required for the types of cases they were investigating. My focus was white collar crime, sophisticated crimes by highly intelligent and charismatic suspects who, under the guise of business, would take your home from under you (sound familiar?).  That Nigerians were as sophisticated as the average American businessman was a real quandary for law enforcement, and they didn't know what to do about it. This was before the terrorist attacks when America was still innocent, gullible, and without much knowledge of international crime except for the Mafia and Mexican drug lords.

When I asked for and was denied leave without pay to finish my report, after seeking three additional months to complete my assignment, I left the government and completed it. I believed my research was more important to the British and U.S. government than my being employed. I had several recommendations that I offered, but know not which, if any, were implemented. The essence of my paper was that the whole world shows acts of criminality; we must come to grips with our own criminal pasts before we accuse another people of being perpetrators. 

Since leaving law enforcement in the late 1990s and witnessing what's happened to the world post-2001, when the World Trade Center towers were struck down, I'm at a loss to explain what has happened to our country. The attack on New York has had an indelible blow to the greatness of our crime-fighting apparatus. Instead of preventing the occurrence of the attacks, we unleashed our angry bulldogs on the world, suspicious of anyone who is foreign-looking, foreign-sounding, and non-Christian.  The militarization of our police, untrained in warfare, but given the powerful tools to wage it, has created a police state in our own country that has made Americans afraid of those sworn to protect. This professor's compelling essay explores the phenomenon of private funding of police as a new development in explaining our current problems.

And given the rash of news of minorities under siege, it would appear that our own police have taken sides and believe that we Blacks are the terrorists among us.  So the local police are the new investigators of all things suspicious. Forget that this weekend is the anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing, where a White terrorist killed Americans on our soil -- it is still the brown-skinned who have scarred the American psyche.

I am neither male nor White, but I know that for centuries, they have grown up believing they are the good guys. This facile explanation of American crime-fighting, "good guys versus bad guys" is also a problem. When people are reduced to those descriptions, there are bound to be consequences.  What happens when the prosecutors are the bad guys? What happens when the police or agents are the criminals who, until the advent of the smart phone, have gotten away with it and live their lives among us as upright citizens?

Official NRA Police Target

This country has always hunted Black Americans, as slaves, and not only in the South:

[A] legally sanctioned law enforcement system existed in America before the Civil War for the express purpose of controlling the slave population and protecting the interests of slave owners. The similarities between the slave patrols and modern American policing are too salient to dismiss or ignore. Hence, the slave patrol should be considered a forerunner of modern American law enforcement.

http://plsonline.eku.edu/insidelook/brief-history-slavery-and-origins-american-policing


The moral of the story is that there is no race immune to criminality.  But for Blacks in America, we all hope to not be stopped by the police. It is easy to see how a Black man's instinct would be to run, because chances are he will be beaten, shot or strangled to death--while handcuffed.

Better to die a free man than in custody.

This link is not necessarily an endorsement, but definitely gives us food for thought: http://www.thrivemovement.com/our-justice-system-fails-protect-your-rights