I Talked with my Mother, Moses Talked with God

June 1, 2017 by Leave a Comment

The mist was in her eyes when she looked at me as we exited the court building. “You can’t keep doing this, not to you not to me. I can’t take this. I can’t, I am tired of it,” she said. I turned and looked down. I didn’t want to see her cry. I was happy to get out of there and get back to freedom. No matter the trouble my mother never left my side. She played the duel parent most of the time.

Her voice normally soft and comforting was stern as she continued, “This type of life won’t get you anywhere. It hasn’t gotten no one in our family nowhere. Who else will your sisters look up to? I need you to be an example, a positive example for them.”

I tried not to look at her, but I did, and her eyes hazed with water, struck my heart.

“I asked you to let me see you finish high school. Is that too much for you to do — to do what’s right and finish high school, is that too much!?”

I said, “No, that’s not too much.” But I had a problem, like Moses, when he said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh…?” I thought, who am I that I should tell my mother, I am not in school anymore? I was expelled from Eastern Senior High and she didn’t know. I was told by Eastern High, that I wasn’t fit for regular school.  I didn’t tell my mother that, so I had to try to fix it myself. I reached out to Eastern High, and asked them if I could return, but they said “no”. They offered night school as an option. I asked could I go to my neighborhood school, and they agreed only if the neighborhood school agreed. I worked on the alternative, and Ballou Senior High agreed to allow me to enroll for the next school year, but with two conditions; “I get into no trouble, what – so – ever and I join R.O.T.C.”

I went to my mother, and under self-control, I told her I had something to say and that I needed her to believe me. I said, “I messed up, I was put out of Eastern, but I am gonna finish high school, I promise; but I have to go to Ballou to do it — and I need you to sign for me. I will do what’s right and graduate.”

I couldn’t shame my mother. The least I could do was get out of high school for the woman who rubbed me with Vicks Vapor when I couldn’t breathe. She held my hand when I was a toddler and kept a roof over my head. As a teenager it was different, I was on auto pilot everyday to the streets, but now I had to retreat and slow down that type of activity. ROTC was like kryptonite to me and some of my friends, but it helped and was a humbling experience that introduced me to military order.

I told my mother I would graduate and I promised her that. In order for me to do that I shut myself down — and it was extreme. When I was informed about the parties, I said “no”, when I was briefed about the women, I said “no thank you”, and when I was told about the drug shipments coming in, I was invisible.

My reading level measured a few fingers on one hand and I was in the 11th grade – go figure. In my isolation I started practicing to read. I picked up the Bible, and not only did my reading improve but a whole universe of kingdoms and writers opened up and I couldn’t get enough. Like the story of the conversation between God and Moses. When God first spoke to Moses, this story was the gateway to me understanding the power of history.   It’s written that “Moses saw that the bush was on fire and it did not burn up.” It continues that when God saw he had gone over to look, He called his name. And God introduced Himself as the “God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob.”

Moses is the #1 author of all time, the most read of all the authors in the world. And he writes, that God said, “…I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt.” And what Moses writes next blows my mind. He asks God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” He questions the Most High, about going to Pharaoh and I thought that was amazing for so many reasons. Who is this Pharaoh I thought, that Moses feels hesitant to go before him.

For perspective, here is a little something from Pharaoh. He writes thus, “Hekamaatre, the son of Re, lord of crowns, like Horus of the horizon, Ramses, given life, like Re eternally. The king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the two lands, Hekamaatre, son of Re, lord of crowns, Ramses, given life like Re has said: I was wise in my heart… It is a written text and not an oral tradition, and the living count in order to know the day and the month to add the one to the other and know the span of their life.” These writings were translated from what the ancient Greeks call sacred writings. The Egyptian Empire was a great nation more than two thousand years before Moses was born. So, it is in this context that God’s conversation with Moses is so amazing.

Moses says to God, “O my Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue.” When I read that, I thought, that’s me “never been eloquent, slow speech and tongue.” And if Moses can end up being the # 1 author of all time, then not only could I get out of High School, but I could do much more.  Then Moses just flat out says to God, “O Lord, please send someone else to do it.”

So, as I began to change, it was with the help of the book many call the Bible, and the stories that lie within, that almost single handedly took my interest from the streets to a Ballou Senior High graduate. And it all started by the mist that formed to a tear from my mother’s eyes.

Filed Under: Easter, Fallout, The Core Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Battle Ground: Image Wise

February 8, 2017 by Leave a Comment

Images are tattooed in our memories like the information on a computer’s motherboard. Some images in our minds will never go away.  The image of President Obama will forever exist — his looks, his walk, his beautiful wife, his dignity and his intelligence. The image of his opponent’s hysteria and disbelief that a man with African blood could lead the greatest nation on earth, was absolutely an amazing image tattooed in my mind. Why would his opponents and others alike have such beliefs in the first place? Some of them were called obstructionists and at every level they fought against President Obama. Yet, President Obama was an excellent politician and an intellectual master. We will forever have Mr. and Mrs. Obama’s superior integrity as they were insulted time after time. The way they handled the vile insults, was as if they were a King and Queen. Black America has had Kings and Queens but many of the kings have been killed or harassed in the battle for justice and image representation.  Some images run deep, unconsciously employing subliminal messages.

When I was seven years old I saw my first black Santa Claus and I was mad. I thought the black man beat up the white man and took his the toys and the Santa suit. I didn’t want to sit on the new Santa’s lap. To me, he represented a lie, a fraud, and a thief — and he had nothing good for me. Why would I, at that age, think that about a black man dressed like Santa Claus? The image of the black man is sometimes equated to the broadcasted stereotype. I was watching the movie, The Alamo the other day. It was an epic based on American history. John Wayne directed and starred in the movie. He played the Tennessean Davy Crockett. This movie set in 1836 was about war in Texas and portrayed such men as General Sam Houston, General Santa Anna, Commander William Travis and James “Jim” Bowie. What caught my attention was Jethro, a black servant. The night before the final great battle, James Bowie signed and handed Jethro freedom papers. Jethro thought about it and then said “no”. The next day, when Santa Anna troops stormed the Alamo Mission and got to Jim Bowie, Jethro jumped in front of Jim to take the deathblow. Now why would Jethro sacrifice his life for a man that has enslaved him? This is an image black people have had for more than two hundred years. We need a fresh perspective. I am looking for the black Alexandria the Great or a black George Washington – it has to be one.

Growing up in Washington, D.C. in the height of the drug wars, I became a teenage dad, like many other teens in my community.  Watching the fathers die, go to jail and leave their children was a penetrating image that was sickening at the core, and it forced me to take a vow of commitment and do my best to focus on my children. Death was almost every day and watching us rotate in and out of the court system was hard, but I was blessed and raised in a strong family. One day, my son and I were walking to our local liquor store — chips for him and beer for me. Right in front of us was a poster that read “Kings and Queens of Africa”. The poster represented a program sponsored by Anheuser-Busch the makers of Budweiser. The King and Queen were Akhenaten and Nefertiti. During that time, I was becoming increasingly aware of image and the presentation of history and its value. Here, we have all the drugs, all the guns, many liquor stores, two baby mommas, and no representation of our ancestors before the plantation; yet all I had to do was walk in a liquor store, and my real education began.

I was furious. I went and got a pen and pad, and wrote a letter to Courtland Milloy of the Washington Post. I posed the question, “How is it that we have a series of African Kings and Queens in the local liquor stores but not in our schools?” I ached for a gallant positive historical image that was not killed for one reason or another. A black Batman or black Superman…give me something. Everything about Ham’s children isn’t about being a liar, a thief, a weakling, and a servant who jumps in front of his master to take a deathblow. If it is true that you emulate what you see, then, we thank God for Barack and Michelle Obama.

Even in a world that still holds onto falsehoods and loves the pit of darkness, Mr. and Mrs. Obama were a shining light to millions of children and adults. The image of grace under fire will never fade when we reflect on Mrs. Obama’s words, “When they go low, we go high”. Many years of servitude with strength are images we know very well. We call on our names received from the plantation with honor. Black America would have been happy with a black president whose name was Johnson, Jackson or Smith. Yet, the Lord gave us Obama. To the indifference of what we like or know, our ancestors came to America and helped build this great nation. They came here loving their children, loving their husbands and wives. Then no more, did they cling to their family or their language, and with their strong arms and legs they worked like cattle and were sold on the auction block.

What an honor to the African-Bantu Diaspora, their ancestors, and those forgotten ones who screamed at night for their children. Those who couldn’t imagine a future that one of their children would ever be the leader of the free world and will be considered one of the best presidents ever. When they read the scroll of the American Presidents and get to #44, it will ring Obama! This is a name from the Bantu family of languages, a language that black America’s ancestors spoke. For so many years of slavery, you would’ve thought it would have been a black person with a plantation name. No, it was not, and we thank God for a reminder that he made us who we are. Without them there is no us.

I thank President Obama, for he was the most powerful man in the world who maintained intellectual strength and personal dignity, which will forever be a shining light to black America and the entire world.  We must represent the quality of that image in our presentation, whether on the block in our neighborhoods or in a million dollar Hollywood movie. In honor of those who have represented our authentic culture appropriately, let’s commit to maintaining the pursuit of freedom, mind and body…image wise.

Filed Under: Fallout, Images, The Core

Fallout III: Stress to Death

October 12, 2016 by Leave a Comment

Even as the sun shines we move and are occupied in our occupations, moving to and fro while death speaks of a thirsty earth. I still didn’t understand why my mother’s doctor couldn’t come to the hospital with his files and consult with the hospital staff for treatment. I was under the false impression that because he treated her cancer since the beginning of this 4 year nightmare, he was in charge of all her cancer related treatments. But that only would have worked if he were a participant in the hospital’s network. I felt my mind and body tightening up on me, but a deep breath would fight off the light-headedness.

The doctors explained that the chemo treatments took a very serious toll on her body, shutting down her kidneys and causing serious damage to other organs. And that’s what caused her to go into a lethargic state. I prayed to the Lord, and touched her and told her, “I’m right here, I love you,” and I watched her for an hour or so, before I went to sleep on the floor beside her bed.

The next morning I woke up, kissed my mother who was still heavily sedated and told her I had to run to Philly for a one day trip. Looking at her, I didn’t want to leave, but in my occupation the last job was the most important one. At this time, I was a Master Facilitating Messenger who traveled the world with good and bad messages. When I picked up my instructions, I was told Rupert was looking for me and he needed to see me right away.

“I know, I just got his e-mail,” I replied. Rupert was the new CEO. He’s been with the firm for about 2 years and we didn’t get along. I couldn’t effectively deal with him as my mother was my number one concern and after our last meeting, I went into absolute isolation.

Our last meeting was routine with department managers providing updates and receiving instructions. But by that time, Rupert and I were looking pass each other and playing corporate chess. I made sure he understood I did my homework and that I understood the value in it, but nothing seemed to matter to Rupert. Bit by bit he began to undo established policies and cause chaos in my department and the firm. Stress takes you on wide mood swings, and this was the day my stress made me fly off the rail.

In that meeting, Rupert said,

“I got a company coming in to survey, section one and section two, and from preliminary discussions, I think it’s something that could benefit us.”   Then he passed me some paper work.

“No, naw” I said. “Don’t think it’s a good idea. And I am tired of this shit. All you’re here to do is destroy. You have no respect, and maybe you don’t have to have respect, but ever since you’ve been here you’ve been dictating us to destruction. You not that fuckin’ smart, you or your dumb ass side kick. Ya’ll sittin’ here like this shit ok. I can’t do it, it’s not ok.”

Rupert says shockingly, “Excuse me?!”

Without hesitation I respond.

“Not really, man fuck this! I tell you what, don’t call me for another motherfuckin’ meetin’, I am tired of you. Everything I put on the table, you take off the table. You say for two fuckin’ years, ‘No, we could do better.’ Everything I do is wrong, hell naw, you not that smart, this ain’t no rocket science. When I got here, they had one floor, now they got six floors and offices all over the country. And my motherfuckin’ hand was in every bit of that progress, now you say it’s all wrong, comin’ at me with that under handed bullshit.” Don’t call me for another fuckin’ meetin’.”

This was not the way to go about things but I was tired and lost my sense of balance. My whole focus was the comfort, support and care of my mother, but I still had responsibility to the job and I did that every day steady with minimum energy. After the meeting, I told my staff to take a message, and do the task if the motherfucka called. And since that time, I ignored all his calls and messages. I planned to do that as long as I could, because I didn’t have any more “yeses” that I could give him.

I took a deep breath and headed to Philly. I’d been routinely breathing in a rapid pattern while dealing with my mother’s condition and the responsibilities of the job. Taking deep breaths seemed to help as I felt like I was suffocating from within at times. The Philly job was a good interruption as driving long distances has its own type of therapy, the road and the music calmed my thoughts. I continued to take deep breaths as they seemed to help with my muscle spasms, chest pains and faintness. I thought those symptoms were due to the lack of sleep and worry. I soon realized that those are symptoms of a silent and invisible triple dose of everyday stress.

As I drove I reflected on the situation with Rupert. He has denied and retracted everything in his power. Even when the numbers were excellent, it was no. I racked my brain, thinking what was I missing? I went back to the books, the numbers, and meetings, no was still the answer.   I never thought it was racial, yet, at that time I was the only descendant from the ancient father Ham in the managers meeting. So I took leave of all meetings with Rupert and told him that if he needed something to call dispatch and put in a request. I was done with the bullshit.

Philly was a sister city and very easy to get in and out from DC. When I was a youth my uncle taught me how to drive by letting me drive to Philly. I got to Philly finished the job and got right back on the road and back to my mother that night. She was awake when I got there…I kissed her. Her voice was soft, but her spirits were high. I told her what the doctors said about hospice care at a local facility. She said, “No, I am going back home with my family.”

She made it clear that she wanted to be with family. If the doctors were saying that her last days on earth were near, she didn’t want to be among strangers when she died. She had said again and again, “I want to be with my family.” And as her oldest, I took heed to her wish and honored her word.

Filed Under: Fallout, The Core Tagged With: , , , , ,

Lessons from Strange Places: Ants

July 13, 2016 by Leave a Comment

Photo of Ants climbing a treeI went to visit one of my elders and she said, “I was thinking about you, and how you used to play with those ants. They used to bite the hell out of us. I mean, they would tear us up — but they never bit you.”

Now, I don’t know if that’s entirely true. They may have bitten me now and then, but it was the lessons I received as a child from the ants, and our amazing conversations that stuck with me throughout my whole life.

Another elder said, “We use to go in the house and watch out the window as you talked to those ants like they were real people.”

I thought to myself, “Yes, this is true.” I am not one who understands language patterning and how they seem flawless when understood, but I felt like I understood their communication. I was absolutely fascinated with them.

I believe it was because of them that I got one of my nicknames, “Dirt”, which is short for Dirtdriver. Day in and day out I would dig for them, watch them, and when the soldier ants came for me, I picked them up, harassed them, and then put them down only to watch them fight one another. I would feverishly search trees and dig big ditches. When I found them, I would disrupt their work and watch them create new routes. I watched them solve problems created by me. I watched their organizational skills and their ability to modify habitats. I couldn’t get enough, it was one of the best times of my young life, and it didn’t matter rain or shine, I would search and dig. I looked like I dived in a pool, full of dirt. My hair and my socks saturated with mud and dirt. This happened all before I received my first gun. This happened all before I knew I was watching a highly organized insect. I remember, a dear older cousin, who has since lost his life, to gun violence, asked,

“How is it possible for you to be that dirty? Man, how do dirt get in your ears, your eyebrows and all over your face?”

The ant was my friend, and as a child, that thought alone was wonderful. I wanted to be with them so much so, that I asked my mother if I could make an Ant Farm, and without hesitation, she said, “Yes.” I got all the materials together. I found two clear glass bottles, dirt, leaves, potato chips and Now and Later candy – because I was sure they liked the same snacks as I liked. This experiment wasn’t as fun and the ants seemed to move slower. I didn’t know if they needed air or other elements from outside, so I returned the ants to the tree.

Being a child is a very interesting and wonderful process. It is pure ignorance left open to interpretation. It is at this stage I began to process information and images, about culture, about customs, and about beliefs I didn’t fully understand.  The 4th of July holiday tradition was one that I celebrated with fervor. I couldn’t wait to get several packs of firecrackers, fountains, sparklers, smoke and snakes. This year we celebrated the 4th for four days due to rain. We were celebrating victory over England’s oppression. Frederick Douglass asked, “What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence?” As a child the ideals of those who don’t care wash off your back like shower water and the images and information seem minute. But, when I got old enough to understand, I was totally confused. Because we don’t pop one firecracker for the day our ancestors were freed from slavery.

Excessive images and misguided information can bring anxiety to the mind, but the ant became my comfort. I was able to process and believe in what I saw. And I saw them work as a unified entity. Also, another comfort was the introduction of the Lord Christ. It was the ants and the song, “Jesus Loves Me,” that provided some of the greatest lessons and the most comfort.   As a child, I was taught that Jesus loved me, but I was never told of his childhood.

Have you ever wondered about the Lord Jesus’ youth? Those years of his youth are not so clear. As I got older, I thought about it, and wondered, did he throw rocks like the boys in my neighborhood? Did he sit down under shelter in a bad rain and lightening storm? Did he watch ants and play in the field before he took up his station? What we do know, when he was a babe and suckling, Joseph was told to take him to Egypt.

It is written, “…Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him.”

As a child he went to Egypt for shelter, but did he know the danger or was it a wonderful childhood experience like going to Disney World, for at that time Egypt was still one of the greatest nations the world had ever seen.

It was also written, “And when he became twelve years old, they went up to Jerusalem after the custom of the feast. And when they had fulfilled the days, as they returned, the child Jesus tarried behind in Jerusalem, and Joseph and his mother knew not of it.” It goes on to say after three days they found him.

The historical record concerning Jesus’ youth and his young adult years are almost blank, leaving you to wonder. Those years practically in his youth are of great interest, because it is those years he learned about whom, what, where, when, and most importantly about his earthly lot and human cast.

This is when he was taught about the Passover, about carpentry, about Moses, about Joseph, and David. In these years my Jewish friends learn about their history, my Christian friends learn about their European history and my Mexican friends are taught about Cinco de Mayo, with flag in tow. I am taught about slavery, oppression, poverty and the sniper that killed the Blessed, Martin Luther King, Jr.  Who is responsible for teaching such knowledge and images?

No matter what, the Ant taught me lessons that no man can take from me. The record will reflect that as the ant, I work feverishly as if I am building Egypt with a purpose.

It is written, “Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise: Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest.” This is the lesson, I learned from a super insect of the earth, while the humans were silent.

Filed Under: Ants, Fallout Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Monkey Wrench

February 5, 2016 by Leave a Comment

When I was young, I always wondered why so many men stood in front of liquor stores? It was a question that stayed with me as I grew up. I never thought of those men having a childhood. It seemed to me that liquor stores were the action centers and it was their jobs to be there. More men stood guard at the liquor stores than anywhere else in our community. I also wondered how many of those men had children in our neighborhood. I told myself, when I become a father, I won’t hang in front of the liquor store.

“I got mines, you get yours!” This song is sung for capitalism and it’s not all that bad with all things considered, but it is an unspoken phase song, as many who acquired a little money ran as fast as they could from the hood. We continue to have issue after issue in our community (maybe the talented tenth should have stayed) and after tragedies, our recourse is to march. It boggles my mind that we still need marchers and demonstrators to protest after a hundred years. And over and over again, the bell rings in my mind and says, “But what about the man, a man, true in form. What is his duty and responsibility?” Just the presence of a man has value, but that doesn’t translate in my neighborhood. As I came to be aware of this and other global issues, I thought it was better to stay local and help my hood. The lack of quality black men around me and my friends was limited in our everyday life. But we didn’t care, as long as we had money, girls and fun.

I noticed recently that members of our community were marching and demonstrating for Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown; I’ve watched the Blessed and Great Martin Luther King, Jr. march and demonstrate. I’ve watched dogs attack men and women and I’ve heard about Nat Turner’s march for freedom. It seems as if the marching has never stopped.

As a young adult, I was neighborhood focused, and responsibility driven. I made that my first mission. I started coaching little league football at #11 boys and girls club. I studied the game, learned the rules and taught young boys. I joined the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. Some of the young boys had fathers, but many of them were fatherless, and had no day- to- day interaction with a positive male figure. They came to the club with their mothers. Some of their mother’s got real comfortable with the coaches which would allow for extra time and support with their children. I went to many of the young boy’s homes and schools. I mentored, coached, became a friend and concerned citizen. I would help with food and give hugs when life issues seemed to get the best.

As I got to know the young men, the more I wanted to help. When you get to know their personalities and life situations you want to help more. Some of them were funny, some were bad, and many were good. In this atmosphere you run across, as many as one hundred youth in a day, with great respect for our youth coaches. Our youth coaches are selfless men and women who teach our children skills, team work and discipline at a cost to their own households. You watch these young men grow and move onto middle and high school, and some to jail. Soon, you start to hear the wailing of their mothers as the teenage years set in.

You watch these young men go from innocent 8 and 9 year olds to sexually active teenagers. This is when the pain comes with bone crushing pressure. This pain has been felt for decades in my community. Death calls and announcements – a numbing effect. So much so, you become use to it.

When I received a call that Devan got killed, and Brandon got killed, and Pookie got killed and Omar got killed, each time I was at a loss for words, looking for answers, trying to hold back tears.  The caller would tell you what they heard or thought. What you get over an again is young lives lost. These young men were part of a Pop Warner Regional Championship team, and they lost their lives. I found each of these young men special in their own way. How was this even possible? These young men were part of a youth championship team! Young lives gone too soon, yet this happens too much. And I ask again, “What about the men, true in form, what are their duties and responsibilities?”

A couple of years ago, I was taking about five children home and a lady in a stretched Mercedes Benz motioned to me with her hands prompting a conversation. I rolled down my window and asked, “Ma’am, what you say?”

She was dressed in haute couture. She had on a light blue suit jacket and I couldn’t tell whether it was pants or a skirt. Pearls graced her neck.

“Why, why?” she asked, with tears flowing down her face.

“Are you ok?” I asked.

She was well kept and didn’t look like she was from my neighborhood, with the pearls and that high quality suit. She could have been a product of Jack and Jill or The Links, not the hood.

“Why?” she screamed.

“Why what, ma’am?” I asked. As tears were rolling down her face, she said, “They keep killing our boys, why?” She continued, “They keep taking our boys and men, why? They keep killing our boys and nothing is being done. My God, why?” By this time we were holding up traffic and the horns were blowing.

“Ma’am, I don’t know, please calm down, you may need to pull to the side,” I said.

“They keep doing it over and over and no one can stop them!” she said.

“It’s gonna be ok, please calm down,” I said. She shook her head and pulled off. This encounter was the same day of the Trayvon Martin murder – trial verdict.

I knew she was talking about Trayvon Martin and I understood. But what I didn’t understand and what bothered me concerning it was this, Zimmerman didn’t introduce himself to Trayvon Martin. There are rules of engagement even for neighborhood watch groups, but sometime rules don’t apply. Instead this is how it went.

Zimmerman calls cops “…. There’s a real suspicious guy.” He also says, “…. These assholes, they always get away…” Then he says “….Shit, he’s running…”

Dispatcher: “He’s running? Which way is he running?” “…… Are you following him?”

Zimmerman: “Yeah.”

Again, how do you follow someone, whom you just called a “kid” but not introduce yourself, without scaring the “kid?” Then 3 minutes after he hangs up with police, Trayvon gets shot in the chest.

This is the reason why she was crying so hard, but many mothers even before Emmett Till and after Trayvon Martin’s mom, have cried. And the jurors said, it was okay because of the Stand Your Ground law, and I ask, “what ground would that have been? “ To pursue, catch and kill? We’ve been marching about this for a long time. Trayvon had his father in his life, but the community that he was a part of has little value in the world; when men in our community get killed in record numbers, go to jail in record numbers and stand in front of liquors stores in record numbers. You could understand why there is so much pain. And again, I ask, “What is the true value of a man?”

Filed Under: Fallout Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Fallout II

November 20, 2015 by Leave a Comment

My mother was my comfort zone, the hidden shelter, the soft pillow and as the oldest of her children, I was very uncomfortable mentally and physically, trying to adjust to her sickness. My mother was dying and I couldn’t find a good balance in my mind or body. It was a long destabilizing ride that introduced me to stress, anxiety, depression and the meaning of capitalism. Day by day, I watched my mother fight death with grace. She wasn’t mad about her situation; she was courteous and displayed a royal kind of grace. I believe that millenniums past my mother would’ve been a great ancient queen mummified and placed in a royal tomb. Her grace spoke to me day by day, even when her energy was at a minimum and she couldn’t feed herself, she found grace to say, “Today is better.”

I noticed as time went by, my mother’s pain continued to increase. They gave her hard drugs that had very good street value; she only took them sparingly as she dealt with her pain gracefully. Our routine continued with chemo three times a week and then we added dialysis once a week. My mother was a great elephant of a woman. She covered a lot of ground with her love and support for family and friends. As pleasant and non-combative as she was, I thought her sickness was a mistake or a test. “She will win this battle,” I kept saying to myself over and over again.   With all that’s going on in our world with deceit, murder and poverty, she was needed. Millenniums ago her royal tomb inscriptions would have read:

“Great Daughter and Queen of the Most High, She who helped the widow and fatherless children, rest here, precious one. In grace She lived and in grace She died. May Her Spirit be in union with the Creator forever.”

One evening my mother called and said, “I want to move with you.” “Ok,” I said.

“I just want to be with my family,” she said. I moved her in and she was happy. She had her own door to the house with no steps. She got to sit outside and watch the sun set with her grandchildren, making them run back and forth to get her some ice… she loved the ice. We watched some of her favorite TV shows together, like Murder She Wrote and the Andy Griffith Show. I didn’t have any interest in watching those shows every day, but she changed all that as we spent time talking, laughing and watching TV.

One Saturday afternoon, I got a crash course as my mother was not responding well after a meal. I called her doctor and relayed her symptoms and he advised me to take her to the hospital. When we got there, it was all new. Before this, we had no emergencies; we only had scheduled appointments and never missed any. When we arrived to the emergency room, I was told to fill out paper work, and forced to answer questions like, “did she have insurance?”

I answered with force, “Yes, she has cancer, stage four, chemo three times a week, dialysis once a week. I’ve called her doctor’s office and let them know, he should be here shortly,” I said.

They asked me for her doctor’s name and information.

“We’ll take tests to evaluate the patient. Are you legally in charge? Is there a husband or does anyone have a power of attorney?” They asked.

“Take tests? I just told you what was wrong,” I said.

“We must evaluate the patient.”

“Evaluate what, I just told you what’s wrong! What is this, what? I called her doctor,” I said, “She don’t need to be tested, she need to be treated.”

I insisted they just stabilize her. I repeated, “Her doctor is on the way.”

I told them, “All this poking of my mother was unnecessary, and the extra questions bothered me.”

I called the doctor’s office again, “They’re poking my mother and asking questions, I need you to get here.”

After an hour or so, a doctor from the hospital staff came out. “We are getting her stabilized, but the situation is very serious,” he said. “Her kidneys are failing, her liver is not functioning properly, this is life ending, she is dying. The family needs to consider hospice. ”

I called the doctor’s office again and got the voicemail. “Look, these motherfuckers keep talkin’ nonsense. Saying my mother is dying. They talkin’ shit I don’t understand, they said her life is over. Talkin’ stupid shit. I need you to fuckin’ get here!”

The doctor called me back after my last rant. He told me to listen to what the doctors are saying, and that he wasn’t a participant in that particular hospital…there is nothing he could do. I hung the phone up in a state of shock, thinking none of this shit was making any sense. My head was spinning. Thoughts and questions spilled out, “was it that easy, are they in charge? Just do whatever they say. What kind of sense does that make? This man has been her doctor, and now, “do what they say.” And what did they say?

The words echoed continuously in my ears, “there is nothing we can do, your mother is dying, you need to consider hospice.”

To me this was some cold bullshit that was beyond my understanding. They were telling me she was gone, while she was still breathing, and her doctor said nothing.

While I sat there in disbelief, my job called.

“We got a situation and we need you to go up Philly and Rupert is looking for you. He said he needs to see you right away.”

Life continues to move, even when the silence roars loudly and the Fallout grows near!

Filed Under: Fallout Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Fallout

May 5, 2015 by Leave a Comment

When I was a young boy growing up on Newcomb Street in SE, Washington, DC, I was blessed to be part of a community with some of Washington’s greatest families…not great because of property or money, but great because of their unity and friendship in a hood of lawlessness. They were the buds of the 4th generation.   In my community the 4th generation got hit with the lightning bolt of freedom, bell bottoms and afros. I am the dirt diver. The one that stayed outside with the snotty nose, covered in dirt, day in and day out. I watched these families fight together and move about Washington with little resistance. They were the best of comrades. To them I give thanks as I observed good behavior with honor and bad behavior with viciousness.

This I remember as a true lesson. One day I was standing outside when shots starting ringing out across the street. Two families were having a Dirty Dozen type shootout. It was exciting and scary. I remember my aunt grabbing me and taking me inside. Once inside, I was still able to get to a window and I watched the shootout, like it was a good cowboy flick. I watched it until the authorities came and placed the white sheets on the victims. I always wondered, “was this just a part of life, and a perspective to process and move on?” Some would say, “get over it…its normal.” I come to think of it now as raw aggression, but not normal. Throughout my teens and early adult years the scene was the same.

Growing up in my community was still awesome with all the adversities because my family made it so. One branch of my family was from Washington’s Foggy Bottom neighborhood and the other branch from Baltimore, across the track from Pimlico. The Foggy Bottom side had twelve children and the Baltimore side had nine. 21 children from the second generation, if I add the first generation, we are talking about a whole country. With this many family members, all of us didn’t land in the hood. At family events, you could tell the difference. It was as though we spoke different languages and in two or more generations we would be a different race of people. But the greatest joy for me was my elders, their strength and their stories.

This blog will give you, the reader, an inside track to many things concerning my family, my life, and about me growing up as the dirt diver and becoming a man in North America. I call this the “Come Up”, but for now, its about the FALLOUT.

——————————————————

One dreary day, my mother came thought the door, with her head down. I saw it in her eyes; she had to tell me something but didn’t want to reveal her news. She looked disoriented and scared. I’ve never seen my mother look like that before, it was different and unusual.

“What’s wrong,” I asked.

“I saw blood and I have to take more tests,” my mother answered.

When the last test came back it was positive for cancer.   CANCER. It was a massive blow. The blow was so hard I couldn’t hear people talking, I didn’t obey street signals, and all I could think to ask myself was “why…why?”

But my mother took it all in stride.

“I believe in God and I am okay with it,” she said.

I wasn’t okay with it. My reality was altered. I grew up in a generation that was raised and dominated by mothers. She was my everything…the reason I ate and witnessed the sun on a gloomy morning. With that said, I knew my father. But my mother was the soft pillow while the world offered a cold hard ground. It has been said, that she, “did not get a spanking.” Through members of our family and friends I was told she was, “the good one.”

There were many conversations with her doctors as I tried to get understanding concerning the fight. Two to three times a week we went to doctors and then surgery and then chemo. I held her hand from street to street and building to building. I wasn’t okay with it. But in my mother’s presence and as the oldest son, I maintained my strength while with her.

I watched as they hooked the chemo to her chest port. The smells were different and took some time to get used to. My reality was altered as I watched her vomit, over and over again. I watched her hair fallout. Yet, she would say, “If it’s God’s will.”

The journey ahead was one I couldn’t imagine…it was the beginning of the FALLOUT!

Filed Under: Fallout Tagged With: , , , ,