Scrooge

So here we go again.

This is my least favorite time of year.

The dreaded Christmas.

I know, I know … I should really be a fan, but I’m not. There are just a few reasons.

1. Christmas lasts entirely too long. My GROCERY store has been playing carols since shortly before Halloween.

2. Christmas brings out the “perky” in people. I DESPISE perky. Not sure why.

3. Christmas is about forced gift-giving. My friends will confirm—I’m not cheap, by any stretch of the imagination. But I buy gifts, because I see something that I think will make someone happy, or because I see something that I want them to have. It has never occurred to me that I should buy a gift because it’s a particular day. (And yes, this counts for birthdays, too)

4. I actually like Ebenezer, at least … until he sells out at the end.

5. There are never any NEW Christmas carols. And I’m REALLY sick of the old ones.

(Although I give "We Three Kings" a pass, because at LEAST its written in a minor key. Its OBVIOUSLY a spooky halloween song that somebody put happy lyrics to. I always find it funny when they put it in the middle of Joy to the World, and some jovial crap like "Angels We Have Heard On High. It always sticks out like a hooker at high mass.)

6. Hate Santa Claus, he only shows up when the parent have money. When they’re broke, he’s broke. Think the reindeer would be tasty in venison stew, and I REALLY wish Frosty would come play in July, when we’re really having fun. Since he doesn’t, I assume he doesn’t really love us.

Thanksgiving, I love. Food, family, fun, football. One day long—two or three if you count the cook day(s), and a day to either unwind, or clean up.

I dig New Year’s. New beginnings, new starts, blahblahblah. But Christmas? Pre-ghost Ebenezer said it best. “Bah, Humbug.”

Please don’t write me with suggestions on how to make this season better, or why I shouldn’t be a Scrooge. I am what I am, lol. Don’t bother telling me I shouldn’t be this way, you’re FAR too late to the party to have an opinion on that part of me.

Merry F-ing Christmas.

--Stew.

(24 Nov 06)

Toledo

As I was writing my most recent blog entry a few days ago, I’d all but convinced myself that it was a boring topic. By that, I mean that I felt like it wouldn’t resonate, and people wouldn’t respond to it.

Apparently, I was wrong. It both surprised, and heartened me that people ARE in fact, willing to share their definitions of what the ‘black community’ is.

Sometimes a word or group of words become so commonplace, that everybody uses them, even in formal settings, without a common agreement as to their definition.

With a word like “Toledo” … this could be a significant problem.

You log on to the airline’s website, book a ticket to Toledo, arrive on time, head through security, hear the head flight attendant announce the destination, and go to sleep, expecting to arrive to the smiling faces of Aunt Em, and Uncle Saul.

Instead, you wake up in a foreign land where nobody knows your name, there’s not a pallet laid out for you somewhere, and the food tastes funny.

Is that an important oversight?

For me, Toledo has to be Toledo in three separate ways, and I’d argue that the same is true of most word pictures.

First, Toledo needs to be the same place that it was last time I went. This can be overruled by explicit knowledge or media blitz explaining that things have changed. New Orleans is an example of this. We all know that New Orleans today, isn’t the same as the Mardi Gras snapshots in your photo album. That place doesn’t exist anymore. It was destroyed by flood. And NOW … if you find yourself discussing New Orleans, you will notice that you say things like “well, before Katrina I was in New Orleans …” or “The French quarter … you know, they’ve cleaned it up since the hurricane.” This is necessary for you AND your listener, because it helps establish your sanity, and the common vision that you are sharing.

Second, Toledo needs to be the same for me that it is for other people who use the word. If you talk about the Ak-sar-ben in Toledo, I won’t know what you’re referring to, and that conversation will require a bit of elaboration from you so that I can share the word picture that you’re painting. I know of Omaha’s Ak-sar-ben. That’s where the horses ran when I was a kid. Sat just south of 72nd and Dodge Street. Now it’s a big lot where the carnival comes to town, and the University is planning to build something or other in the space. Ak-sar-ben just doesn’t mean Toledo to me. Toledo may very well HAVE it’s own Ak-sar-ben. Its just that since I don’t know anything about it, you can’t just plow into your story about it, without catching me up to where you are, and what the dickens you’re talking about.

And finally, TOLEDO has to cop to being TOLEDO. I can’t imagine there’s a more complex word-picture than Toledo. But I’ll bet that right now in Toledo there are billboards that say something like “Toledo’s finest ____________.” Or “The best ____________ in the city of Toledo.” I bet every piece of mail sent to Toledo has Toledo in one of the two bottom lines of the lower address. I’ll bet every news anchor and radio dj says “here in Toledo” at least once a day. I’ll bet that somewhere in that fine city is a ten-foot tall sign that says “Welcome to Toledo” or “Toledo is glad you came. Hope you’ll visit us again, soon.” Toledo KNOWS its Toledo. And it is possible to use the name without taking it in vain. The people who are Toledo know they’re Toledans, or Toledites, Toledoans, or whatever moniker they’ve arrived at a consensus on.

I haven’t been to Toledo in ages, but I’ll bet it still has crime and churches, grocery stores, and hookers. And I’ll bet everyone who lives there, or considers themselves part of Toledo knows it. And I’ll bet that you can say Toledo has crime, without them taking it personally. They KNOW it does.

Readily, I admit that the analogy isn’t precise when I talk about the community. But when I say the Japanese community, or the medical community, or the athletic community, or even the gay, lesbian, and transgendered community, a much more crystal picture comes into my mind, and I feel more confident proceeding with whatever follows. But for some reason, when I say black community … and worse when I HEAR “black community” … it’s just not as clear to me.

One of the things I found intriguing about this question, and the responses I got was how each answer claimed and articulated a feeling that I’m very familiar with:

To my dear friends Zee and Karma, black community was all about the culture. Now, as a black man I accept and acknowledge black culture. I understand it. I can identify it when I see it, even though it encompasses a LOT of different facets. It is dreadlocks, weaves, cornrows, and afros. It is gospel, jazz, blues, and Prince. It is collard greens and corn bread, peach cobbler and malt liquor. I love black culture. I am lost when I cannot touch, hear, see, or smell it. And even though there’s a negative side of the culture – the one I see when I turn on Black Entertainment Television … my nemesis, for the record; I recognize it. But when we talk about black community and only consider the culture—where do people whose specialties don’t reflect that culture fit in? There’s no Clarence Thomas, or Bryant Gumbel, or even Ward Connerly in that discussion. And those are people who have had as much of an impact on the black community I think exists, even though I can’t see it, as Tupac, Billie, and B.B. King.

My chat buddy Sneaky spoke about a violent and ugly black community that I am also familiar with. If you’d lined up 20 of my childhood friends from the neighborhood, and snapped a picture 30 years ago, the MAJORITY of that group today has either been buried, or locked away from society. I’m not speaking hyperbolically, that is my reality. Zee saw the racism of that community as improperly balanced, I KNOW the black community that Sneaky is talking about. That place exists! It’s tangible, and it’s real. And it’s black. I’m not sure if it’s “the black community” or not, but I do know that when I read an article that says crime is up in “the black community,” the author is not writing about the place of peace and love to which Zee refers. That writer is penning a message from the underbelly of that place. They reference a community that has skeletons. And those skeletons have keys to the closets and carry guns when they walk outside.

Dirtysweet honed in on the past, which is an important part of any community, I suspect. In the days she alludes to, colored people had quite a bit in common. I would identify their separation from the rest of the country as their main commonality. If you couldn’t drink out of the white fountain in public, you were DEFINITELY part of “the colored community.” Interestingly, in spite of their skin tones, Africans in America at that time weren’t part of that community. Are they now?

My sounding board and neighbor Becky and my brother Big T took an approach similar to mine, in that they went for the dictionary, and tried to reconcile the words there with the struggle I’m having.

Cherished and Lis took a slightly different tack. Theirs is a very personal “black community.” I wonder if the patriarchs and matriarchs are the leaders in the black community those thoughtful women describe. I would bet that they are. Coming from a strong family myself, this community also resonates with me.

I guess all of these things are “part” of the black community, but to wrap this thought completely around to where I started, are any of these communities we’ve described, places that you can find repeatedly? Could you help someone else find them? Are they the same when different people use a common terminology? Do they each “cop” to being “the black community?”

Ironically, I think that each of these representations of “the black community” face a very similar crossroads, and almost identical problems. But I don’t think many of the solutions that I’ve heard voiced address them independently. Truthfully, I also don’t think there’s much crossover between them. As a result, when I hear about solutions to crime in “the black community,” it confuses me. I don’t know if they’re talking about our families, or our culture, or our religion(s), or our ugly underbelly.

To go back to another theme that dirtysweet touched on, the notion that the only “white community” is the KKK, it took me a minute to follow her line of reasoning. Having considered it, I completely agree.

Allow me to develop the thought as briefly as I can, before you dismiss the idea.

For the most part, the people we describe as “white” people, don’t describe themselves that way.

They call themselves Americans, and claim a heritage that is Irish, or German, or Italian, or Greek. The only time you hear them call themselves “white” … is when the distinction is between blacks and whites. And honestly, I don’t think those people spend a lot of time thinking about “black people” as such. WHEN THEY DO … you start hearing stuff like “white power” or “white flight.” And leaders who describe themselves as “white leaders,” and I only know of a very few, are most often neo-nazis, or militiamen, or avowed racists and bigots. THOSE are the people who live in the “white community.” Everybody else seems to live either in America, or in an ethnic community described some other way.

Yet, men of influence will accept being called a “black leader” or leader of the “black community” even when they’re talking about the war, or politics, or education.

I THINK THAT’S WRONG.

I haven’t signed a permission slip for anyone to speak for me. If I am in fact, part of “the black community,” I’d like more say in who gets the label of my “leader.”

I AM STEW’S leader.

I don’t belong to any churches, or political parties, or religions, or organizations that I’ve given that authority to. And more and more, it pisses me off when people assume a mantle that supposedly includes me, without that permission slip.

Race is hard to talk about. I know this. I appreciate that you’ve all participated in this conversation with me, and I hope we can find some common ground. I’ve chatted with, or talked to many if not all of you individually, and I know that this is a reasonable group. There isn’t a “more” important internal discussion for Americans to have. We’ve got some things that need sunlight, and air.

Peace, pleasure, and prosperity …

--Stew.

Community

I spent a few minutes listening to Juan Williams today; he's an author and journalist I respect and admire. He was discussing the Civil Rights movement.

I became aware of Mr. Williams as a middle school student, I believe. He wrote a companion book to what I still consider one of the finest documentaries of all time. Perhaps you’re familiar with Eyes on the Prize. If not, it’s worth reading, or seeing, if you find the title at a DVD store somewhere.

He is also my voice of reason on Fox News Sunday, one of the six news programs I watch or listen to every weekend. I appreciate his moderate approach to issues, and his willingness to be the odd man out. You don’t really get to see that from black men on television very often, and I for one, appreciate his candor.

But I digress. Mr. Williams is really just the means to an end for me today. In a wide-ranging conversation on what’s wrong with the post-Civil Rights era, Mr. Williams made repeated reference to a phrase that I’ve heard all my life, but genuinely don’t understand.

Trusting the collective wisdom of strangers, here’s my question.

What is the black community?

I don’t ask this question flippantly, or with an agenda. I ask it because I’ve tried to understand the concept for a long time, and honestly, sincerely do not.

I understand that there are ‘black people.’ I can’t always identify them on sight, but I get the concept. I am painfully aware that they share a legacy, much more than a skin tone, and that at this point of history, their contributions to the society I live in are significant, and spreading.

I follow that the black church has a lot to do with a particular style of worship, and that a denomination can have black churches sprinkled into its register.

I know that there are historically black colleges and universities, and that they have a legacy of education that dates back to a time period when segregation was both the legal, and traditional way of life.

I know that when a ‘black person’ starts a business, it’s a “black-owned” business.

And I know what a community is. In my typical fashion, I looked up the word. And there were certainly phrases there that could apply to some black people in some situations. But I didn’t get the feeling that any of the definitions were what Mr. Williams in this case; or any of a thousand other people I’ve listened or talked to in many others, was referring to.

I’m not dense—I DO understand all the points he was making, and I follow the semantics of the conversation(s), but as a wordsmith, I put a pretty high value on the precision of a particular word, or phrase—even when it’s a cliché.

I don’t say I’m starving when I’m just hungry. I rarely say I’m angry when I’m enraged, or enraged when I’m livid. The beauty of a sunset could be brilliant, but the beauty of a woman has never been, at least not to me. I draw a strong distinction between sexy, sultry, and sensual.

And “the black community” leaves me a bit … confused.

So while I’m processing the larger point of the very articulate and rational perspective that Mr. Williams provided in the interview I heard, I’d love some input for my other dilemma.

It’s important for me to say that you don’t have to think of yourself as part of the black community in ANY way to opine about this.

When I’m looking for knowledge, I couldn’t care less what color the book is that provides it.

This is a subject I hope to return to, because Mr. Williams raised some issues I feel fairly strongly about, but for now I'm just trying to find myself in this concept.

I’m having a good week. Hope all of you are, as well.

Hope

Somewhere right now, in a basement or on a stoop, or in the nicest house in suburbia or behind the trailer--there's this kid. And the kid is REALLY good at it.

Maybe the kid's a dancer.

The kid probably mastered breaking, and line, and swing, and ballroom, and tap, and jazz, and modern shortly after taking that first step. Today the kid is working on some never before seen move that tickles the ozone, and calls forth rain from the clouds.

Perhaps the kid's an artist.

Was just born understanding how Mike managed to paint all those tiles of the Sistine ceiling distorted just right so when you see them from the ground floor, everything's perfect. The kid figured that out before speaking that first word, could do it in crayon on construction paper. And now, the kid mixes oil and this stuff from tubes daddy's never seen before to rip the facade off the rainbow to reveal colors you and I have never seen in the spectrum.

The kid might be a mechanic.

Been sneaking out of the house after curfew, forever. Thats when the kid fixes those funny noises in mama's old jalopy.

She used to complain about them on the way to the babysitter. The kid doesn't like to hear mama use those words. Lucky for her, there's a letter perfect blueprint on the kid's mind. The kid sees all the wires, and connections, and parts as clearly as he sees mama sitting behind the steering wheel. And in THAT blueprint, everything moves, so the kid can understand what causes the noise.

And the kid just "knows" how to make them stop. Over time, the blueprint has grown, and now every machine in the whole world is part of that diagram, and the kid can just walk up to any of them, and "know" why they're not working right

And there's a part of the diagram in the kid's head that goes to a machine the kid's never seen. That's because it hasn't been built yet. But the kid knows how, and will eventually get around to building it.

Or cook, or chemist, or singer, or builder, doctor, philosopher, physicist, basketball player, therapist, preacher, healer, midwife, farmer, geologist, anthropologist, or some skill we don't have a word for yet.

The kid's brain knows the task at hand as surely as it knows to make the kid's heart beat, and eyes blink. And at six, or seven years alive there is no question in the kid's universe that begins "What are you going to be..." or ends "...when you grow up." This thing is the kid's true religion and taken as an article of faith. The kid and the gift just ... are.

The kid's parent(s) probably don't get it yet. They know their kid is different, but in this world where different can be dangerous, their working assumption is that even the difference is "typical," you know ... the kid is gay, or mentally challenged, or disabled, or born in the wrong place and time. And the kid might be, but that has nothing to do with THIS. They thought the new hobby was a passing fad--a puppy love or temporary intrigue. But they're wrong, This ... is DIFFERENT.

There's a chance that on some days, in deep-seated places they don't like to talk about with their closest friends, they are even ashamed of the kid.

And the other children don't understand the kid either. Why the kid is always up before the sun, already completely engrossed in a chemistry experiment that's already failed 1,278 times before They don't realize that the kid knows how close the answer is, but can't look it up in a book somewhere, because it's never been written down.

Nobody can quite understand why the kid risks getting grounded to stay up long past bedtime, plugged into an ipod, or hands busy scratching old records to make and mix sounds nobody's ever thought to put together, sounds you can't hear because the kid doesn't share headphones while there's work going on . But if the kid is lucky, there is one person ... maybe another child, who will try.

You and I won't truly become "aware" of the kid until the moment arrives. And in the moment, we'll wonder where this genius came from, and how even though we sent a man to the moon, nobody ever thought of the kid's particular way of doing that particular thing.

And because television cameras only zoom so close we won't see the calluses on the kid's hands or feet that started as "hard-work'" blisters before the kid ever came close to puberty. We'll notice the kid's glasses, or the way those eyes squint to read, or glare to see. We won't recognize that the kid intentionally sacrificed perfect vision on the altar of the inside magic so the secrets could come out.

We might even notice the kid's backpack, and the way it bulges. But because we grew up in the age of books, we won't realize that the kid was born into an age of instant information, and the the backpack is full because the kid has reached the end of the internet, devoured the thoughts of every great predecessor in the field, and that now the kid is thinking thoughts that those greats wouldn't have arrived at for 20 years after their departure.

But we'll catch the kid in fleeting glimpses. Camouflaged to match the concrete, or the prairie, the one-stoplight town, or the Appalachian mountains. And in our tragically hip way of missing the trees for the forest, the kid will slip from our potential vew.

Lucky for us, the kid doesn't care. The kid isn't even aware that we can't see the effort or the results because of the crowd of thugs, criminals, potheads, wannabes, and posers blocking our view. The kid's nose is to the grindstone. The kid only cares about one thing ... and it isn't our blindness. The kid is a modern-day Jesus, or Mohammed, Gutenberg, Curie, Gates. And the very way people think--about even the possibilities, will never be the same after the kid, as before.

All the kid has to do is survive ...

... infertility, and abortion, poverty, abuse, pedophiles, that first delicious hit of weed, alcoholics, alcoholism, gangs, drugs, becoming a parent too soon and losing focus, Playstation, bad education, worse healthcare, bullies, a thousand points of darkness, self-loathing, suicide, peer pressure, friends that aren't good for him, a mother that desn't know best, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, crooked cops, an injustice system, random acts of violence, saccharin, asbestos, global warming, dying on the wrong battlefield, religion, politics, the media, and the demons inside.

The kid isn't the first, or even the 10th.

You will someday hear what the kid has to say, because when the kid speaks, it is with the voice and authority of the universe.

I do not know the kid's gender, or when the kid was born. I don't know what color the kid's skin is, or the kid's ethnicity. I'm not privy to whether the kid is cute, or funny-looking, rich, poor, or middle-class. I have not seen whether the kid is a beanpole, or pudgy. I don't know if the kid is born into the Bible Belt, a community ruled by Sharia law, or the liberal bastions of Berkeley. The kid may be betrothed at age four, or have earlobes stretched by polished stones

I only know that the kid is good. And good at it. And that one false step can snatch the kid from us forever.

OH ... and I know the kid's name.

Hope.