When Our Children Cry Wolf

All of us are familiar with the story of the boy who cried wolf. For those who aren't, it was about a boy who was tending sheep in the pasture, got bored, so he cried "wolf" to see what would happen. The villagers came running to save him but found him doubled over in laughter at his prank. He did this a second time, so later, when a wolf did appear and the boy called out a third time, the villagers did not come to his rescue and his flock was eaten. In some versions of the tale, the boy was also eaten by the wolf.

Therefore, I understand the various reactions to the story of what might have happened to Carlethia "Carlee" Russell--was she abducted as she claimed, or was this some elaborate cry for attention? Are we entitled to demand an explanation from her, or should we just move on with our lives like those villagers and not come running when the next woman of color goes missing?

I have a lot of conflicting thoughts, some that I shared on social media in response to a post by a classmate that this had been a hoax from the outset. I saw his posts and initially ignored them (because he tends to be provocative), but I also did wonder if there was more to this story than was being reported. What about the wandering toddler on the side of the highway, did no one else who was driving along at that same time see him? Was there any video surveillance that could assist? And once it was reported that she had returned home, when could we expect a statement issued or an interview with Gayle King to warn other young women who might similarly be vulnerable?

Because I was attending a conference, I could not follow the chatter, but I happened to be scrolling my Twitter feed when the news of her return was released. At the time, I just sent up a prayer of thanksgiving that she was found, but I must admit that the details provided regarding her return were suspicious. So I waited patiently for some kind of update that would quiet my skepticism. That didn't happen, because as I watched the briefing offered by the Hoover Police in real time, my heart sank without hearing much of what they had to say. The presser wasn't even finished when I saw the first wave of "I told you so" vindication posts and the inappropriate memes. 

Since quite a few comments referenced him, I thought back to a few years ago when the Jussie Smollett saga generated a lot of righteous outrage due to its perfectly scripted homophobia and violence fueled by Trumpism. While everyone was offering messages of support, I recall sitting on my Twitter fingers waiting for a new twist. As his story unraveled, I was actually relieved (not because of the resulting fallout that destroyed his acting career and threatened the career of Cook County State's Attorney), but because such a brazen attack in Chicago at 2AM that no one heard or saw was too ridiculous to be true.

Thus, as Russell's disappearance was initially shared on social media and calls were made to amplify details to ensure that her case would be treated with urgency, I will simply say that I was praying for her safe return. And I still am praying for her, even if she was not the victim of some predatory crime as we were led to believe. 

This story hit a lot of my buttons, especially as I prepared to take another solo road trip down South this past week (more details to share soon). It was upsetting to think that she could have been possibly lured into a trap that involved using a small child as bait. I fretted that I would have to add this to my ever-growing list of concerns about raising girl-children without the wisdom of my own village mothers. I mourned the potential devastation that would have overwhelmed this young woman's family and community if there had been an alternative unhappy ending. And I was frustrated that just weeks ago we sent the Coast Guard to search for five people on a private joy ride to see an underwater graveyard, whereas a minimal dispatch of resources deployed to find an adult runaway would most assuredly be deemed a waste.

While there has been no definitive pronouncement, public sympathy has decidedly shifted. The villagers have extinguished their torches, put away their weapons, called off the hounds, and are grumbling on social media. It upsets me that the loudest voices of condemnation are coming from within the Black community. And not just from men, so what should we call it when we are determined to disbelieve one of our children unless the outcome of her peril had turned tragic? Why are we so quick to dismiss this as merely the actions of an attention-seeking narcissist instead of as a very public plea for help?

Do we really need her to explain herself, or do we need to give Russell the space to heal herself? I'm not convinced that we need to know everything if the point of inquiry is to subject her to more ridicule. That doesn't mean I am against her facing consequences, but I believe that once it crosses the line to irredeemable public shame, no lessons will be taught or learned. A lot of people act out for attention, and we don't respond with this level of indignation, not even when their antics are fueled by mental illness, substance abuse, a toxic -ism or phobia, or just immaturity. In most cases, we accept that the matter will be addressed privately and move on.

For example, in my area Amber Alerts go out whenever a young person goes missing (Silver Alerts for senior citizens with dementia). In three cases where I have personal knowledge of the outcome of a local Amber Alert, there were no demands for public accountability because we were just relieved that each child was returned home. In one case, the girl who was a classmate of my Niece, was transferred to a new school. In another instance, the mother, whom I knew online through a FB group, updated us and then deactivated her social media account. And in the case where I actively took part in a search, the girl's family expressed their gratitude for our community efforts, but I haven't seen them since. 

Someone reading this might assume that by referring to Russell as an adult runaway and inferring from the title that she is a child, I am infantilizing her to absolve or excuse her behavior. I assure you that I am well aware that she is a grown ass woman who had a job, a car, a concerned boyfriend (ex?), and two loving parents who went on national television to elicit sympathy for what now appears to be a tall tale. Unlike the three young girls I described, Russell is not some impulsive child who ran away to escape some parental restriction or punishment. 

So what.

People from her community and across the nation were invested in finding her, including Angela Harris, who mobilized volunteers and dedicated resources from her nonprofit to search for Russell because she lost her own daughter under tragic circumstances. Instead of responding in anger, Ms. Harris modeled the kind of community response that we ought to emulate in this instance--determination and resolve. We ought to be ready to search under every rock and comb through every field for our missing loved ones, not just because they are well-connected or because their stories get media attention, but because it is the right thing to do. The wrong thing to do is to adopt the attitude of the villagers in the fable and let the wolves have their fill.

My fellow Gen Xers remember when almost every TV sitcom aired a runaway episode. The plot centered on the main character and/or a best friend who made a pact to do something crazy that a parent explicitly forbade, like Vanessa Huxtable (part one and two) sneaking off to have BIG Fun with the Wretched. Of course, the outcome of that episode was unforgettable hilarity, as were other light-hearted runaway storylines such as twins Tia and Tamera plotting to run away in order to stay together (Sister Sister); or baby sister Jennifer Keaton slipping away while big brother Alex isn't paying attention to her (Family Ties). 

There were also the kind of very special episodes that were intended to caution/scare us such as the runaway episode from The Facts of Life that seems most analogous to this situation. Tootie disobeys her parents and Mrs. Garrett by running away to visit New York City on her own. She gets robbed and retreats to a coffee shop where she meets a friendly girl named Kristi who chats her up and buys her lunch. Tootie doesn't realize that this is all part of a set up to recruit her into prostitution. Right before she gets duped into joining Kristi and her pimp, a waitress tips her off to the scam. Mrs. Garrett arrives just in time to whisk her home to safety.

That episode aired 40 years ago, and the message is as poignant today as it was when I was in the fourth grade. There are wolves in these woods, and we need to be vigilant and wary. It isn't a waste of effort or resources to protect our sheep. Furthermore, to mix in another metaphor from Peter and the Wolf (a different fable), we can't barricade our children in the house and expect that simply warning them against venturing out into the world will be sufficient. Due to their natural curiosity and inquisitiveness, some of them will stray, so they need to be equipped with the right tools to defend themselves when we aren't there to prevent disaster. And a good arsenal of tools should include discernment and common sense. Shame and ridicule are useless as they are intended to humiliate and break people, not correct and build them up.

Carlee is home. She has a family who can address her needs in private. There are others who have gone missing who still haven't been found. Still others languishing in foster care or who have just aged out of the system are vulnerable to being exploited in the very manner we feared Russell would be; hence, there are gaping holes in the safety net that don't catch everyone. Several nonprofits such as Angela Harris' nonprofit Aniah's Heart, the Black and Missing Foundation, and Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women could use more support and visibility. If it takes crying wolf to get us to come running, then we should ask ourselves why these children have everything else but our attention...

Shades of Purple

Come gather 'round children, because your Busy Black Mother wants to tell you all a story about a book and ALL of the trouble it has caused ever since it was published back when she was in elementary school in the early 80s. It has been quite a while since she "read" it (almost 40 years), but from what she can recall, it tells a rather polarizing story about a woman who survives abuse. In fact, there are several women in the story who survive various forms of abuse. This book won several prestigious awards for its author, became a critically acclaimed cult classic film, and was adapted as a Broadway musical for the stage that will be re-released in a new film adaptation later this year.

The Color Purple ("TCP") is a story that deeply offends certain groups of people. Having been around all of these years to witness its various iterations and adaptations, I can speak both directly and indirectly to aspects of the controversy. The book has been banned for its sexual explicitness which some find to be too mature for impressionable readers. The book and film have been criticized for depicting negative images of men as abusive. The book, film, and play provide cultural references and timeless quotes, much like The Godfather, that are appropriate to offer in almost any situation. Your perspective in favor or in opposition to the story depends on how you self-identify: (1) as a Florida Mom who dislikes Oprah Winfrey's poetry; (2) some sanctimonious woman named Karen who only heard about the sex scenes in the book; (3) somebody's Black Grandfather or elder Uncle who saw the movie once in the 1980s; (4) some young man who may have seen the movie a couple of times on BET, but his impressions have been shaped by what his Grandfather or Uncle said about it at the barbershop; or (5) a Black woman.

Let's quickly dispatch with the first two categories because they are in fact, the same person. It doesn't really matter what her real name is if she hasn't read the book but still insists on having it banned. I doubt that she's even taken the time to skim an online summary, because if she had, she would have a better response to its sexual content other than to clutch her pearls. But then again, this same woman raises objections to most books that contain sexual references because she only had sex to procreate. Now that she has her 2.5 children, she can channel that energy into other hobbies such as riding her Peloton, micro-managing, and filing complaints against her neighbors with the home-owners association for petty infractions. 

The targeted audience for this piece is the latter three categories of Black people. I am making an assumption that members of other communities aren't having these kinds of deep philosophical discussions about TCP, but if I'm wrong, feel free to associate with the group that makes the most sense. For example, if you happen to be a woman named Karen who read the book, likes/loves the movie and/or the play, then you are welcome to sit with like-minded Black women. Ditto if you are a Black man who knows that half of what you grew up hearing in the barbershop is unlotioned foolishness, while the other half is just something that some dude heard and repeated because it made him sound smart. 

If you are still unsure, no worries because the goal here is enlightenment. However, if you already know which side you are on and it isn't with the Black women...

The Color Purple is a book about Black women written by a well-known Black woman writer named Alice Walker. The original movie is about Black women. The Broadway musical is about Black women. And I suspect that the new movie will also be about Black women. In none of these versions and iterations is The Color Purple about abusive Black men. Read that again because I said what I said: there are abusive Black men in TCP, but this story ain't about them!

TCP is a story about a Black woman in rural 1930s Georgia who is a victim of horrifying sexual, physical, and emotional abuse. In fact, several of the women in the story are victims of abuse. For Celie, the main character, this abuse begins when she is a teenager and continues until she finds the courage to leave her abuser, many years later. The same is true for other women in the story. Therefore, I must emphasize that TCP is a story about how a group of Black women survive, overcome, and ultimately heal from the abuse that has been inflicted on them.

Let's back up some 40 years to when the book was published. As I stated above, I was in elementary school and I don't remember much about the accolades in real time, but I do recall that it won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award, and presumably that is why it was made into a movie. A few years later when I was in middle school, we heard that there were some steamy sex scenes contained therein, so like all curious pubescent teenagers, we needed to know. My Mom happened to be reading the book, so while I had access to it, I could not borrow it from her to read with my friends on our Metro summer commute.  Thus, someone else's older sibling must have borrowed for us, and for about a week, we "read" the book to find these scandalous sex scenes. 

Alas, the Karens were partially right in arguing that this content was too mature for young impressionable minds because most of us had no idea of what was going on. The most scandalous passages I remember reading contained nudity while bathing, self-discovery with a hand-held mirror, and two women sharing a kiss. None of the other themes made much of an impression because we were mostly scanning the book, not really reading it. I definitely did not get a full grasp of the lesbian relationship. The conclusion we all reached was that we would have to wait and see the movie to get a better understanding.

Fast forward to the release of the movie in 1985 which I did not get to see in the theater because it was rated R and I was twelve. It must have been years later before it came on television (and my family didn't have cable when I was growing up), so I was probably in high school when I finally saw it for the first time. And I had forgotten all about the alleged scandalous sex scenes (which were omitted, so there's that). 

Other specifics are also long-forgotten, but I do remember that my parents had opposing opinions about the movie. And it wasn't just a disagreement between them, because there was once a heated discussion about this film at a family gathering (no worries, no brown liquor was wasted), where sides were taken. My Dad, my Uncles, and some older male cousins expressed their opinion that the film was terrible; whereas, my Mom, my Aunts, and my older cousin who was in college were adamant that the menfolks were wrong. For my part, I did not express an opinion at that time because I was still in that gray area where kids were not allowed to participate grown folks' conversations. But I could listen. 

And I could reflect on what I heard. My Mom bought a copy of the movie on VHS so I could watch it as much as I wanted to decide for myself. Eventually, the movie became a Sunday afternoon staple on BET, but we'll revisit that a little later.

Instead, let's skip ahead to when I was at Spelman in the early 90s. As most of you know, I was an English major so my undergraduate degree was essentially a concentration in Black women's literature. The literary and artistic era of that time overlapped with a lot of great work written by Black women that received both critical and mainstream recognition. Most notably, Toni Morrison received the Nobel Prize in Literature, while other authors such as Walker, Gloria Naylor, Terry McMillan, and Spelman alumna Tina McElroy Ansa were on best-seller lists and having their books made into movies. With our charismatic Sister President and the fact that Spelman was a magnet for practically every prominent Black woman at the time, it meant that on any given day, I could see some brilliant Black writer whose work I just read walking around on campus. This iconic picture captures the vibe that permeated the air at that time.

Not pictured here was the ever-inspiring and brilliant Dr. Gloria Wade-Gayles, who was our resident Alice Walker scholar. She taught a mini-course on Walker that I had to sit in on once (don't remember why), where the students discussed her work and advocacy. It was a fascinating conversation that touched on a variety of topics, including Walker's reasons for leaving Spelman, her discovery of Zora Neale Hurston's grave, as well as the controversy that had accompanied TCP movie. Ironically, it was the first time that I witnessed a group of Black women offer criticism of TCP!

But don't get it twisted, these women were adamant that the shortcomings of the film were due to choices made by the filmmaker, the producers, and the actors, not the story as it was written. Certain characters were too cartoonish and some crucial elements of the book that were left out created unexplained gaps in the narrative. But at no point did any of these women argue that the male characters deserved to be judged with empathy, because at its heart, TCP was a story about the women.

The point of taking you on this side trip down memory lane was to set up what you must have assumed was the inevitable penultimate conflict that broke out in class between a group of my outspoken Spelman Sisters and some opinionated Morehouse Brothers. And you are half right, as there were several arguments that took place in Dr. Gayles' Images of Women in the Media class, except the argument I am recounting here was about another movie in another class.

Quite literally while I was thinking of some of the points I wanted to make in writing this piece on the new TCP, it was reported that rock icon Tina Turner had died. As the tributes to her (one forthcoming from me as well) poured in, one of the themes that kept getting repeated was how she was a survivor and feminist icon. And because those descriptions tend to trigger the denizens from Hotepistan armed with their pockets full of misogynoir pebbles, I knew it wouldn't take long before they would start throwing.

For it was during that same era when the Tina Turner biopic What's Love Got To Do With It (1993) was released, the summer before my return to Spelman for my senior year. During discussion in a class, some dude mentioned his frustration with the "constant" portrayals of Black men as abusive and made reference to TCP as part of what he saw as a "disturbing trend" in that direction. Record scratch...some sister stood up and asked incredulously (I'm embellishing): Brother, how do two movies released in a span of eight years point to a disturbing trend??? Are you serious? He countered that it wasn't just these two movies, but several works written by and about Black women that depicted Black men as evil, and then he offered this most incendiary shot across the bow: And half the women on this campus cheer that mess on because y'all hate Black men!

Now let me tell you, I don't know what happened to that dude, whether he made it back over to Morehouse with a full head of hair, or if he ever came back to class. Our inter-campus gender wars had been ongoing for years, so this wasn't anything that hadn't been heard or said before. Although I am pretty sure that this wasn't in Dr. Gayles' class, enough of us had been admonished by her in other courses to Claim Our Space, so the brother had no chance. He got ALL the smoke, with that original sister leading the charge. Since I cannot offer a play-by-play, I can tell you that the grand point that the sisters made that the brother ignored was this: These👏 Movies👏 Ain't👏 About👏 You👏 Boo👏

Like seriously, who goes to see a movie about Tina Turner's life with the expectation that Ike Turner ought to be depicted as a sympathetic yet misunderstood genius with no impulse control? Who reads a book written about an abused Black woman and expects that the story would urge readers to feel sorry for her abuser? Huh? In the canon of movies and books that had been written and championed by Black men, had there even been a fully-formed Black female character, someone who wasn't a two-dimensional cardboard cut-out simply placed in a scene to improve the optics? (Yep, here's looking at you Brother Spike.)

Furthermore, if Black women are telling stories about being abused, why is all this ire being aimed at the women for speaking up? Dead women can't speak for themselves, so the stories of survivors are what get told. Instead of being upset about the depictions of their abusers, perhaps get mad that there were/are men who subject women to that kind of treatment! We get it, not all men (just like not all white people, not all women named Karen, not all Christians, not all of any group, etc.), so if the accusation or depiction isn't reflective of who YOU are, then there is no need to be triggered or take it personally.

Literally, this is the same argument we've been having since before Al Gore invented the internet. Whether it takes place in analog or in these digital tweets, some of y'all refuse to accept that not all stories are going to tell your preferred narrative. Sometimes there are villains even among the disenfranchised, so your frustration that Mister and every other man in TCP were practically unredeemable isn't some statement against all Black men. Because this is Celie's story of surviving the abuse SHE endured, from her perspective, NO, there wasn't a single redeemable man who intervened to defend her, to rescue her, to protect her, or to avenge her.

And that ain't only true in fictional rural 1930s Georgia...

Some of y'all never have anything positive to say about Black women. Now that we are having these arguments in digital spaces, I don't need to rely on my memory--I can pull up CVS length receipts as proof. For example, I need only mention one of the following names: Kamala Harris, Ketanji Brown Jackson, Meghan Markle, Oprah Winfrey, Whoopi Goldberg, Stacey Abrams, Serena Williams, and I bet $100 that some ashy dude has been all over Blue Ivy's internet talking trash. Tina Turner hasn't been dead for more than 72 hours and some of y'all couldn't wait to blast her over having had a white husband. Not all Black men, but some of you hate any and every Black woman that you can't control. And just like some white people and some women named Karen and some Christians, if you can't control a Black woman, you will say and do whatever it takes to shape how others perceive her.

Ironically, that point is exactly what you missed if all you ever saw in TCP was red whenever Mister, Harpo, Old Mister, Shug's Daddy the Preacher, or Celie's stepfather were on screen. As long as Mister controlled everything in Celie's life, she only saw herself as he treated her. Harpo tried to beat his wife into submission. Old Mister didn't chastise his son for mistreating his wife. Shug's Daddy was more concerned about his reputation. And Celie's stepfather was a child-raping monster. You should be mad and ashamed at them and whenever men like them escape accountability.

Finally, back to BET and the fact that most of us have seen this movie more than enough times to appreciate and acknowledge its cultural relevance. It had been a staple of BET Sunday afternoon programming (until Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins replaced it). In fact, TCP has to be in the Top Five of the most quoted/memed Black movies of all time. I know this is a generalization but is there a Black person alive (older than 16) who doesn't recognize the context of Sophia or Shug Avery declaring "I'se married, I'se married now!"; or someone being pulled aside and asked, "Harpo, who dis?"; or this stern reply in a perfect Miss Millie intonation, "I don't know him"? You mean to tell me that you grew up on this movie, can quote lines from this movie, but still missed the point?

On this land??? (And if you caught that reference, then I KNOW your Grandmothers and Aunties would be ashamed if you are choosing the wrong side of this debate.) 

Now, if you read this far, there's not much more that I have to say...except (begrudgingly) you can dislike TCP for any number of reasons including, but not limited to its depiction of Black men. It is a good film, not perfect. Some of the critiques that have been offered are valid, particularly that director Steven Spielberg made certain creative choices that are problematic. And if you have paid any attention to Alice Walker over the years, she has become, shall we say Jim Brown-complicated--simultaneously wonderful for her past accomplishments and hideous the more we learn about her life and beliefs. I find her antisemitism and transphobia to be especially troubling. (Perhaps I could be accused of similarly attempting to bury the lede on Walker, but trust, I have and will revisit that can of worms another time.) As for the adaptation of the stage play for the silver screen, I must reserve judgment since I haven't seen the play (my parents did see it, and I am happy to report that it didn't provoke the same polarizing reaction). But still, just give it a chance as you should any other film. 

PS: Don't hate on Colman Domingo for being too believable as Mister if you haven't seen him in Zola (2021) (which I did and umm, yeah #IJS as a society, we need to be far more outraged by the way women are subjected to various kinds of abuse and exploitation)...

The Proud Family

This was one of several unfinished works-in-progress that I had in my drafts for over a year. Who knew that the pendulum of tolerance would swing so violently in that time? --ADH

A couple of years ago, I wrote a piece that expressed my frustrations with the commercial embrace of PRIDE Month, specifically the blatant rainbow labels on everything and the hideous offerings of rainbow-adorned clothing being sold at major retailers. I haven't changed my tune, in case you were wondering (because so far, things are not much better this year). But I want to be clear that my issue was not with the celebration of PRIDE, so if you were hoping that I would be firing up a tiki torch to set bonfires with the polo shirt and khaki pants brigade, you should stop reading now.

Last year I came to the conclusion that the corporate chase of the rainbow did indeed lead to a pot of gold. And I realized this after the Hub, the Kid, and I attended our very first Pride Parade. Last June marked the in-person return of the Capital Pride Parade from its COVID hiatus, and so when I tell you that there were terrible rainbow tutus and sequined Mork from Ork suspenders in abundance, I am not exaggerating. I was almost embarrassed that I wasn't wearing something equally tacky. Almost...

I intended to share these two stories to re-emphasize the point that declaring a commitment to being an ally of the LGBTQIA+ community must mean more than wearing the right tee or tutu to your local Gay Pride parade. To think that I was so proud of myself for not getting taken in by the commercialism, only to realize that what I assumed was the fickle and faddish support of PRIDE could have broader consequences. Who would have thought that in 2023 folks would be boycotting companies like Starbucks over their support of the LGBTQIA community? Some of those people have been losing their minds over rainbows on children's clothes (so guess what I just bought for my family from Target this past weekend...)

Story #1 - Eating Out

Yes, I need you to read into that title. Our trio traveled to NYC for the Memorial Day holiday weekend, planned weeks in advance by the Hub who had arranged accommodations at an Air BnB in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn. In case you don't already know this about me, I have terrible packing anxiety, the kind that has only worsened with age despite years of experience, but glory be, on this Saturday, we managed to leave the house and arrive in NYC while it was still light outside! We found street parking, found our lodging, and the Hub picked out a local restaurant where we could catch dinner at a reasonable hour. BUT...

Yeah, it was all too good to be true. I will save the Air BnB fiasco for another time (quick synopsis addressed here) and skip ahead to where all of the signs clearly indicated that our good fortune in stress-free travel had been too good to be true. We headed out on foot to the pre-selected restaurant, but in the wrong direction, and after walking several blocks the Hub decided to hail a Lyft. By this time, the sun had begun to set, so by the time we were deposited on the corner in front of a restaurant right before 9pm, we assumed it was the place we had been trying to find. It was open air and not busy, so the hostess told us to choose a table, and we headed to a spot up against a wall. Instantly, I spotted some "colorful" artwork and then did a quick scan of the entire wall and took note that there was a theme. For once, the Hub also noticed, so we quickly re-seated ourselves at a table in the middle of the room.

Once we were settled, he handed the Kid his phone to keep her distracted while we discussed our options. At this point, I had completed a full survey of the restaurant decor and determined that it was not, shall we say, kid-friendly. The other patrons included a couple on a date, a few folks at the bar, and a table full of folks who were doing the typical Saturday night pre-game gathering of friends (something that us old-marrieds-with-child tend to forget happens in real life). Should we stay since it was already late and the Kid probably hadn't seen anything too risqué (yet)? What would be the likelihood that we could leave and grab a table at another restaurant as quickly? If we did leave, what would be our rationale? Are we those over-zealous parents who think children ought to be shielded from everything or are we these wannabe hip urban adventurers with a Kid in Montessori? How bad could it get, I wondered...

No need to drag this out for the sake of suspense because all went well. Although neither the menu nor the decor were TGIFridays family-friendly, the chef sent us out a plate of fries and that made the Kid happy. Our food and drinks were great, the server was cool and patient, and I found a way to avoid having to explain why there was a picture of two naked women kissing when I took her to the bathroom. We left and discovered that the restaurant where we had intended to go was around the corner next door, but it was crowded and loud, so I have nothing bad to report about our experience at Maite. 

Story #2 - When In Rome

In fact, our positive dining experience at Maite is what convinced me that we ought to affirmatively go to the DC Pride festivities two weeks later. If we are in fact these wannabe hip urban adventurers I believed us to be, then why not attend the parade? Again, what is the worst that would happen during the day?

As it turns out, nothing. We got a late start, so I assumed we had missed everything, but we went anyway and got there in time to see plenty of floats, bands, and corporate product placement. It was packed with people, all excited to finally be free from social distancing. Although we were still cautiously masked, the gentleman I was standing with just chatted me up about everything from what we missed to the church he attended as if COVID nor my mask were concerns. He was more intrigued by what had compelled us to bring our then 7-year old to the parade, so I shared my thoughts on aspiring to be a wannabe hip urban adventurer with a Kid in Montessori. In other words, when in Rome...

But more importantly, I explained that I have to set an example of tolerance and acceptance for my daughter in a world that is very different than the one in which I was raised. She has already come into contact with children whose gender identification is fluid; in fact, before the summer ended, she had befriended a trans child and seemed nonchalant that their identity might be polarizing to adults. I'm pretty sure that unlike most urban adventurers, the fact that we haven't encountered that many families with same gender-loving parents is an anomaly. So if anything, attending the Pride Parade should feel as normal as going to a National's baseball game, complaining about the tourists during Cherry Blossom season, or making a special effort to drive by the White House Christmas tree. We live here and should take full advantage of all the special events and perks that come with living in the Nation's Capital. 

Just Say Gay

And if that had included Drag Queen Storytime when the Kid and I were regulars on the library story hour circuit, we would have been there! If her enthusiastic love for RuPaul's Drag Race is any indication, I would have had to move heaven and earth for her not to miss a moment. Her current obsession with the show was an unexpected fluke--one Friday night she came downstairs while I was flipping channels and the next thing I knew she had memorized the contestants' names and had designated her favorite queen. Kids like what they like, something the Hub and I have learned in spite of our efforts to steer her tastes away from shows like Bubble Guppies and generic recycled anime. That doesn't mean we can't influence what she watches; instead, it means we allow her to discover what she likes as long as it isn't harmful.

Harmful is the intolerant environment that has been created by these modern-day witch trials and scarlet lettering. One would think the cautionary tales of intolerance and repression as told by LGBTQIA Boomers and Gen Xers would have warned against this current climate. Of course it did, but those over-zealous culture warriors are relentless and shameless in their adherence to the rigid gender roles as assigned at birth. Those people don't care if queer children are more vulnerable to suicidal ideations, or if they run away from home, or if they become addicts. Those people don't have hearts or minds to which appeals for compassion can be made. Those people are why support organizations like The Trevor Project, GLAAD, GLSEN, and PFLAG are so necessary. In spite of their macho Alpha-male bravado, those people are threatened by the sight of men wearing dresses.

But apparently not all men in dresses, since I have yet to see the same organized fervor taken against the Catholic Church as I have seen in the past year against drag queens. Or did I miss any of the armed protests that were organized against Friday Night Bingo at St. Aloysius? Don't worry, I'm not only calling out the Church (especially since the Southern Baptists and the Mormons deserve just as much smoke, if not more), but I can tell you that more children were harmed by those clergy sexual abuse scandals than have been harmed by listening to Mistress Petty Pat read And Tango Makes Three. 

So let's not gloss over the fact that many of the loudest "Christians" who have been yelling crucify them at the LGBTQIA community happen to be members of fundamentalist congregations. Particularly in the case of the Southern Baptists, this entire crusade seems like a massive deflection from their denominational failure to root out and condemn the sexual violence committed within their ranks. The conflation of acceptance and tolerance as "grooming" is intentional given how many of those same people have advocated against choice in reproductive health care for women; supported book bans and efforts to promote anti-racism, diversity, and inclusion; and justified their bigotry as an expression of faith in order to self-righteously condemn everyone who disagrees with them as godless. 

As I reflect back on that night from almost a year ago, all I knew at the time was that we had chosen to stay at a restaurant other than the one where we had intended to eat. That choice was not meant to be a political statement, but it has become symbolic of the kind of allyship we want to impart to our daughter. Because no, we are not those people (nor are we all that hip or adventurous as parents); however, we are the kind of parents who hope that she respects the humanity in everyone. I proudly accept being called godless by those people because I don't worship their gods and false idols. My God doesn't restrict love to man-made traditions. My God is love, and He put the rainbow in the sky as a covenant to us of that love. 

Therefore, when I see the rainbows and the ever-expanding acronym of people who find meaning in each color, my first reaction isn't one of anger. Because how is there a hidden agenda in a tee shirt that depicts a dinosaur shooting rainbow beams from its eyes at spaceships (when neither dinosaurs nor spaceships exist)? How does a swimsuit with a tucking feature affect my child if she doesn't need to wear that? And why should I be triggered if some shy adult needs that feature so that they can feel more confident and comfortable? I am the Busy Black Woman, so trust, I don't have time to record a shaky TikTok video of myself looking and sounding deranged over the clothing selection at Target. I won't be stalking anyone in a public bathroom to demand to know whether they were born male or female. Nor would I shoot up full cans of beer that I bought because I don't like that one of their spokesmodels dresses like Holly Golightly.

And shame on Anheuser-Busch for bowing to that bigotry! To any other corporate brand that is contemplating how best to respond to this backlash, the right thing to do is stand firm. If your options include full or even a partial retreat then I guess I was right to be skeptical about all of this back in 2019. Y'all are just selling us shit covered in rainbows. 

Allyship isn't a fad nor is it a marketing strategy. PRIDE isn't supposed to conform to the politics of heteronormative respectability. And whether those people like it or not, the LGBTQIA movement won't be shamed back into the closet. Anyone who embraces repression and discrimination will find themselves on the losing side of history--maybe not in the short-term, but eventually. Because the moral arc of the rainbow is long, but it bends towards justice.

 

Hamburgers from A Golden Calf

I wrote an entire mini-blog on the Facebook page about last week's mass shooting in Nashville, then erased it. Lately, I find it hard to express my feelings succinctly; yet, I know that most people couldn't be bothered to read a rambling long-form piece either...but I press on, hoping that maybe this isn't all an exercise in futility.

We are broken as a society. 

That is my short take. We are screwed. We are doomed. And all because we place more value on the things we acquire than on the blessings we have been given.

Life is a blessing, but if you spend it in the unending pursuit of acquisition, what is the point? A couple of weeks ago, I started to watch that documentary about that couple in Florida that tried to replicate the French royal palace at Versailles, but I fell asleep midway and now it is no longer available on Amazon Prime. I did look up the family because one little detail got stuck in my head--how the husband had been involved in the Florida election debacle of 2000. Hmm, I thought, right before it dawned on me that instead of probing into the machinations of his election frauds from behind bars, he's the subject of a movie about his unfinished house. His wife is starring in a reality series and they will soon be featured in a Broadway musical, because why not? It's the American dream...

I saw enough of the documentary to be introduced to the eldest daughter, Victoria, who has since died from a drug overdose. That is tragic beyond words, so upon reading that in her memory the family set up a foundation that distributes Narcan and engages in other prevention advocacy, I won't center her as the object of my criticism. However, it is her death, as well as the other senseless and avoidable deaths of children and innocents that bring me to my central premise: we are broken because we aren't more mindful of what we value.

Do we value life or things? Because it really comes down to that. We are given ONE life, and during its course, we are presented with various choices of how best to live. Some people are blessed with circumstances that allow them an array of options while others have to struggle for every crumb. Many of us fall somewhere in the middle of those two extremes. And most of us are deluded by thinking that we would be better off if only we had more, including those who already have more than enough. 

The title of this piece is a metaphor of how we can have everything, but in the end, it amounts to very little. What does it mean to amass everything and still have nothing of value? I thought of a video I saw during the pandemic of a 24-carat gold-encrusted steak, and how utterly ridiculous and wasteful it seemed. If gold is one of the world's most precious and valuable metals, then who thought it was a good idea to ingest it? Of course, once someone utters these three indulgent words, because I can, it no longer matters if they've ordered a steak or a hamburger, because it's still going to be shit in a few hours.

This latest school shooting is just another poignant example of how our society chooses its things over life itself. What life or death battles need to be fought in the aisles of Walmart or at a Subway sandwich shop? Most of y'all allegedly live in these nice suburban neighborhoods where you claim life is so splendid and wonderful, so why do you need an AK-15 to carry out your daily errands? Nobody in this country needs a military-style combat weapon for personal protection, but when asked to explain what purpose it serves, you all stumble through the same jumble of words about Founding Fathers, freedom, liberty, Donald Trump, and then ultimately arrive at because I can. Yet, when it comes to considering any kind of compromises aimed at preventing mass tragedy, you suddenly become powerless. 

It isn't as if gun violence is some unpredictable natural disaster or act of nature. Guns are manmade tools, and each lethal incarnation is someone's intentional creation. The entire point of having a gun is to shoot something (or imply that you will). For the sake of argument, let's agree that gun collecting is an acceptable waste of your hard-earned money. Your priceless collection isn't just piled up on a tacky TV tray; it is inside some kind of display case or it is locked away in a safe. It is protected, because the last thing you want is for Junior to take your antique Civil War era pistol to school in his backpack to pass around for show and tell. 

You choose to secure that which you deem priceless and valuable. So why can't we think of better ways of keeping people safe in public places? Because we choose not to do so.

Some of you know this, but I have been around these debates over gun control for a long time. I have been taking note of how our country responds to these incidents for even longer. My first vivid recollection of a gun massacre took place at a McDonald's outside of San Diego in San Ysidro, California in 1984. I was ten, and I read every gory detail that had been published about the shooting spree that left 21 workers and patrons dead. I remember how it would be weeks before I felt comfortable going into a McDonald's restaurant. It was a well-known fact that certain locations were more dangerous than others, which I knew first-hand from having been warned most of my life which ones to avoid after dark.

Of course, I came of age in a city wrecked by the crack epidemic that resulted in a daily tally of drug and gang-related murders. If you took the time to watch that Nightline clip, just know that I grew up in one of the neighborhoods that was identified as a warzone. Notice that they didn't interview any community leaders from that West of the Park quadrant, because none of them had to wrack their brains for solutions to urban gun violence. Their kids did drugs too (ask me how I know), but as I got older, it became clear to me that safety was a function of access--on the one hand to the resources that could keep one's home and streets secure, and on the other hand to the instruments that made another person's neighborhood unsafe. As long as the danger was confined and kept off their streets, our problems could and were avoided. We weren't worthy of attention until the crime in DC became a national embarrassment. 

Marinate on that point, because it needs to be emphasized: It was embarrassing that our murder rate was high. Not tragic, but embarrassing, the same word used to describe what it feels like to have a zit on the tip of your nose on picture day.

I referenced the San Ysidro Massacre because I keep seeing all of these heartfelt pleas from families to protect the lives of our most vulnerable, but we weren't moved by the picture of a dead child lying next to his bicycle, nor by the descriptions of how the gunman indiscriminately shot babies and seniors alike. That was nearly 40 years ago, and none of the subsequent mass tragedies moved the needle. NOT A ONE. I was a Hill staffer during the gun control debates after the Columbine High School massacre, and I have never forgotten how then-Rep. Carolyn McCarthy (D-NY) recounted the personal tragedy of having lost her husband in the Long Island Railroad Massacre just a few years earlier. No one changed their votes. When that gunman opened fire at Mother Emmanuel AME Church in South Carolina, the Confederate flag finally came down (allegedly), but no reforms to gun laws. Sandy Hook Elementary, Tree of Life Synagogue, Route 91 Harvest Music Festival, Pulse Nightclub, Tops Friendly Market...

I guess no one is embarrassed enough yet.

The claim that none of those incidents could have been prevented is patently false when we've taken decisive action to prevent subsequent tragedies. Perhaps we could not have stopped the Kennedy assassination, but we no longer allow the President to go anywhere without sufficient security, not even an ex-President going to his arraignment. When a gunman killed two Capitol police officers in the Rotunda, they erected cement barricades and built a Visitor Center to screen entrants to the Capitol. Because there used to be an explicit ban on firearms, the January 6th Insurrectionists had to resort to flagpoles and bear-repellant spray as weapons. And all of us are familiar with the various security measures implemented after 9/11, with not nary a shoe bomber.

However, because you can, you claim that your Second Amendment rights are more important than safety at the grocery store, at church, on the Vegas Strip, at a nightclub, and for children while at school. Yet, if you were to demand that Jerry Jones grant you a waiver to bring your guns into his skybox at AT&T Stadium, I'm 100% sure he wouldn't even entertain the thought. Because he can.

In response to more senseless and preventable death, the people with power can spin the wheel to choose who lives and who dies. Drop permitting and licensing requirements (so now any and everybody can claim to be a "good guy with a gun"). Arm the underpaid teachers (and shift the liability to them for failing to save lives). Post the Ten Commandments in every classroom (to blame the godless atheists when bad things happen for their disbelief). Refuse to feed any hungry children at lunchtime (too expensive to feed them in school, so we'll wait until they're incarcerated). Sanitize the retelling of history so that the 'bad guys' are always the people who were enslaved or annihilated, or who protested against enslavement and annihilation (everything that isn't old-fashioned America-is-exceptional patriotism is Critical Race Theory and communism). Turn everything inside out so that people are more upset that drag queens are reading to children than they are that the protestors against these events have come with loaded guns.

In another reminiscence from my childhood, I recall when John Lennon was killed in the doorway of his Manhattan apartment building. Apart from not knowing who he was at the time, I later saw a political cartoon that had a line-up of various notable people who had been assassinated that included the Kennedys, MLK, and Gandhi with the caption, "Guns don't kill, people do." While I have never been able to track down that image, it has stayed with me all of these years. The slogan itself has morphed into a perpetual meme, with different phrases added such as 'men with mustaches', 'Dads with daughters', and whomever your political enemies of the moment might be. This 1980 editorial by Mike Royko accurately satirizes the sentiment that we would rather choose to preserve and protect gun rights instead of people. 

Because we would rather have ALL the things, the choice to protect guns is just like the greed of King Midas in requesting the golden touch--already blessed with abundance, but still not satisfied with anything. It took the loss of his daughter for him to realize what was worth more than his possessions. In the 40 years since San Ysidro, the only people living with the nightmare of what happened were those who were there. It's the same with every other mass shooting and any weekend murder tally from Chicago, especially now that tragedy strikes with such regularity that the media can only devote a few hours to each in a 24-hour news cycle. As long as the threats don't get too big or too close (to adapt a phrase that my Dad often uses when commenting on how white people feel about Black people in the South and North, respectively), this is DC in the 80s all over again. The statistics and body counts won't matter unless and until those chickens come home to roost.

Having lost so many lives and seeing no desire to choose differently from the people who have been in power, we're at this inflection point: either doomed to wander in the wilderness until we perish or choosing to demolish our idols and false gods in order to be saved. To briefly revisit the Siegels, note that they aren't donating their fortune to provide Narcan to prevent other addicts from dying like their daughter; they're trying to figure out how to resurrect the remains of their American Versailles. Because they can... 

What can we do? Keep fighting like hell. Getting back up when we get knocked down. Showing up. Speaking out. Standing up. Sitting in. Refusing to take whatever they give us as a consolation for not keeping us safe. Fighting for what we believe is worth more than hamburgers ground from a Golden Calf.

* I've been mulling over this piece for a few days, while paying attention to the shenanigans on the ground in Tennessee. First it was the proposal to arm teachers (cited above), then the threat to expel three Democrats for staging an "insurrection" by using bullhorns on the floor of the legislature out of turn. Last night, the two Black Members in the trio, Justin B. Jones and Justin Pearson, were expelled. While everyone, myself included, had a visceral reaction to the optics, I would like to add that my reaction now isn't just anger and resignation, but resolve. Yes, these young men are Black, and it should be noted how attacks and efforts to curtail and undermine the rise of Black lawmakers is not new. This is 21st Century Redemption, wherein the rules are being changed and enforced to disempower...because they can. Not unless we allow it.

Dear Black Mothers

A few years ago, I attended a rally in downtown DC against police misconduct and brutality, shortly after the uprising in Ferguson, Missouri. This was sometime in the fall of 2014 following the death of Michael Brown. As a veteran attendee of these kinds of events, this was the first time I went as a soon-to-be mother...I was a couple of weeks pregnant.

Here's the thing, I would have gone anyway, but I was definitely more motivated and compelled to attend at that early stage of my pregnancy. It was still too soon to learn the gender, but my rationale was that in a family with one granddaughter and another one coming, both the daughters of my brothers, surely I could expect to bring forth a boy. (Of course, I was wrong as you all know, and for that we can blame my Dad for not passing on his mathematical genius to me, the Hub for his contribution of that second X chromosome, or my pregnancy hormones.) Nevertheless, the point of going was to stand with the other Black mothers, in solidarity as one of them with the same fears and anxieties for my unborn Black child. As I stood in the crowd and put my hand on the not-even-there-yet poof of a baby bump, I was overcome by tears. 

How can I protect this child from a system determined to regard him as guilty from the moment he enters the world?

Since I opted not to learn the gender of the baby in advance, when I gave birth to my daughter, I have to admit that I let out a brief sigh of relief. Sure, there are anxieties attached to raising a young Black girl in this society, of which I am most keenly aware as she heads into puberty. However, I don't have to set as a goal seeing her live to the age of 18 as a measure of my success or failure as a parent. Sadly, that isn't something that Black mothers of sons can assume is guaranteed. 

I became painfully aware of that fact just a few years earlier when Trayvon Martin was killed and his murderer was acquitted. The entire encounter hinged on the right of a self-styled neighborhood vigilante to determine whether the young Black man he saw was legitimately in his own neighborhood. The fact that the killer made the assumption that Martin did not belong is precisely the moment their fateful encounter derailed. I read so many opinions that framed what happened as a cautionary tale about how young Black men ought to conduct themselves. And no matter how many details pointed to what we knew was obvious, none of it mattered. It was somehow the fault of the 17-year old child who was profiled, stalked, attacked, and then killed to have acted in some way to overcome the presumption of his guilt for merely existing.

Since 2012, this pattern has been repeated too many times. There are too many names we vow never to forget, too many Black mothers in mourning. It doesn't stop. Every death renews the need for The Talk, but with constant caveats and revisions. Don't wear hoodies because you might look suspicious. Don't play with a toy gun because it might be mistaken for the real thing. Don't make any sudden moves that might be misinterpreted as threatening. Don't disclose that you are legally carrying a weapon with a permit. Don't make eye contact with the officers. Don't ask why you were stopped even if you didn't break any laws. Don't try to drive to a well-lit area because then you are leading the police on a 'chase'. Don't hang anything from the rearview mirror, not even a rosary or your graduation tassel because you might get stopped. Don't reach into your pocket for your license and registration even though you were ordered to provide them to the officer. Don't get seen smoking or drinking water in your own car. Don't assume that your good credit rating, advanced degrees, military uniform, or fancy zip code will exempt you from mistreatment. 

Do whatever they tell you, even if it consists of 71 conflicting commands all shouted simultaneously while you're being beaten. The goal is to make it home alive. 

In the cinematic build-up to the release of this video of Tyre Nichols, I had already resolved not to watch. It felt wrong both to anticipate its release and to make every effort to avoid it, but I understand that the Nichols' family authorized the timing of the release so that the world could see it, unredacted and raw. And in my internal debate with myself about why I didn't need or want to subject myself to that horror, I kept asking why must we force Black mothers to summon the courage of Mamie Till-Mobley? Why don't we have the option to mourn our dead children without the gaze of the world looking on while offering no comfort?

Of course, that begs the question of why we put Black mothers in the position of having to grieve for our children in the first place. We are always told that it is unnatural for parents to bury their offspring, but life doesn't happen according to how we think it should. And Black mothers are not unique in experiencing loss. However, unless it is accidental or unavoidable, Black death is always political. We die under circumstance that are engineered to kill us, from chronic untreated health disparities to environmental racism to gang warfare to the kind of state-sponsored lynchings carried out by the police. Grief is a permanent reality for Black mothers.

And no one cares. There are excuses and bullshit explanations for every incident. Here in DC there was a debate on social media over the recent death of an unarmed 13-year-old child who was shot by someone who thought he was trying to steal a car. It was disheartening to see that folks had taken the time to type out how bad they felt, but...and you can fill in the blank of any number of mitigating reasons why it was not outrageous that another Black child had lost his life. 

I won't reiterate the very well-written points that have been made about the spectacle of Black death and how seeing such violence further contributes to our dehumanization. And it isn't just Black bodies because I felt a similar sense of disgust over the calls for the Uvalde, Texas parents to allow the bloody photos of their massacred children to be published. The way these mass shootings have been stacking up numbers and occurring indiscriminately across all communities, I thought it was particularly gruesome to demand to see the bullet-ridden corpses of those Latino children. As if the scene of their slaughter would finally convince America that our love of guns is literally killing us... 

Note how similar requests have not been suggested to the families of other mass shooting victims. Also note the contrast between the way accountability was swiftly meted out in Memphis by its chief but how the finger-pointing in Uvalde dragged on for months. I want to believe that the makeup of each law enforcement agency made the difference but having a Black/Latinx police chief or a force that demographically represents those communities didn't prevent either tragedy. Yet, what happened in Uvalde is the norm, and now the police chief in Memphis is under scrutiny for her past leadership of another specialized police unit. Furthermore, as long as we're caught up in a culture war that treats policing itself as its own demographic that exists apart and above the lives of those whom the profession is supposed to protect and serve, then true accountability is impossible.

Perhaps it is endemic in a system that was built on the mythology of Black inferiority, of bodies bought and sold at auction, that it is our utility that has the most worth, not our actual lives. What else explains the organized backlash against the simplest of statements, that our lives matter too? And what of the self-defeatist denouncements of Black culture that come from our own children? I was dismayed to read a tweet from somebody's Black man-child that there exists within Black culture a pathology that glorifies death. And that truly broke my heart because if he's barely 21 saying something so declaratively ignorant like that on Al Gore's internet, as are prominent Black pundits like Jason Whitlock, then is it any wonder why Black mothers cry out loud but find little comfort?

Our culture glorifies death? Meanwhile white families pose for these pictures and send them as Christmas greetings. No one would dare vilify this mother if something terrible happens to one of her children. Yet, the single Black mother of two sons who worked hard to keep them out of trouble; who sent her younger son to stay with his father (her ex-husband) to give him more structure and discipline; who had to endure watching her family being re-traumatized in the court of public opinion after her son's killer was acquitted--she's the bad mother, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. 

Here's the thing Mr. Jason 'Fearless' Whitlock et. al., it doesn't take a lot of courage to talk shit about Black women on a podcast. True fearlessness is standing up in the aftermath of personal tragedy to demand accountability and justice, not whining to the manosphere. In most of these cases, Black mothers are the ones who lead the transition from mourning to marching. In Memphis, it was another Black mother, the police chief you attacked, who took decisive action to ensure that these officers were held accountable. That was supported by more decisive action taken by an organization of real community-minded men, the brothers of Omega Psi Phi Fraternity, Inc. And that must really annoy the folks who pay you to keep the focus on the games meant to distract us instead of the struggles meant to liberate us. 

Dear Black Mothers and Aunties, there is a Balm in Gilead, but it will not be prescribed by those who oppress us and kill our babies. Why should we believe that our families are doomed just because someone else's faith claims that the only proper roles for women in God's Kingdom are as servants, virgins, prostitutes, or widows? The same God who anointed a lowly shepherd boy and made him a great king also performed some of His most transformative miracles in the lives of women. Look at what He did for Sarah, Rahab, Ruth, Queen Esther, Elizabeth, Mary, Jairus' daughter, the woman with the issue of blood, the Samarian woman at the well, and Mary Magdeline at the tomb. Beyond procreation, every other gender-based restriction on earth is man-made and benefits those looking to retain their tenuous grip on power. 

If the patriarchy is threatened by strong women, then Black women, who have had to stand in the gap created by centuries of racist practices and policies that removed Black men as the primary providers and protectors, must be especially intimidating. Harriet Tubman didn't wait for her husband, who was not enslaved, to give her permission to escape, nor was she deterred when he didn't join any of her return trips. Mamie Till Mobley, a widow, was advised to bury her only begotten son quietly so as not to stir up trouble, but she had other ideas. Barbara Johns, Linda Brown, Elizabeth Eckford, and Ruby Bridges were children on the front lines of school desegregation in the 1950s and 60s. Claudette Colvin was an unwed teenage mother, but her arrest nine months prior set the stage for Rosa Parks and the Montgomery Bus Boycott. So tell us again, Mr. Jason 'Fearless' Whitlock about who and what is God-ordained? Who are you to declare that Black women, who have lost fathers, husbands, and sons, ought not to take the lead in our families and communities as necessary? Just as our ancestors pieced together clothing scraps and rags into beautiful quilts, grieving Black Mothers have sewn together the remnants and keep their families together.

You write/talk about sports for a living...so maybe you need to stay in that lane.

I began with this piece by invoking the memory of a protest I attended back in 2014. It has not escaped my notice that Tyre Nichols must have been about 17 years old at that time (close in age to Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin) and how his parents probably sat him down to have what was then, a revised version of The Talk to avoid meeting their same fate. Here we are ten years later and I cannot fathom the pain his mother must be feeling. I look at Mrs. RowVaughn Wells and see a lot of the women I know--classmates, sorors, women at my church, etc. Any one of us could be in her place, even me as I am old enough to have had a son the same age. 

Like this young mother, I am willing to face down tanks and police in riot gear to protect my daughter, but I shouldn't have to. I should not have to worry that in 10-12 years, my young nephews, cousins, and great-nephews will have to be sat down for The Talk, updated with a new set of prohibitions because some other Black mother's son didn't make it home alive. Nichols' own son will be receiving that same Talk around that same time. 

Dear Black Mothers, we must keep praying and marching for the lives of our babies. There is a parable of a persistent widow who sought to be heard by an unjust judge, and though he initially ignored her pleas, he eventually granted her the justice she sought. Keep the faith, my Sisters, because we are fighting a corrupt system, and if we don't keep seeking justice, who will?