Thank You & See You Later

Well folks, it's about that time. I'm killing my blog for the foreseeable future. Sharing my thoughts, feelings and observations with you the past few years has been scary, happy, sad, joyful and altogether great but I've realized these past few months that my focus has not been on the blog which is why the posts have been so spotty. If I can't do this properly, it's not worth doing. More importantly, it does not serve you.

I hope to return to Caviar & Grits in the future. In the meantime, be on the lookout for the the Black Professional Woman anthology series published by the Professional Women's Network. I have a piece in Book 1 that is set to be published before the Christmas holiday. Book 2 is scheduled for publishing before summer and I will have a piece in that book as well. I plan on publishing a second volume of "Thoughts" and will get the word out when it is publlished.

Thank you for sticking with me these years. I wish each of you peace, joy and love.

Fiercely Hang On to Your Joy

There was a time when driving for long distances brought me happiness. When the felling hit me, I’d point the car in a direction and took off without any destination in mind, just drive until I felt the urge to stop. Sometimes I’d pick up my best friend and we would just go, singing along the way with the songs on the radio or on the cassette. Oft times she’d fall asleep after two or three hours because she finds looking at the road hypnotizing. I’d turn down the sound, listen to her soft breathing and let my mind wander as I drove. When the feeling hit again, I’d pull over, get out of the car and sit on the hood letting the engine cool as I contemplated life and in particular my life.

When I needed clarity, I’d go to the lakefront, stick my feet and the water and sit with my face towards the sun. I’m not a believer in astrology but I am a water sign and being anywhere near water feels me with a sense of calm and wellbeing. I would go the lakefront even in the dead of winter when the Chicago wind, commonly known as The Hawk, would whistle all around. Just standing and looking at the water gave me peace. I feel closest to the Creator there. I find strength there and clarity. Water seems to help me erase the demons of fear, uncertainty, weariness and self-loathing. I felt at one with the water and I felt powerful.

My other sanctuaries are books and music. Libraries and book stores are my favorite places in the world. I get lost in those places the way people who love to shop get lost in the joy of the mall. The few times I visit I mall, I make a beeline for the bookstore and remain there until someone comes for me. Reluctantly, actually almost angrily, I have to be dragged away from the objects of my joy – books. I’m almost the same way when we go dancing. Although I listen to music at home and often put on a CD to dance to, I really like going dancing. There is something mystical about getting dressed in something fun but comfortable, a great pair of shoes that can take the punishment I will dish out on the dance floor and going to a place where lights and music swirl all around. The hard thump of the music, the revolving light, the gyrating bodies – there is nothing else like it.

By now you’re probably wondering where I’m going with this. I felt the need to share these things that have brought me joy because we live in a time when joy is lost. How many times have you allowed others or circumstances to steal your joy? I certainly have. I con my husband (not really, he knows) into driving me places because I hate driving in the city. When I would go on those trips, I’d be driving on the expressway. But I hate driving in the city. Too many lights, too many pedestrians walking in the middle of the street or against the light. Too many people texting or talking on cell phones not paying attention to the road. The joy of driving has been taken away from me and I didn’t even realize it was gone.

I’ve been back from that ill-fated move to Mississippi for almost two years. I’ve yet to go to the lakefront. We’ve had wonderful summers these past two years. Chicago has had a host of hot, muggy days and I have yet to dip my toe into the cool waters of Lake Michigan. That joy, as well, has mysteriously disappeared.

My love of books remains but I stopped reading as much as I once did. There was a time when I read at least three books a week. I stopped buying books and really begin to utilize my local library. I’m such a constant at the Woodson that I know not only the librarians and clerks but the janitors and security guards as well. Just the other day, I was at a store and one of the security guards recognized me. He had to remind me of who he was because he’d left the library some months ago and I didn’t recognize him. I am avid watcher of Book-TV on the weekends but I don’t watch it for the full 72 hours taking notes as I once did. Right not I have three books checked out from the library and I’ll have to return them before I finish them. The same goes for music. I still enjoy dancing but we don’t go as often and I don’t dance as much at home. The thrill is gone.

I’ve lost my joy. I’ve lost everything has brought me joy. No one took joy from me. I just let it go in the process of doing other things and seeing to the needs of others in my life. Somewhere in all of that, I neglected to take care of myself and my needs and wants. I got so wrapped up in what was needed like finding the money for my son’s final year of college. Like holding my marriage together because my husband was in another state caring for his mother and getting her affairs in order. Like helping my stepmother deal with my father as he deals with dementia and life in a nursing home. Like trying to deal with my health issues and my weight that is spiraling out of control. Like hustling for writing assignments and trying to get all our bills paid. Like getting my best friend into rehab to deal with her alcoholism. Like taking in my son’s best friend who was homeless. I did what was needed and required for everyone in my life and lost my joy in the process.

There’s no one to blame other than me that I can blame for this. I wish I could. But I can’t. I can only tell you how precious your joy is. I can tell you that it’s easy to lose your joy and not know it’s gone until you realize how joyless your life is. I can tell you that your joy is worth finding and holding on to and worth fighting for once you find it. I can tell you that today and every day from now on, I’m going to find my joy. That joy may be the things that once brought me joy or maybe something new like meditation or swimming or volunteering. I don’t have a clue. But I know I will find it. And I’ll be mindful of it and not take it for granted. It’s too hard to find and too easy to live. Fight fiercely for your joy.

What A Wonderful World

I apologize to you who follow this blog for the length of time between posts. I’ve simply had too much life in my life. Now that there is some sense of normalcy, I can get back to writing posts I hope you will find worthwhile.

Sunday night like billions of people around the world, I watched the Olympics closing ceremony. Also as many people around the world, I watch the summer and winter Olympics. I enjoy seeing cities I may never have an opportunity to visit. I enjoy the stories on athletes from other countries. There is a sense of excitement watching the best athletes and teams compete with dignity and genuine care, two qualities that seem to be lacking in this time of rudeness and disrespect. Watching these athletes compete filled me with hope, hope that maybe, just maybe, we’ll return to an age where human kindness is second nature to us all.

In addition, the events themselves, I also marveled at number of countries participating and how the world is filled with people of color. My husband watched the opening ceremony with me and he was amazed at how many people of color there are in the world based on the parade of athletes entering the Olympic stadium. Race is generally not a topic that comes up during the games unless there is a U.S. first like Gabby Douglas during the 2012 London games. Announcers are quick to label the first African American to win such and such. I must admit that I saw many Black firsts as well however I did more than just see the firsts. I cheered for them. I screamed for the Black women I saw participating in sports I had never seen a Black woman do before. I saw Simone Manuel win the gold in swimming. I saw Michelle Carter win gold in the shot put. I saw Jenny Arthur compete in weightlifting. I saw Jennifer Abel perform breathtaking dives as a member of the Canadian diving team. I saw a fencing team with two Black women. I saw the U.S. women’s gymnastics team that was primarily women of color win multiple god medals. I cheered until I lost my voice each time I saw a woman of color compete. And finally I cried because I could scream no more and I felt overjoyed and overwhelmed much as I did that election night in 2008 when I saw something I thought I would never see in my lifetime. And it felt good!

There has been so much rage perpetrated against Black people in this country. Not just the injustice of slavery or the fallacy of freedom that followed Reconstruction. Not just the horrendous Jim Crow era or the short lived triumphs of the Civil Rights movement. We are 16 years into a new century and the stink of racism is rising all over this country. The powers that be in this country are not content to make life hell for Black people. Latinos, especially Mexicans, are coming under fire. Members of the LGBT community are dealing with government sanctioned discrimination laws under the guise of religious freedom. This November we have to be choose between one of two evils for president. That scares the living hell out of me. But for these past two weeks, the anger I felt about being under siege as a Black person in America, the shame I felt as I watch my country turn back the hands of time, the trepidation I feel about the upcoming presidential election, it all took a back seat to the wonder and awe of the summer Olympics in Rio.

If only we could do this all the time. What a wonderful world it would be.

Ode to Chicago in Summer

So much has happened since my last post that I don’t know where to begin. Prince, Mohammed Ali and my mother-in-law died. I’ve travelled to Mississippi several times. More states have passed egregious anti-gay laws while other states have passed anti-abortion laws. The governor of Illinois is still refusing to sign the budget which has caused hundreds of college students to drop out as some colleges are close to shuttering their doors. The Trump juggernaut continues its march toward a Republican presidential nomination while Hillary fights for her campaign over email and Bernie Sanders is caught short on his stance on racism in America. And the History Channel hosted a four day showing of a new Roots. It’s been one hell of a few weeks.

With all this and more, I’m happy warm weather has arrived in Chicago. It is a time when this city comes alive. Although the reports coming from my city basically consist of weekends that culminate in violence throughout the city, I relish this time of the year. Yes, violence escalates in my city in the summer because people have been set free from their winter shackles but violence also escalates in the deep of winter when people are killed over shoveled out parking spaces. There is no ambivalence in this city during winter or summer. I don’t believe we really get a spring or fall. I refer to those in between months as stuff because that’s the only way I can describe those months. I relish summer in Chicago because festival season arrives with the Blues Fest and ends in September with the Jazz Festival. From late May through early September we have major festivals downtown on the lakefront, neighborhood festivals that celebrate the diversity of my city, Summerdance where Chicagoans gather together to dance polka and salsa and all other forms of dance, Shakespeare and movies in neighborhood parks, Taste of Chicago and the Printers Row Book Fair. These annual celebrations and events and many others are what give Chicago its flair, its flavor. It’s what makes my hometown wonderful.

I love this city when the temperatures soar. The smell of bar-be-que on July 4th in the afternoon and polish sausages being grilled at Jim’s stand near Maxwell Street at 3am – there is nothing like it. Rainbow Ice Cream opens after being closed all winter with lines out the door. Garrett’s popcorn shops with crowds of tourists gathered outside the door waiting patiently to get a Chicago mix of cheese and caramel popcorn. Lines of people wait uncomplainingly at Gino’s or Uno’s or Girodano’s to get deep dish pizza.

Navy Pier does fireworks Wednesday and Saturday nights. Sitting on one of the long ships in Lake Michigan is one of the best ways to see them. The White Sox do fireworks whenever a Sox player hits a homer. On a clear day from the observation deck at the Sears Tower (not Willis) you can see all the surrounding states. The atmosphere at the Maxwell Street Market on Sunday afternoon is festive as the sounds and smells of Mexico envelop you. Boats dot Lake Michigan from as far north as Evanston and as far south as northeast Indiana. There is excitement in the air as thousands of Chicagoans awakened from another long, cold winter emerge to rush the lakefront. Chicago is alive again and there is nothing like it.

There is much I miss about the Chicago of my childhood. I miss neighborhood movie theaters, Riverview, the original Maxwell Street Market and the old band shell. I miss Soul Train when it was still a local show and the stores on 63rd and Halsted. I miss the electric line CTA buses and drive-in’s. I miss Carson Pirie Scott’s downtown store and the old Greyhound bus station. And with all that is gone from the Chicago of my youth, I still love this town.

I’ve seen many skylines over the years, walked over many bridges, spent days walking through lots of city parks in different cities. They're nice, some lovely and still others beautiful but none can compare to Chicago. There is no skyline as beautiful as downtown Chicago especially when you’re flying into the city at night. Chicago is my town, my home and one of the great loves of my life. No matter where I may roam, no matter where I’ve lived in the past or may live in the future, Chicago will always be home.

Frank said it best. My kind of town, Chicago is. And I bet it’s your kind of town as well.

Mothers and Mothers Day

Folks, as many of you know, I don't celebrate Mother's Day but I know many of you do. In your honor, I'm reprinting a post I did on Mother's Day. Enjoy!

Today is the 100th birthday of Mothers Day and the woman who started it all is barely remembered. We have instead turned this day into a profitable one for the card companies, florists, candy stores and restaurants. Yet the woman who started it all is merely a footnote in history and the original history of this day has been forgotten as well. Mothers Day is a holiday owing to strong feminist roots and the determination of one very special woman.

According to the National Geographic, in West Virginia in the 1850’s, a women’s organizer, Ann Reeves Jarvis, held mothers days work clubs to improve sanitary conditions and lower infant mortality by reducing milk contamination. The groups also tended wounded soldiers on both sides during the latter years of the Civil War. After the war, Jarvis and others organized Mother’s Friendship Day picnics and other events to create harmony. After Jarvis died in 1905, her daughter Anna began holding similar friendship days in her hometown of Grafton, WV. Due to her efforts, Mothers Day was observed throughout the country. In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson set aside the second Sunday in May for the holiday. This was to be a day set aside not to celebrate all mothers but for people to celebrate the best mother they’ve ever known be it a mother, father or friend.

Unfortunately Anna Jarvis vision was bastardized by the card, candy and flower companies. This was hurtful and deeply troubling for Jarvis. She organized boycotts, threatened lawsuits and went after public officials she felt were destroying the original intent of Mother’s Day. Her fight continued well until she died in 1948, penniless and suffering dementia, in Philadelphia’s Marshall Square Sanitarium.

Today Mother’s Day continues to be of the most profitable holidays in the US. The National Retail Federation estimates $19.9 billion dollars will be spent this year. The National Restaurant Association states that Mother’s Day is year’s most popular day to dine out. Hallmark states Mother’s Day is the third largest card giving holiday after Christmas and Valentine’s Day. It is second only to Christmas as the most gifts giving holiday.

What started as an American holiday has spread to other parts of the world. The Arab world celebrates Mother’s Day March 21st. Panama’s celebration is December 8th and in Thailand, Mother’s Day is August 12 and Great Britain Mothering Day is celebrated the fourth Sunday during Lent. Anna Jarvis’ ode to her mother has become a worldwide phenomenon and a pantheon to consumerism. Not too shabby for a woman from West Virginia and not at all what she had in mind.

Personally I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day. There are two very important reasons why. First, I’m a mother 24/7. Just like I pray and thank God daily, I believe children should do the same for their mothers. Not a day goes by when I stop being a mother to my son. I’m special and I believe as such, I should be acknowledged on a day of my own, not one I have to share with women all over. You want to wish me Happy Mother’s Day? Do it on July 28th or January 17th or any other day I don’t have to share. Am I being ridiculous and selfish? Maybe. I don’t apologize for it because I’m a mother. I may never be some of the many things I want to be. But I will always be a mother. There are mothers all over the world and I applaud them. But I’m mother to my son and will be until death and beyond. I’ve earned that title and continue to earn that title because as a mother, I’m as infinite as time itself.

The other reason I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day now is because I never have. My mother died when I was six so there was never anyone I made homemade cards for or gift boxes or trays or any of the myriad homemade projects kids made in school. I had wonderful mother substitutes and my father was amazing. Every event a girl shared with her mother, I shared with my dad including the Mother-Daughter fashion show at Girl Scouts, buying a first bra and buying the first pair of heels and stockings. My grandmother was a wonderful substitute. I miss her every day but she had four children of her own, one of whom was my dad. She was there for many things like my dad but due to the age difference and points of reference, it was evident she wasn't my mother. My mother was an adventurer. My mother was a scientist. Those few memories I have are precious. My grandmother was wonderful but she was not my mother.

For those of us who grew up without a mother, this day is a painful reminder of what never was. My mother didn’t get to see me attend my senior prom, never see me graduate from high school or college, never saw me walk down the aisle, never experienced my pregnancy and never got to help me become the woman I am. For me, this day is a reflection of what never was and never will be.

For those of you who do celebrate this day, I hope it’s a good one. I hope you’ve shown your mothers just how special she is and what she means to you. If you have someone in your life that has been like a mother to you, I hope you’ve shared with that person what a wonderful inspiration she has been to you. I wish that each of you who celebrates with your mother or aunt or grandmother or special friend makes the time and the effort to show your love and appreciation every day. Life is too short for anything less.

In My Hood

My apologies to you for not posting the past month. Family obligations took their toll. Hopefully the worst is over and we can get back to the work at hand.

A couple of Saturdays ago, I went to the nail shop to get a manicure. There was a line formed out front that included several ladies who were checking their watches, wondering where was the owner and why the shop wasn’t opened on time. The shop is supposed to open at 10am but the owner and manicurists didn’t arrive until 10:30am.

We questioned the man as he unlocked the door about his tardiness and he was visibly pissed off that we had the nerve to question his. His answer was that it was snowing and he had to come from the north side. One of the ladies replied weather was no excuse. She would never be allowed to use the weather as an excuse for tardiness at her job and he shouldn’t either. One of the ladies remarked that he is always late on Saturdays and that maybe he should change his opening time to 10:30am since he never seems to arrive before then.

As we entered the shop, we began discussing boycotting the shop on an upcoming Saturday since that’s the busiest day at the shop. It was felt that if he felt the economic impact, he would value his customers and their time. I vowed never to return to his shop and told him I don’t do business where I’m not respected. He didn’t reply. I realized that he would never have done this if his business was on the north side. But it isn't and because he has no respect for my people, he felt it was okay to disrespect us. He knows his business will not suffer because he's late and openly disrespectful. But it should suffer and suffer mightily. Unfortunately it won't. I watched this level of disregard over and over again from business owners in my neighborhood.

At the core of this musing is the fact that I live in a Black neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. The homeowners are Black. The renters in the apartment buildings are Black. The students at the schools are Black. The CTA drivers are Black. Yet other than a couple of hair salons, barbershops, a beauty supply store, a florist and the Harold’s Chicken Shack across the street from my house, all the businesses are owned by other ethnicities.

If you visit almost any Black neighborhood on the south side of this city, businesses are owned and operated by Arabs, Chinese, Greeks and Koreans. Yet if you were to visit Chinatown, you will find there are no Black businesses there. I would imagine this to be same in the neighborhood commonly known as Little Arabia on the northwest side of the city. Devon Avenue on the city’s north side is known for a high number of people from India and Pakistan. Pilsen and Little Village are predominantly Mexican although Pilsen is in the midst of gentrification. This does not include those of Irish descent who populate Bridgeport, the Polish corridor along Milwaukee Avenue in Avondale, Little Italy on the near west side and Greektown on Halsted.

Many of these neighborhoods have undergone gentrification and the descendants of the original habitants of these neighborhoods are moving back into the city after a 25-year stint in the suburbs. Yet in each of these neighborhoods, the descendants of the business owners still reflect the makeup of that community. Not so in the many Black communities that make up the south side.

In her recently released book, The South Side (a great read), author Natalie Y. Moore, make the case that segregating Chicago’s Black residents was and still is intentional. Communities were allowed to openly discriminate that the Supreme Court of Illinois even upheld the rights of neighborhood residents to discriminate against Blacks. This legal discrimination coupled with redlining by banks has worked to keep Blacks in economically depressed neighborhoods.

Today no bank would openly admit to redlining yet there are very few Black owned businesses in Black communities. It seems racism is still the way of those entities charged with assisting the small business person. Even Black owned banks like Seaway and the South Side Community Credit Union are loathe to give loans to Black businesses. Thus money in my neighborhood is not reinvested in my neighborhood. None of these business owners live, shop or bank in the neighborhoods where they make money.

Why do so many people from other countries come to Chicago and open businesses in the Black community, communities they choose not to reside. Communities where they choose not to shop. Communities where they don’t do their banking. Because banks and other financial institutions make it easy for them to open businesses in my neighborhood as they make it difficult for me and others like me to create businesses. Because we shop in the stores, patronize the fast food joints. Because we go to the nail salon for service every Saturday. Because we have not demanded that our banks grant us loans for businesses the way they do Arabs and Koreans. Because we want to do business in our neighborhoods. Because we feel we don’t have a choice.

But we do have a choice. Start checking the number of business loans granted by your bank and see if those loans were given to Black owned businesses. Utilize services provided by Black businesses. Shop at Black owned stores as much as possible. Eat at restaurants owned by Black folks. Require those folks doing business in your community to treat you with respect. Finally remember your neighborhood is only as good as the folks who live in it. We can make a change but we have to do it together.

Let’s make change starting today!

No History Without Herstory

In honor of Women's History Month, I'm going to repost a piece from March 2014 of my female sheroes. There are a few changes but it's mostly intact. Enjoy!

March is Women's History Month. My union, the National Writers Union, celebrates annually with a Womanist Read-In. This year our read-in is actually in April but we're having it nonetheless. It is a pleasure for me to have the opportunity of planning and hosting this event. It gets better every year.

There has been an ongoing conversation about this month through the years. People often wonder why there is a women's history month at all. Or all the other months that celebrate the various ethnicities that helped to create this country. The answer is alarmingly simple. If there were no women's history month, herstory would never be told. No one’s story would be told. After all, history is written from the perspective of the winner and in this country, the winner is always a White male.

It is an undeniable fact that history is written by the winners. When we look at the history of the United States, it is filled with stories of White males. The rest of us are thrown in here and there. If any of us go back to our history books, we see White men triumph time and time again regardless of the contributions of women, Blacks, Native Peoples, Latinos or Asians.

The story of Christopher Columbus is all about the Europeans who came to this country. Although the Native people who were here are mentioned, they take a back seat to Chris and his gang of marauders.

The first Thanksgiving is supposedly a story of harmony and friendship but eventually the Native people are swindled, killed and moved off their land in the name of progress. Never do the English make good on any of their promises to share the land. The term "Indian giver" means someone who promises something or gives you something and then takes it back. The Native people were never Indian givers. They never took the land back. It was taken from them.

Even when someone else is victorious, the story is changed to favor the White male. Remember the story of Gen. George Armstrong Custer and his last stand? He and his army lost the battle. We all know Custer's army was slaughtered but history books proclaim no one survived. But someone did survive. The Lakota, the Northern Cheyenne and the Arapaho tribes led by Crazy Horse survived. Obviously their survival didn't count.

Blacks don't make an appearance until slavery except for that lone first soldier to die in the Revolutionary War, Crispus Attucks. If Attucks was there, wouldn't it make sense that other Blacks were there as well? But no. No other appearances by Blacks until slavery. After slavery, there is a brief mention of Blacks during the Reconstruction era but the only prominent Black person mentioned is George Washington Carver. But what of the other Blacks who made contributions during this crucial time. While cities were growing, there is no mention of Garrett A. Morgan who invented the stop light. There is no mention of Lewis Latimer who assisted Thomas Edison’s work with the light bulb. Black people make a brief appearance in history and then miraculously, we're gone until the Civil Rights era.

There is even less mention of Latinos and Asians other than a brief mention of the Asian contribution to the building of the railroads in the west. Very little is taught about the Latinos and Hispanics who are part of American history. Although Latinos founded cities like San Antonio and San Francisco, that contribution is no mentioned. Similarly like Custer’s Last Stand, a major battle is waged by Mexican forces at the Alamo. All 189 troops including Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie lost to that army led by General Santa Ana. Yet instead of recognition, we are left with the battle cry “Remember the Alamo” as if the Mexican army was little more than a fly flitting around the bigger picture of Whites once again taking land that was originally owned by others. Afterwards Latinos and Hispanics are not referenced until historians mention Cesar Chavez and the farm workers.

What of the many women, both White and of color, who contributed to the history of this country? What of herstory? Betsy Ross and the making of the first flag. Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and the suffragette movement. Florence Nightingale and her dedication to nursing the troops. Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad. Pocahontas and Jamestown. Jane Addams and Hull House. Herstory is defined by these few mentions. History is loath to speak of the contributions of women to this country. The longest historical references in the history books are of the suffragette movement. Little attention is given to the work of First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt and her many contributions nationally and internationally. What of Anna Dudley Broadstreet, the first published poet? Deborah Sampson was the only woman known to fight in the Revolution War. Elizabeth Blackwell became the first female doctor in America. What of the many women who made history by virtue of the work they did on behalf of women, children and the family? What of the women who were staunch abolitionists during the time of slavery? What of the women who assisted their husbands, fathers and brothers during the turbulent times of labor battles? Or the many women who worked in factories while men went off to war in Europe? What of the sacrifices made by the countless women who work, raise children, assist husbands, and care for the sick with little thought to their own needs. Sleeping like the dead only to awaken to do It all over again.

As we bid adieu to Women History Month 2016, maybe we should all give a shout out to the women who make up our own personal history. Although history is written by the winner, there is no winning history without herstory. Long may her story wave!

Pay the Writer!

For almost 20 years, I’ve been a member of the National Writers Union, UAW 1981. When I wear a union jacket or t-shirt, I’m often asked why would writers need a union. People are under the mistaken impression writers make a boatload of money and therefore have no need for a union. They don’t see writers as working people. Sometimes writers themselves don’t see they are working people. It never ceases to amaze me when people are referred to as working class because they are mechanics or plumbers or sanitation workers. If you receive a check from a company, corporation or small business, you are a worker and thus working class.

Writers need unions for the same reason other working people need unions – to fight for their rights as workers. Have no doubt, writers are workers.

There was quite a bit of hoopla several years ago when Ariana Huffington sold the Huffington Post (HuffPo) to AOL for quite a bit of money. It was hers to sell but the controversy was not about her selling as much as it was about the fact that she didn’t share the wealth with the many writers who made the Huffington Post what it is. My union was very vocal asking writers to demand that Ms. Huffington share her wealth or stop writing for HuffPo. Neither of these demands came true and HuffPo is just as profitable today as it was when it was sold to AOL. Even now, writers are still debating over the policies of HuffPo.

The Huffington Post has always stated writers who contributed would not be paid for those contributions. However, writers would be free to utilize the site for all manner of marketing. Many writers see that a HuffPo article is well worth foregoing getting paid. Many state that if you want to get paid, maybe you shouldn’t be a writer since writers are generally poorly paid. Something is really wrong with that sentiment. Would you tell your doctor that if he wanted to make money, he should have undertaken a different profession and walk out the door without payment? Of course you wouldn’t. Which is why it’s so puzzling to me that people including writers think it’s okay for us to work for free.

Being a writer is as worthwhile as being a doctor or mechanic or lawyer or electrician. Yet there is no other profession where people are constantly asking that you work for free. I believe that is because many believe writing is easy. Take it from me, it isn’t.

Walter Wellesley “Red” Smith, a Pulitzer prize winning sports columnist for the New York Times was reported as saying in an interview with Walter Winchell regarding writing that “You simply sit down at the typewriter, open your veins and bleed.” How easy is that?

Writing is hard work. You sit at your typewriter or your computer screen and you put words to the page. That is not easy. Sometimes the thoughts flow. Sometimes the words flow. Sometimes you stare at that blinking cursor and you dare words to come. They don’t. That’s if you’re doing your own novel or essay or poem.

Other times you’re writing on assignment for a publication. You have to do hours of research. You have to interview one or two or five people. You have to check your sources and your facts. After all that, then you have to write. No one considers the number of hours and the amount of time it takes to do research on a subject or on a person that has to be interviewed. Sometimes a person has to be interviewed several times before enough information is gathered for an article. Sometimes people are difficult and don’t really want to be interviewed. It takes research, skill and patience to get the information. It’s a time consuming and costly process.

Then comes the task of actually writing the article and submitting it for publication. Sometimes a writer may go through the editing process two or three times until the editor is happy with the final result.

Even if you write essays and blogs like I do which are my own thoughts and opinions, often it’s difficult for me. There are many things going on in the world that one could comment on and write about but it’s difficult to find that one topic a writer may want examine.

A great deal of time a writer’s time is spent getting assignments especially if you’re a freelancer. More time is spent trying to get work than actually. Next comes getting paid. Writers are often stiffed and have to spend more money trying to get paid for work they’ve already completed. That’s why I’m a member of NWU. The union goes after publishers who stiff writers. Sometimes it only takes a letter and a couple of weeks. Other times, it takes lots of letters and phone calls. And it can take a lot of time. Unlike credit card companies or utility companies or hospitals, writers are small business people who don’t have millions of dollars and can wait on their money. Sometimes not paying the writer means he or she will be behind in rent that month or unable to but a week’s worth of food.

There are those writers like John Grisham, Stephen King, Tavis Smiley, Cornel West, James Patterson who write either fiction or non-fiction and make serious bucks. There are a number of mid-range writers who make a profitable living writing. They may write technical manuals or instructions, do public relations or advertising. There are writers who create self-help books or write white papers or text books. There are journalists who write for daily newspapers or contribute to HuffPo or write for neighborhood papers. There are poets and essayists and bloggers. Directions on MapQuest, books on Kindle or instructions on putting together that piece of furniture you bought from IKEA, someone wrote it.

So let’s hear it for the writers. And if by any chance you owe a writer a check, pay up.

Politics as Eh

Election season is in full swing. The Iowa caucus has come and gone with Hilary Clinton winning the Democratic vote and Ted Cruz winning the Republican vote. New Hampshire is next. After New Hampshire, the next two Republican caucuses are South Carolina and Nevada. The next Democratic caucuses reverse the order with Nevada followed by South Carolina. The remaining states hold caucuses April through June.

There was a time when election season was interesting and electrifying. Everywhere you went, people were discussing the candidates. Now election season barely raises a blip on the attention meter. People are more interested in the next Ironman/Captain America/Avenger movie or what the Kardashian are doing or the next Air Jordan. Even older folks have forsaken political discourse in favor of conversations about retirement, 401K’s and body ailments.

Professor of Government at American University Jennifer Lawless’ new book, Running from Office: Why Young Americans are Turned Off to Politics, argues that the current political system discourages young people from running for office. Whether or not you agree, it certainly seems to be a plausible explanation as to why we are asked to choose between the lesser of two evils when it comes to candidates instead of having real choices for elected officials. Now only the rich or those who have access to serious money run for president. Candidates spend lots of time courting rich donors while giving the average voter short shrift. Voters are given sound bites on issues while candidates spend evenings in hotel dining rooms eating $500 a plate chicken while turning over our country to corporate CEO’s who think nothing of the rest of us.

The ill-fated Supreme Court decision in Citizens United vs. Federal Elections Committee opened the floodgates and changed politics in the United States. Instead of making political funding more transparent, the Supreme Court insulted the public by maintaining that companies are protected by the First Amendment and could spend as much unlimited amounts of money on political activities. The court took the political process away from the voters and placed it squarely in the hands of corporate America.

This may or may not be the reason why there seems to be such apathy this election season. It could also be the candidates that are running for public office. For the first time in years, I find myself in the unenviable position of not liking any presidential candidate. More surprisingly, I’m unaware of candidates running for local offices which is a first for me. I can’t seem to work up interest let alone fervor about any candidate for any office and I’m not alone. Most people in Chicago have an inkling when the election will be held but it seems no one has a clue when our primary is going to be held. What’s worse is that no one seems to care. It would seem that as far as politics goes, our get up and go has got up and went.

The Lesson

Recently I experienced an event that gave me pause that I shared with family and friends. I’d like to now share it with you.

Friday afternoon I was on public transportation on running errands after a meeting. As the train approached 63rd Street, it stopped suddenly throwing all the passengers forward with a start. The train sat on the track and eventually the motor stopped and the lights went through the train until we could disembark at the front. There were about 15 other people on the last car with me. We got our things and began trudging forward complaining about the CTA (Chicago Transit Authority).

When we got off the train at the front, we were met with people on the platform pointing, talking and making an overall commotion. We began asking what was going on. It seems a man took a running leap and jumped in front of the train to his death. When we got off the front of the train and look down at the track, parts of him were visible and his blood was on the front of the train. Fireman, police officers, CTA officials were swarming the tracks moving us all along and telling us that shuttle buses would be taking us south. Northbound trains were stopped as well. Our train had to be backed up so this man's body parts could be removed. Needless to say, we were amazed, shocked and speechless. The poor train conductor was doing his job but you could tell he was barely keeping it together. I would imagine he won't be driving a train for quite some time, if ever.

This is the second time I've been on a train and someone committed suicide by jumping in front of it. I keep wondering what could be so bad that one would end his life. Then I think about the times I've considered suicide myself, when I was so low I had to reach up to touch bottom. I don't condone it but I understand.

This unknown individual made an impact on a lot of people today. Everyone on that platform was bidding goodbye to strangers, blessing each other and just being kind to each other. The last time I experienced something like this was Sept. 11th when I was living in NY and standing in the street when the second tower fell. All of us in the street that day were bonded by a shared tragedy. Friday felt like that.

We live in such a fast paced world inundated with noise and images. People sit across from each other and text instead of talking. Television babysits our children, news is more entertainment than actual news, people are famous just for being famous and we’re disengaging from each other. How can we know if someone is in pain? How can we know when we are in pain? We self-medicate with food, drugs, alcohol, sex, internet, texting and we don’t stop and listen. We don’t hear because so much of our time is taken up with the cacophony of the sounds around us. I didn’t know that man but I can imagine that he felt there was no one to hear him, no one to share his pain. So he did the one thing he knew would stop the pain. And I wonder if he thought as he leaped from the platform if maybe there might be another way. Now he will never know.

I’ve prayed for that man and his family every day since Friday. I think to myself what could have been so horrible that he would take his life. I realize that many of us have contemplated suicide on occasion. I certainly have. Then I thought about the people I’d be leaving behind and how much grief it would cause. Yes, we grieve when a loved one passes but we recognized death after a lengthy illness or a sudden accident. But how do you process suicide? You think how that person should have come to you. That person should have prayed or gotten counseling or maybe gotten drunk. There is just know way to understand why a person would take his life.

There are no answers. There are only questions that will never be answered. Still this experience has left me aware of how easy it is to take life for granted. It’s easy to look at someone and believe he or she has it all together. Take a moment to tell someone you love her today and then give yourself a great big hug. Reach out to someone you haven't spoken to in a while and catch up. You might be just what that person needs. And you may find that you may get something in return you didn’t know you needed. Someone will love you right back.

Calling It Out

The 88th Academy Awards ceremony will be televised Sunday, February 28th and I will be watching as I have for the past 50 years. There is a rule in my home that no one speaks to me once the show begins. I prepare special hors d’oeuvres, open a split of champagne and enjoy Belgium chocolates. This is one of my favorite events of the year.


13 Black men have been nominated for best actor. Four have won. 10 Black women have been nominated for best actress. There has been one win. 14 men have been nominated for best supporting actor. There have been four wins. 19 women have been nominated for best supporting actress. Six have won.

Three Black men have been nominated for best director. None has won. Four Black people have been nominated for best adapted screenplay. Two have won. There have been three nominees for best original screenplay. None have won. This year, the screenplay for Straight Outta Compton was nominated but it was written by four White people.

Even the music categories have been sparse. There have been eight nominations for best score and two wins. 27 nominations for best original songs with six wins.

The first Academy Awards were presented May 16, 1929. The awards show was first televised in 1953. The first Black person to be nominated was Hattie McDaniel who won the Best Supporting Actress award for the role of Mammy in Gone with the Wind. On the night of her greatest triumph, she still had to bear the insult of being seated in a segregated section. Although no longer segregated, not much has changed. Why would it?

After more than 400 years on this continent and all the contributions Black people have made here, we are still waiting for the White man’s approval and acceptance. At what juncture will we (Black people) recognize that neither is coming.

It has been made abundantly clear century after century, decade after decade, year after year, month after month and day after day that we are never going to be fully accepted. There is never going to be parity. We will never be treated equally and fairly. If we could accept that, we could go on about our business and stop pressing our face against the glass begging White society for a place.

Sounds harsh, I know. But even if we don’t acknowledge the history of Black people in the country, let’s take a look at today. Young Black men are being killed at an alarming rate by the police. Many of those police officers are being granted a pass by grand juries who say those officers were justified in killing unarmed Black men. 12 year old Tamir Rice was killed by a police officer while he was holding a toy gun. Would that police officer have shot a 12 year old White boy brandishing a toy gun? Absolutely not. Black males, no matter their ages, are seen as threats to society.

President Obama has been the most disrespected president in modern times. From a member of Congress shouting “You lie!” as he gave a State of the Union Address to the constant questioning of his birth, he has endured a level of insolence that no other president has had to endure.

Black people have only been voting less than 50 years without impunity and now several states are attempting to turn back the clock and make it difficult for Black people to vote. Schools in major metropolitan areas are merely pipelines to the prison industrial complex.

Black people have more health issues but less economic opportunities than Whites. Our image across the world is that of the thug Black man and the angry Black woman. Black men are viewed as the scariest and Black women are viewed as the most unattractive. With all this, why would we believe the Oscars would be any different?

It is time to stop. Every system in this country (economic, political, educational, and religious) was created by White people for White people and it’s about time we recognize that. If we recognize that fact, it would make life easier when there is disparity as with this year’s Oscar nominations.

Black people, I’m not advocating putting our heads in the sand. We should do everything possible to make sure laws are passed that ensures our civil liberties. We should protest when the police are granted a free pass to murder our youth. We should let this country and the world know that we will not stand for racism in any institution or system that we support with our money, our time and our votes. But we must stop begging White people to accept us and to play fair. It hasn’t happened in over 400 years and unless there is divine intervention, it isn’t going to happen anytime soon. We cannot change the racist institutions that run every aspect of this country. But we must be unashamed to call it out when we see it.

Remember sometimes it’s do-do, sometimes it’s ka-ka and sometimes it’s shit. Call it shit when it’s shit and do so loud and clear. You can only change a thing when you acknowledge a thing. It’s time for the U.S. to acknowledge its’ shit.

Naysayers Be Damned!

At the end of each year, we see lists from various media outlets naming the celebrities lost during that year. 2015 was the first year in recent memory that I didn’t attend a funeral for a family member. Instead I mourned the loss of someone so close to me, so dear to me that the words are difficult to write. I lost my dad.

My father is very much alive but suffering from dementia among other illnesses. In late October, I had to place him in a care facility because I could no longer care for him. Visiting him several times each week is unpleasant but very necessary. It helps the staff know he has family who cares about his well being and will be looking out for him.

Some days he’s in full control of mental faculties. Other days he thinks he’s in a prison and needs to escape or he’s in a casino with no money and wanting to gamble. No matter his mental state, it’s difficult to see the man I’ve worshipped my entire life unable to walk, unable to control his body and not in his right mind.

My husband is facing the same issues with his mother in Mississippi. He’s there back and forth staying months at a time caring for her, straightening out her finances and going back forth to the emergency room when necessary. This is no small feat given the closest real hospital is a little over 40 miles away from her home.

It's a very interesting turn of events when you as the child having been cared for by your parents now suddenly become the caregiver. There is no preparation for that transition. Even when you watch your parents become less mobile, you are unprepared when they become more childlike day after day.

My husband and I talk daily about our respective situations and wondering when situations will change. We are aware that neither parent is going to get better. We know that both parents could be in their current states for weeks or months or years. We know that it is important for us to keep communicating with each other, supporting each other and loving each other. And we know that we have to keep telling the naysayers to piss off when they start talking.

You know the naysayers. Those people who have no understanding of what’s going on but deride you for putting your parents in a home. Those people who won’t have to face similar circumstances but feel free to comment on your circumstance. Those people who don’t visit or rarely visit, don’t offer to help but are quick to ask why you can’t seem to find time for social gatherings or lengthy phone calls.

My dad has several friends who’ve visited him once since October. When I’m at the facility and calling them so he can converse, they shuffle him off the phone and then text me that they’re unable to talk. My cousins have also visited just once and when I ask about follow-up visits, the silence greeting my question is deafening. Yes, I know the excuses beginning with the ever present "I'm busy." Guess what, nobody is that busy. Is it difficult seeing someone who was once so vibrant sitting in a home in a wheelchair? Absolutely! But that no excuse either. Having visitors helps him mentally and physically. And if that person is important to you, you'll suck it up and find the time.

His wife sees him daily and often calls me to complain about how abusive he is when she visits. Of course he’s abusive. He knows he’s not at home. He knows that his independence is gone. He no longer has an edit button in his brain so he curses and fusses about his situation. He’s angry and he takes it out on the both of us. I’ve learned to not take it personally because he’s where he needs to be for 24-hour care. She, on the other hand, says she doesn’t have my strength, can’t let it go and ends each visit in tears. She says her doctor tells her to stop getting emotional or she’ll have another stroke. Me, I’ve already had one stroke and I’ll be damned if anyone including the father I love so dearly, will cause me to have another one.

In Mississippi, my husband is going through a similar situation. He has relatives who live two hours away but won’t come and relieve him so he can rest. When his mother gets sick, they call him knowing we live more than 800 miles away when they live the next state over. They won’t come and care for his mom so he can come home to make his doctor appointments. I’ve rescheduled doctor visits and medical tests. I pray he can come home before his health problems get the best of him. He had two seizures and the local hospital told me if it happens again to take him to the medical facility in Meridian. That’s the hospital more than 40 miles away. It was hard enough when I was with him. I fear for his health now that we in different states.

You may be wondering why I’ve decided to write such a personal blog post. I’m posting because I want others to know if they are in a similar circumstance to have the courage to do what is necessary even when the naysayers start talking. Do what you think is best and do it without guilt. It’s taken me these past few months to get over the guilt of putting my dad in a home. If I hadn’t, we’d both be in dire straits. There is nothing wrong with caring for yourself because you can’t help someone else if you’re not well. Realize that doing the right thing is sometimes the hardest thing you can do. Don’t apologize for your choices. Only you have to deal with them.

And tell the naysayers to go to hell.

2016 - It's Already Started

Happy New Year my friends!

We're only a few days into 2016 and already we've lost the unforgettable Natalie Cole and actor Wayne Rogers who played Trapper John on the TV show "MASH." We're wondering who is next since we all know celebrities go in threes. The Republican-led Congress wants to begin its session trying to repeal the Affordable Care Act and we in Chicago are hoping Rahm Emanuel leaves office quickly and quietly since he's been under fire since last month. The Midwest is in the grip of arctic temperatures while the South is battling floods. Oprah's partnership with Weight Watchers has sent WW's stock soaring. Awards season is officially underway. And we are now in the throes of presidential campaigns and primaries. Can you believe it's only January 3rd?

It's hard to know where to focus when so much is going on in so little time. Fortunately, we don't have to deal with it all right now or deal with any of it at all. We can't bring back the dead although we can surely mourn their passing. We certainly can't do anything about the weather so the best we can do is deal with it. Unless you're planning on joining Weight Watchers or you own stock in the company, Oprah partnering with them is good for her and for them but it doesn't mean a thing to the rest of the world (unless shadowing Oprah is part of your life). Awards shows are fun to watch but there's only one I watch religiously and that's the Oscars. That leaves the ever present, totally distasteful and reprehensible government posturing.

There's been a lot written about the Republican candidates for president. There is the very visible and vocal Donald Trump, the unpredictable underdog Dr. Ben Carson, the legacy candidate Jeb Bush, the underrated Ted Cruz and the establishment favorite Marco Rubio. There are other Republican candidates but these seem to be the current front runners going into the February primaries. The Democratic field is much less crowded with only two recognized candidates, Hilary Clinton and Bernie Sanders. I don't know about you but I feel the pickings are slim. There's no candidate I'm impressed with. There's no candidate saying what I need to hear. There's no candidate who seems to care about the issues that are important to me. I'm as disheartened as I've ever been in a presidential election year. What scares me is that I'm not alone. There are millions who feel as I do. That bodes badly for the primaries and is downright scary when it comes to November's general election. Voter turnout has been low in recent years. In addition to apathy, there is the feeling that our votes don't count. However the most discouraging reason for low voter turnout is the poor selection of candidates we have to pick. People who need to run for office don't because it's become too expensive, media scrutiny has become intrusive and too much attention is spent on hype instead of substance. Could you imagine someone like Harry Truman being elected today? Not hardly. His plain spoken manner, his directness, his lack of a college education would make him undesirable in today's classist, racist, highly scrutinized world. Yet he has been widely recognized as one of our great presidents. It's a damn shame that we will not elect the president we deserve in November. Then again, maybe one of these wretches is precisely what we deserve.

Chicago has been making news year after year because of gun violence. However in addition to Chicago joining other cities in the total disregard for the lives of its Black citizens, scandal after scandal involving our police department made 2015 a banner year for horrendous headlines. Early this year, the Guardian, a British newspaper, broke a story about a secret warehouse that has been used as a secret detention center for Black Chicagoans. In late fall, a video was released showing a police officer gunning down an unarmed Black man in the street. 2015 ended with two people being shot in a domestic disturbance. The 55 year old grandmother was "accidentally" shot through the door just as she was about to open the door to admit the police. The second victim was a mentally ill 19 year old college student. Police Superintendent Gary McCarthy resigned amid protests by many are asking for the resignations of Mayor Rahm Emanuel and States Attorney Anita Alvarez. The U.S. Justice has begun an inquiry into the police department and Illinois state legislators are considering allowing recall attempts of the mayor. Politics in Chicago - you gotta love it.

Recently I heard tv talk show host Michael Strahan say he was taught to be a "when" guy and not an "if" guy be his father. Therefore in that spirit, I'd like to be a "when" woman and have high hopes for 2016. I expressed my doubt in the political process and what we have to look forward to in our presidential election. I'm clearly jaded about justice finding its way to Chicago. But hope springs eternal and I'm going to be that "when" woman. When we find that candidate who unites us all, when we find that person who embodies a real spirit of inclusivity, when Rahm Emanuel is gone and we get a mayor who believes in justice for every Chicagoan and not just those who live north of Cermak, when we learn that it doesn't hurt to treat each other with respect and not distain, what a wonderful world this will be.

May 2016 be your best year yet!