Weekend observations:
Thank God it’s Friday.
Days seem to get shorter the older you get. As such, I’ve learned to combine activities; to optimize my time…
When I decide to cut the grass after work, I do so as a form of exercise.
Despite my disabilities, I cut our quarter-acre yard with a push mower, even though I had to stop and recover from the pain in my legs and feet several times.
I completed nearly 6,500 steps. It seemed like 65,000.
Keeping me distracted during my exercise session, I noticed two birds land at the edge of our pond. Several minutes later, another set of birds of a different variety landed a few yards away.
I continued mowing, eventually reversing my track when I noticed two ducks in the pond, one slightly larger than the other, implying different sexes. It dawned on me every animal enters a marriage of sorts, most for life.
It used to be that way in the Black community.
In fact, immediately after emancipation and the 13th Amendment, 80% of Black households were headed by a married couple.
By the 1960s, it was down to 50%. Today it is 30%.
The chains of poverty linked with welfare and sparked the evaporation of morals.
In Milwaukee, the loss of industry prompted a tripling of the unemployment rate in the Black community.
The fact that welfare required the man to leave home was also a significant factor, as was the structure of the welfare state, which ‘rewarded’ poor Black women for having more babies for more significant subsidies, which some called their income.
President Bill Clinton, who introduced the nation’s most racist crime bill with the support of Black congressmen and the Democratic Party, has to shoulder some of the blame as well.
Clinton later carried out the rest of his neo-conservative agenda by ending welfare, shortly after Minister Louis Farrakhan appropriately explained, “Welfare spelled backward, is farewell—to human dignity and self-respect.”
Blame poverty, a dysfunctional culture, or the sexual revolution for the current paradigm. Or you can blame the government.
Wherever you place the blame at this point is irrelevant. Today, 70% of Black households are headed by a woman, who is generally uneducated or undereducated, lacking a cultural or spiritual foundation, and most likely trapped in a mind-set I call the ‘Culture of Poverty.’
And, as I explained several years ago, most of today’s Black single-parent head of households don’t know the difference between being poor and being ‘po.’
African American two-parent households of my era looked at poverty as a stepping stone, a temporary condition.
We were ‘po,’ which was an economic—not a cultural—condition.
The single most significant indicator is the absence of males in the household, or more specifically, marriage as the cornerstone, which not only provides a cultural foundation but two incomes. At least the animals are getting it right.
As I was cutting the lawn, my mind scanned back a couple of years to a young teen my son mentored. He would come out to the house regularly to do odd chores for a few dollars. He would stay to enjoy a meal, converse or play board games.
I recall the first time my son brought him to our house. We live in a neighborhood bordering the city. Where families take pride in maintaining their yards and property, where you won’t find litter on the streets, and there’s a mutual concern for the neighborhood.
The then-14-year-old had never been outside the boundaries of the central city, and his eyes grew large. His mouth dropped open as he took in the neighborhood and our home in particular.
He said he had never been in such a nice house, and the large backyard seemed like something out of a movie. We must be rich, he asserted.
Far from it, I explained. We made the decision to build and dedicated ourselves to that venture.
My wife worked in the financial community for a couple of decades. As such, I commandeered our finances to create a savings program that eventually allowed us to purchase the land and provide something for our children.
The money I made from the sale of my book, ‘Not Yet Free at Last,’ went into the savings. And I sacrificed the emotional ‘high’ of driving a new car, so I wouldn’t have a note.
In fact, I’ve never owned a new car, but my 2006 Z has served the purpose, along with my 1995 truck. Yeah, 1995!
The young brother, who was always respectful, well-mannered, and perceptive,
had had several runs in with the law and, as a result, found himself stigmatized and placed in a youth rehabilitation program.
He was an authentic ‘product of his environment.’
My son was his program supervisor; but took a particular interest in the kid and took him under his wing. Mykel became his surrogate father, filling a void far too many young Black men never see filled.
Under my son’s tutelage, the young brother’s grades improved, and his hostility and distrust evaporated. He was on the right path, and I had high hopes for him.
He enjoyed visiting and learning and had become a member of our family.
His only mistake was attending the funeral of a neighborhood friend—a junior gangster-in-training— last year.
Standing outside the funeral home, a car sped by, firing several shots. One took the young brother’s life. He was 16 years old. Sixteen!
Stupid, nonsensical violence. Urban terrorism. Another lost life.
Frequently, when I sit on our porch overseeing my property, images of that young man come to mind.
Occasionally, I question God’s (Nyame’s) motivations. Sometimes, I reluctantly admit, I lean toward deism, the belief that Nyame does not intervene in the daily actions of mankind. As a result, we have chaos, destruction, and insanity as our everyday recipes.
I hope I’m wrong, and the young brother—who will never graduate, marry or sustain a career– is in a better place. But I don’t’ know…None of us do.
Had to make a run to Walmart after cutting the grass. I decided to go to the one in Germantown, along the Appleton Ave. bus line.
Nearly all of the Black patrons chose to bypass two central city Walmarts because they feel safer and find a more extensive selection of merchandise in Germantown.
We hate to acknowledge it, but the facts don’t lie: The two urban Walmarts run neck and neck as the most victimized by thieves in the city.
And who would be at fault? Community leaders and politicians would blame the corporation, attack their commitment to the community. But we would know, if not accept, the truth. Who’s to blame? Yep, the Neckbones.
As I was exiting my truck on the Walmart lot, I observed a young sister crossing the parking area leading to the main entrance. With her was a child of about five-years-old who was playfully running around her.
As they approached a stop sign several yards from the entrance, a car pulled up and stopped, its tires making a loud screeching sound.
The sound startled the woman, who in turn turned toward her ‘son’ screaming in a loud voice, “Get ya mudder forking, black ass out of the mudder forking street!”
The child, who was not in danger, stopped suddenly as the woman grabbed him by the collar drawing him to her.
She uttered a couple of other ‘biblical’ words, including ‘little nigger’ (n-word), drawing the attention of the half dozen White and Black folks who were either entering or leaving the store.
To be honest, I was embarrassed.
We constantly talk about perceptions of our tribe, about prejudice and segregation.
I could only wonder what the Whites customers were thinking, what prejudices were solidified.
I also pondered on what circumstances the child was living under and what his future held.
I didn’t intercede because I traveled that route before, only to be cussed out by the offending Neckbone.
I could only pray the child had a responsible father or extended family in this life to balance what I concluded was child abuse.
My wife and I had gone to the Blues Fest on Brown Deer on Thursday. It was an enjoyable experience. Ran into many old friends, as the fest seemed to attract an older crowd.
I’m not a big blues fan, but the artists were jammin’, and the atmosphere was electric.
No violence; not even a hint of weed in the air.
The security was made up of young brothers who were obviously trained to be polite and accommodating. I did notice an undercover brother, but there was not a single member of Milwaukee’s finest wearing a uniform at the festival.
The event reminded me of the good ole days when the community could have fun without violence.
On Friday, we took my 88-year-old mother-in-law (MaDear). She was walking gingerly on her cane up until the music hit her. As soon as she heard the blues…it was a different story. To my surprise, she was up and jammin’.
Our music has a way of regenerating a person’s soul. Such was the effect on my mother-in-law.
Among the first people I ran into at the fest was Coach Max Walker.
Many of my generation know Max. He coached some of the best basketball teams in Milwaukee. He earned a well-deserved reputation as a basketball aficionado and mentor.
Max said he probably wouldn’t try coaching today. Not because he’s past his prime, but because today’s youth are a different breed, as are their parent(s).
He said the last time he tried to coach a teen team, it was disastrous. Not only were most of the teens disrespectful and undisciplined, but often their parent(s) were equally challenging.
They were of a different reality; they had no home training, he said.
As I left Max, I was attracted to one of the booths surrounding the tent and music stage.
The booth was owned by a brother from Senegal, West Africa, and included Africentric jewelry and Motherland clothing.
The brother, Moustapha Drame, and I talked at length about his country, which I had visited with my late son and a group of other individuals a couple of decades ago. The conversation brought back positive memories I wished more of us could share.
I long to go back to the Motherland. I want to take my family to the Ivory Coast, where our ancestors came from before some were captured and sent here on slave ships.
I have had two DNA tests, the second pro bono by African Ancestry after I expressed my disappointment on social media with my 23 and Me test results.
Combining the two, I have in my veins the blood of Rameses III of Kemet. Both sides of my ancestry migrated southwest through Nigeria and ultimately to the Ivory Coast.
I am Fula and Mende. The latter being the tribe made famous by their escape from the slave ship Amistad.
I was looking at the African jewelry when a young brother appeared beside me, equally interested in the merchandise. He was wearing enough gold to fill an Alaska mine, including a large cross.
I greeted him as I would any other brother and was happy he provided a positive response. Given the large gold cross, I had to ask if he was a Christian?
I was curious, in part, because I see a lot of gangstas and wannabe rappers wearing crosses these days. But few live the lifestyle of a Christian, whatever that has morphed into being.
The brother shrugged his shoulder as if to imply ‘no.’
I didn’t get into a discussion about it. However, I did run into a nephew a few minutes later wearing a similar cross.
He acknowledged he was a student of Christianity but had questions no one could or would answer.
I understood his plight; it’s being played out in communities across America and is a leading reason why the Black church is not attracting enough young members to guarantee a future.
Plus, most young brothers and sisters today come from households where no one has introduced them to Jesus/Yeshua, Muhammad, or Buddha. Most of those similarly wearing an Ankh know nothing of our Kemetic spirituality.
After spending Saturday morning doing household stuff, I took my grandson to the Blues Fest. He met several people who recognized him as his father’s son. It was an awkward but meaningful experience.
We stopped by the Khepra Jewelers’ booth to talk with Brother Manuel about making a ring for my grandson that he saw my late son wearing in a photo taken before his death in an auto accident 13 years ago.
Ah’meer was in town to attend the Bucks’ game on Thursday. He said he purchased his $400 ticket early in the playoff season. When he could not get a commitment from a cousin to go with him, he decided to go by himself.
I like the Bucks, but $400? I don’t like them that much! Particularly given he could have gotten $1,500 for that ticket on game day.
I understand the fan enthusiasm for the Bucks and Brewers. I root for both since they are our ‘home teams.’ I’m also cognizant of their role in providing a distraction following a painful year of pandemic and unemployment. The irony is that we root for players who earn more than the average township and are unaffected by the life concerns we face.
Hell, I can’t even afford to attend a game to see the millionaires do their thang. And after the championship run is over, it’s back to the status quo.
But I don’t’ refer to them as ‘my’ team because I don’t have ownership in it. I don’t own stock.
Well, actually, that’s not entirely true. I own two shares of the Packer ‘stock,’ but it’s worthless unless sold to another fan.
Ah’meer was visiting from Atlanta—the new Harlem. He observed his former hometown was much more diverse—albeit segregated.
Lots of new buildings and downtown renovations.
But every time he comes to ‘visit,’ he recognizes why Kareem Abdul Jabbar wanted to leave even after the Bucks won their first champion 50 years ago.
Culturally, for African Americans, Milwaukee is still in the stone age.
I confirmed what my grandson surmised with a recent report that declared Milwaukee is the best city in the country…for White people.
It is the worst for African Americans, based on seven negative indicators, including the highest Black male unemployment, infant mortality, segregation, and poverty rates. We also have the worst reading proficiency rates for Black children in fourth and eighth-grade government schools in the United States.
I wish my grandson lived closer. My son, like I, was a single parent. His mother ‘stole’ him after my son died and moved him to Atlanta. I miss him dearly. But I can understand why he and my brother chose to live in Atlanta. For Black folks, it’s like night and day.
Ah’meer enjoyed himself while at the festival, even though he couldn’t relate to the music. We returned home in time to see the last three-quarters of the Bucks game. I didn’t charge my grandson for the experience, and we had a delightful time.
After an inspiring House of Grace Kingdom Ministry virtual church service Sunday morning, I headed to the paper to finish up some work.
I had a half dozen near-accidents heading to the paper as I drove down Fond du Lac Avenue. Can’t believe cops don’t line that ‘highway’ street to stop the terrorists.
One car that zoomed around me and others on Fond du Lac and Hampton Avenues traveled at the speed of light and barely avoided vehicles that had the right of way. It seemed to be the exact car I ran into a mile further south involved in an auto accident.
The driver was sitting on the curb, looking sadly at her smashed fender. I was glad she survived, but a part of me smirked at the Karma inherent in the scenario.
After leaving the office, I ventured to my sister-in-law’s house to help her move items into storage. She, too, is leaving Milwaukee, joining an ever-growing line of folks who decided life was better elsewhere.
Talking with my cousin-in-law as she sorted through boxes of old items, I learned of a women’s hat show her church was hosting in a few weeks. I asked if wigs and weaves would be included since I’ve grown to accept them as hats. Seems like half of the sisters today are wearing wigs and weaves; apparently, the Eurocentric beauty standards remain dominant in our community.
I have wondered, however, about the new eyelash fad. I recall a sister coming out of a Pick N Save on Good Hope Road whose eyelashes were seemingly a foot long. I turned around, and she was gone. I assume she used the lashes to fly home.
I also ran into a Neckbone at the blues fest who was walking as if she had downed a gallon of pluck and/or smoked a pound of weed. I told her to be careful that she didn’t trip over her long lashes.
She didn’t think my joke was funny, but she was too far gone to catch me.
After finishing helping my sister-in-law pack (actually, I primarily just supervised), I headed back home to start this column.
All of the aforementioned thoughts were filling my head, and I needed an outlet. Signifyin’ is my mental orgasm.
Hotep.
Leave a Reply