My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Friendship: The Greatest Gift Under the Tree

by on ·Christmas, Friends and Friendship

I’ve been blessed with several close friendships, though some of these cherished companions have since departed. Beverly, one of my dearest friends, passed away four years ago. Although she was 14 years my senior, she was my unwavering support—what today’s youth might call a “BFF” or “ride or die.”

Bev, as I affectionately called her, and I met in 1978 through Parents Without Partners, a support group. We immediately shared an extraordinary connection and unbreakable bond.

Sometimes we would spend hours on the phone, often chatting late into the evening, knowing that we both had to go to work the following day. Our friendship, spanning decades, saw us transition from young adults with young children to grandmothers, yet we maintained the enthusiasm of teenagers in our conversations.

As divorced women, we found solace in sharing and discussing various aspects of our lives. We regaled each other with stories of clubbing, house parties, and concerts. Our shared love for R&B music was a frequent topic and we supported each other through the trials of raising children as single parents.

Above all, our conversations often revolved around our romantic pursuits, and we shared the ups and downs of our dating lives. Bev gave me some of the best advice I ever received. Our friendship was a testament to the power of connection, transcending time, and life’s many changes.

Growing up, my life was markedly different from Bev’s. While I experienced a relatively sheltered upbringing, Bev’s childhood was fraught with challenges. Tragedy struck early when her mother died while she was a young girl, and her father’s absence led to the separation of Bev and her siblings into various foster homes.

Bev often confided in me about the mistreatment she endured in her last foster placement. Even though she lived in Washington, DC, as a black child in a white household during the Jim Crow era, she faced significant hardships. She frequently reminded me, “They were only interested in the monthly stipend, not my well-being.” The vivid horror stories she shared still linger in my memory. Eventually, unable to endure the situation any longer, Bev ran away.

That decision forced Bev to become self-reliant at a young age, and she developed an impressive repertoire of street smarts. We often joked that while she had attended conventional schools, her real education came from the School of Hard Knocks, culminating in a degree from TLU (Tough Luck University.)

Bev and I shared a connection that some might describe as serendipitous. I, however, believe our paths crossing was an act of divine intervention; her presence became a lifeline for me. Our bond was extraordinary, often manifesting in uncontrollable bouts of laughter that left us gasping for air, tears streaming down our faces. Yet, our relationship ran deeper than mere mirth; we stood by each other through life’s storms, offering unwavering support during our darkest hours.

When Bev’s only son, twenty-something-year-old Kenneth, was tragically shot and killed in the 1980s, I immediately rushed across town to be by her side. Similarly, in the spring of 2001, when I unexpectedly lost a loving boyfriend following a surgical procedure, Bev was there to comfort me. Our friendship was characterized by these and other shared experiences of laughter and tears, spanning many years.

Beverly is always on my mind, but her memory becomes especially poignant twice a year, on her birthday, February 2nd, and at Christmastime. We often shared laughs about her unique birthday. I’d tease her, saying, “Imagine sharing your birthday with a groundhog predicting the weather. And if luck isn’t on your side, you might find yourself in a time loop, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.” She’d chuckle and reply, “Sometimes, it does feel like I’m living the same day repeatedly.”

Bev, cherished Christmas with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child. She always gushed over what she said were the unique Christmas Cards I sent her. During the holidays, our phone calls were frequently accompanied by the melodious strains of yuletide classics playing softly in the background. We shared a fondness for CD compilations like “Soul Christmas” by various artists and our absolute favorite, “The Temptations Sing Christmas.”

This past week’s televised broadcast of a special, “A Motown Christmas,” stirred up nostalgic memories, transporting me back to times shared with Bev.

My friend’s passing left an indelible mark on my heart, as is often the case when we lose those closest to us. However, her memory remains a constant presence, a bittersweet reminder of the guidance and the joy she brought into my life. I yearn for our shared laughter, our nostalgic “Remember when…” conversations, and her uncanny ability to brighten even my darkest days with her encouraging words.

In honor of Bev, I’ll paraphrase a profound saying that resonates deeply with me: Some individuals enter our lives with a specific purpose—be it to impart a crucial lesson or to bestow upon us the blessing of joy and positive experiences. They depart once their mission is accomplished, leaving us forever changed by their presence.

Bev is gone but will never be forgotten. “Merry Heavenly Christmas, Bev.”

And to all my blog readers, thank you for reading me throughout the years. I love you. “Merry Christmas, and may your New Year be filled with blessings.”

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Ballots, Lies and Election Fatigue: One Voter’s Journey to Apathy

by on ·General, Political, The Way I See It

As devoted as I am to composing essays, my keyboard refuses to cooperate when my heart isn’t in it. My passion for writing waned since November 6, when pigs flew, hell froze over, and chickens grew lips. It’s bad enough that my creativity gene has gone on an extended vacation to the Bermuda Triangle. Still, worse yet, my muse has packed her bags and retreated to the Himalayas. So, I’m left here staring at a blank page on the monitor screen. But to remain in good standing, I am forcing myself to write this blog post.

As of November 6, I quit my addiction to democracy drama without so much as a 12-step program or a single ‘Hi, my name is…’ meeting. Sure, I’ve threatened divorce from politics before – but this time, the ballot box and I are officially ‘consciously uncoupling.’  My political sails got so deflated during the last election that my level of creativity sunk lower than the Titanic.

I know some of you are thinking, “Yeah, right, we’ve heard this before,” and you’re not wrong. But think about this: It’s been over three weeks since I posted anything on my blog. Surely, at least two of the five of you wondered what happened to me. But fear not, for I have returned to grace you with my brilliantly sarcastic grumbles and grievances.

I’ve stopped watching MSNBC, my formerly favorite political news program. I’ve even given up on viewing local and national news broadcasts. Because – and I’m not exaggerating when I say this – the mere sound of his voice, the sight of his face, or a glimpse of anyone connected to him triggers an intense visceral reaction, leaving me nauseated.

So now, instead of filling my days with constant news narratives, I’ve doubled down on listening to music, reading books, and occasionally watching documentaries or lighthearted movies to escape the hellish reality and anticipation of the next four years or (as Buzz Lightyear, from the Toy Story films, would say it) “… infinity and beyond!”

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m done with voting. I expect to never vote again in what remains of my lifetime. I have lost all faith in the U.S. election system and have decided that, like so many other things purporting to deliver liberty and justice, it’s a farce.

Before you armchair loyalists start quoting me the Book of Voting, let me stop you right there. I’ve been there, done that, and got the “I Voted” stickers to prove it. I’ve preached those “why must you vote” sermons to the choir more times than I can count. But, alas, I’ve hung up my voting robe. I can’t sell a product I’ve lost faith in.

For years, I was the high priestess of the Church of the Polling Place, spreading the good word about voter turnout, like free candy on Halloween. I’ve knocked on more doors than a caffeinated Girl Scout during cookie season, preaching the gospel of “Every Vote Counts” with the zeal of a televangelist who just found out the cameras were rolling.

But alas, I’ve had a political epiphany. I’ve seen the light, and it’s brighter than a disco ball at a retirement party. I’ve decided to excommunicate myself from the religion of the ballot box. So, before you try to exorcise my civic demons with your “Rock the Vote” incantations, know that I’ve already been baptized in the holy waters of political participation. I’ve dipped my foot in that pool so many times; I’ve got prune toes to prove it. But now? Let’s just say I’m hanging up my “Future Voter” onesie and retiring my collection of campaign buttons.

Besides, didn’t you-know-who tell a gathering of Christian conservatives that if they voted for him, “We’ll have it fixed so you’re not going to have to vote again.”

Save your breath and your impassioned speeches about the sanctity of voting and the lives lost. This former voter is on the path of blissful political agnosticism. Besides, if I’m lucky, I may have one or two; three might be a stretch; presidential elections in my future, and anything could happen between now and then.

Hallelujah and amen!

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Coping on The Morning After

by on ·Politics

The text tone on my phone pierced the pre-dawn silence at 6:30 this morning, jolting me from the hazy realm between slumber and wakefulness. My son’s message flashed on the screen: “Good Morning, Mom. How are you feeling?”

A sense of foreboding washed over me, reminiscent of the crimson deluge that drenched Carrie at her ill-fated prom. Experience has taught me that a phone call or text message so early in the morning could not be good news.

I texted back. “Good morning, Son. Before I decide whether to turn on the TV, tell me if it will be a good day or a bad one.”

I didn’t have to tell him the context in which I asked that question. He already knew, and he responded, “Bad.”

The night before, as election results trickled in, anxiety crept over me. Hoping for the best but fearing the worst, I switched off the television at 10:15, earlier than usual. Then, to promote restful slumber, I sipped a glass of milk, inserted my earplugs, and let an audiobook lull me into a peaceful state, distancing myself from the political tumult.

A deluge of communications from various acquaintances quickly followed my son’s text message. Phone calls, text messages, and instant messages flooded in, each bearing words of concern or support. Among these, my cousin Vanessa’s instant message stood out. Her well-intentioned and playful query, “Cuz, have the tears stopped?” inadvertently broke the emotional dam I had carefully constructed. Until that moment, I had managed to keep my emotions in check, but her words unleashed a torrent of suppressed feelings.

As more people asked about my well-being, I grappled with an intense emotional response. (For a political junkie like myself, a strong support system proves invaluable in such times.) When asked about my state of mind, I confessed to experiencing what I imagined many other upstanding, devout citizens across the nation were feeling: despair like surpassing the disappointment of watching one’s favorite team lose the Super Bowl; anguish more profound than missing a life-changing lottery jackpot by a single number; and a feeling of sorrow even more heart-wrenching than the loss of a cherished friend.

As the 2024 election approached, I believed I had steeled myself against any unfavorable result. The 2016 disappointment is still fresh in my mind. I cautiously nurtured hope for a different outcome this time while trying to maintain emotional distance. However, my attempts at detachment proved futile. The results left me not just disappointed but utterly devastated. Initially, I yearned for isolation, seeking to process the shock in solitude. I powered down my phone, and after mustering the strength to share one optimistic post on Facebook, I shut off my computer. The temptation to retreat to bed, curl up, and hide from the world for the rest of the day was overwhelming. Yet, through self-affirming thoughts, I chose resilience over despair, refusing to let negativity triumph.

While struggling with emotional turmoil, I contemplated two other coping strategies: indulge in a day-long feast of sweets and comfort foods or channel my sorrow into physical exertion. Opting for the healthier alternative, I confronted my emotions head-on through exercise.

Determined, I positioned my stationary bike, donned my earphones, and selected a playlist on my iPod. As I pedaled with fierce intensity, I became fully immersed in the rhythmic motion and pulsating music. When my phone rang intermittently, I consciously let the calls go to voicemail, recognizing the importance of prioritizing my well-being at that moment. Sometimes, one must unapologetically claim their “me time” to process and heal.

As I furiously pushed the pedals, I realized I hadn’t ridden with such intensity in ages. I imagined myself as a competitor in the Tour de France cycling race. Physical exertion, particularly cycling or other exercise, has always been my go-to method for elevating my spirit. Coupled with music and a vivid imagination, it becomes a powerful vehicle for mental escape. Before long, I caught myself singing along to the songs on my playlist. My mood was on the upswing.

An acquaintance who identifies as agnostic often draws my criticism for his persistently pessimistic outlook on life. During our conversations about the afterlife, he expresses skepticism about the existence of Heaven while asserting that “We’re already living in Hell on Earth.”

Despite my usual disagreement with his viewpoint, I occasionally contemplate its merit. Observing the pervasive evil in our world, I sometimes wonder if his claim holds some truth—that we might unknowingly be living in a form of Hell. This concept suggests that after death, we could transition to another realm, either better or worse, depending on our earthly deeds and misdeeds.

Unlike my frequent routine of switching on the television promptly at 7 AM when I wake up, after reading my son’s text this morning, I delayed until 10:30. As I finally settled in front of the screen, I clutched my most oversized mug brimming with coffee. With each sip, I attempted to submerge myself in the brew, mirroring the desperate actions of a troubled drinker seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle. The rich, dark java became my temporary escape, much like how an alcoholic might use spirits to numb their pain and quiet their inner turmoil. To lift my spirit, another cousin, Jamal, sent me a link to one of my favorite oldies by The Isley Brothers, “Fight the Power.”

Despite my usual inclination towards optimism, there are moments when sustaining a positive outlook becomes a genuine challenge. Today is one of those days. Today the world appears to be moving in slow motion as if it, too, is dumbfounded.

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Milestones and Memories: Charting a Life from Girl to Grandmother

by on ·Aging, Politics, Racism, School Days, The Way I See It

Part I

A few weeks ago, my cousin Cameron attended a rally for the Democratic presidential hopeful, Vice President Kamala Harris, during her appearance in Greenville, North Carolina. (If you missed reading Cameron’s enthusiastic commentary, scroll down to the previous post, dated October 20.)

Last Tuesday evening, former prosecutor Harris held court on the ellipse. A few short years ago, I would have gotten together with some of my buddies, and faster than you could say, “grassroots activists,” we’d have been there front and center, waving signs and hollering support till our voices gave out. But my bum knee kept me away.

My body, once as sturdy as an oak, now picks and chooses which joint wants to cry foul on any given day. Usually, it’s a knee. So, I was stuck at home while history was being made just a stone’s throw away. Of course, I watched the rally on TV, but it wasn’t the same as being there.

It’s a peculiar thing, this aging business. Sometimes, while humming Helen Ready’s hit, “I am Woman, hear me roar,” I dare myself to jog to the corner store.

Enthusiastic civic engagement and social activism moments have marked the past decades of my life. On a crisp Saturday in January 2017, my girlfriends and I joined thousands of other women participating in the Women’s March on Washington, a powerful demonstration of solidarity and advocacy for women’s rights. Just four years prior, in 2013, I was among passionate protesters decrying the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, an unarmed Black teenager. That same year, I joined countless other crusaders commemorating the 50th anniversary of the historic March on Washington, reflecting on the progress made and the work still ahead in the ongoing struggle for civil rights and equality. During the 1980s, I believe it was ’83, I was participating in an anti-KKK rally and jeering as the hate group brazenly marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in the Nation’s Capital.

The question “What advice would you give your seven-year-old self?” is a common thought experiment many encounter. Although I’ve never been asked this directly, I’ve often contemplated my response.

If given the chance, I would reassure my younger self, that timid, skinny little girl, not to worry about the future. I would tell her, “I understand that right now you feel misunderstood, shy, and apprehensive about the world around you. But rest assured, this won’t always be the case. As you grow older, you’ll develop a strong sense of self-confidence. You’ll learn to balance your inherent kindness with assertiveness; life’s experiences will help you build resilience. I’d reassure her that there’s nothing inherently wrong with being kind. The world could benefit from more kindness. However, there is also truth in the adage that people often mistake kindness for weakness, so serve your kindheartedness with a dose of caution.

As a young student, you sought refuge in the back of the classroom, a silent sentinel hoping to blend into the shadows. The mere thought of the teacher’s gaze falling upon you sent shivers down your spine, for attention was an unwelcome spotlight on your fragile self-esteem. You yearned for invisibility during those long school days, wishing you could disappear into the worn pages of your textbooks. Even when knowledge danced on the tip of your tongue, you refused to raise your hand, unwilling to risk giving the wrong answer.

But listen closely, Little One, for the future holds a beautiful metamorphosis. That timid caterpillar will emerge as a vibrant butterfly, spreading wings of confidence and strength. The shy girl of yesterday will blossom into a self-assured elder, her voice clear and unwavering.

In the years following high school, you’ll shed your timidity like an old skin. As you enter college, you’ll find yourself brimming with newfound confidence. Gone will be the days of seeking refuge in the back of the classroom or silently rejoicing over your alphabetically advantageous surname. Instead, you’ll stride into each lecture hall with purpose, claiming your spot in the front row without hesitation. Your hand will shoot up eagerly whenever a question is posed, fueled by a genuine desire to engage rather than a fear of being wrong. The sting of an incorrect answer will no longer wound your pride; you’ll shrug it off as a learning opportunity and press forward. This resilience will become your new norm, replacing the crushing self-doubt of your younger years with a robust sense of self-assurance and intellectual curiosity.

Part II

Through life’s journey, you’ll experience the joys of marriage and motherhood, welcoming two beautiful children into the world. Though your marriage will eventually end in divorce, you’ll find yourself fortified by the resilience passed down through generations of strong women in your family.

Your commitment to social justice will flourish as you engage in various civic activities, such as attending anti-homelessness rallies, walking for charitable causes, and volunteering to support political campaigns. While you may never achieve the same level of recognition as iconic civil rights figures, you’ll take pride in your role as a dedicated community advocate.

As the years unfold, you’ll have the privilege of crossing paths with notable figures from various fields, including the acclaimed playwright August Wilson and Award-winning photographer and filmmaker Gordon Parks. In another memorable moment, while volunteering to feed people experiencing homelessness at Mitch Snyder’s CCNV shelter on Thanksgiving Day, you’ll have the opportunity to shake hands with Martin Sheen, one of your favorite actors. He, too, will be there that day to feed the homeless.

Significant experiences and achievements in media, politics, and writing will also mark your journey. Saturday Magazine, an hour-long television program, will feature you and your children in a segment focusing on single-parent families. You’ll attend a taping of the influential Oprah Winfrey show. As your life unfolds, you’ll discover a passion for politics, steering your career toward a field where you’ll frequently interact with politicians. This path will culminate in a significant encounter with Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States. These experiences will weave together to create a life well-lived, marked by personal growth, community engagement, and meaningful encounters.

Throughout these experiences, your love for writing will continue to grow. Your talent and perseverance will pay off as several pieces find their way into prestigious publications such as The Washington Post and The Afro-American. Pursuing your dream of becoming a journalist, you’ll seize an opportunity to write for a local weekly paper, The Metro Chronicle, where you’ll spend three years honing your skills.

Your creative journey will take an unexpected turn as you delve into the world of genealogy. This newfound interest will inspire you to author and publish a book, adding “published author” to your list of accomplishments. Your life’s journey will be a series of interconnected experiences, each building upon the last, leading to your achievements in media, politics, and writing.

You will have obstacles along the way and try to erase the bad memories of times when you were disrespected or humiliated by at least two employers. You’ll feel you have no recourse but to tolerate their mental abuse because you need your job. Little girl, if you could tell those employers now how you felt then what would you say? “$%@!#.”

Sorry, that would require a content warning on this post. Try again. “I’d ask the fifty-something-year-old executive who playfully slapped me on my butt at work one day, ‘How would you like it if someone in your daughter’s workplace did that to her? Don’t ever put your hands on me again, you old geezer.” But you were young and naïve, and that occurred decades before the “Me too” movement.

A second episode occurred a few years later at another workplace. I sometimes fantasize about what I wish I had said to the arrogant office director; I’ll call her Dr. Karen, who accused me of stealing a three-hole puncher, even though I told her that her assistant (who had already left for the day) told me she was borrowing it and taking it home to use over the weekend. I’d say to Karen, “You bigoted diva. Racism is in your DNA. You could have phoned your assistant and asked her if she had the hole puncher, but you didn’t because you were too eager to accuse the only black girl in the office of stealing it. And then, after I protested, you said that we – meaning black people – (I read very well between the lines) always want to play the victim. I wasn’t playing a victim, darn you. Without any cause or reason, you accused me of being a thief. When your assistant returned to work and produced the hole puncher, you thought it was beneath you to apologize because you never did. I should forgive and forget that incident, but acrimony remains.

Navigating life’s journey might be considerably smoother for all if we could peer into the future during our youth rather than reflect on our past experiences as elders.

But back to the present. While I couldn’t be at the ellipse in person last Tuesday, reveling and waving a sign, you can bet your bottom dollar I was there in spirit. Because self-pride and activism aren’t just about showing up physically – it’s about keeping that flame of change burning bright, no matter where you are or how creaky your joints might be. And let me tell you, my fire and desire for activism is still blazing like a bonfire on a summer night, and it probably will until it is finally extinguished.

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An ECU Alumnus’ Night to Remember

by on ·Politics

This post was written by Cameron White, Guest Author.

Attending a political rally, behind voting, is the second strongest way to show my support for a cause if you ask me. I had the honor of doing that on October 13, 2024, in Greenville, NC. As an ECU grad, I was very excited that Vice President Kamala Harris chose the location from which I graduated to campaign. So, when my cousin sent me the link to RSVP, I had to jump on it. I tried to get there early because I knew the lines would be very deep, but not too early, where I had to wait too long. I believe my timing was good as I had a bit of wait, but I got in line about an hour before the doors opened, just as I wanted.

As we packed into Minges Coliseum, you could feel everyone’s excitement about seeing VP Harris. The venue provided a secure environment for political discourse, as all attendees shared a unanimous opinion of her. From the moment the event began, a hospitable mood reminiscent of a community cookout took hold. A DJ set the tone for the afternoon, energizing the crowd.

Kandie Smith, a Senator in the 5th District, was the first speaker. Following Smith was Rachel Hunt, a hopeful for Lieutenant Governor in North Carolina. Smith and Hunt effectively primed the audience, creating an enthusiastic atmosphere for the main event. Hunt’s mention of gubernatorial candidate Mark Robinson elicited the most vocal negative response from the audience, surpassing reactions to any other Republican referenced.

The extended intermission following Representative Don Davis’s speech maintained the festive atmosphere. The crowd enthusiastically participated in popular line dances like the Cha Cha Slide and Cupid Shuffle, contrasting the ambiance one might expect at a rally for 45.

During this break, I decided to visit the restroom despite the risk of losing my seat. Fortunately, the considerate individuals seated behind me graciously saved my spot. This brief excursion led to an unexpected encounter with a fellow attendee who had just arrived for the main event. We engaged in a thoughtful conversation about our respective careers and shared our visions for the nation under the leadership of our potential future Madam President.

As the day progressed, the arena steadily filled to capacity. When Vice President Harris prepared to take the stage, Minges Coliseum was more packed than I had ever witnessed. The attendance likely surpassed any basketball game held in the venue, underscoring the event’s significance.

ECU’s Democratic Union President, Thomas Remington, a college sophomore, delivered an impressive speech. He eloquently shared his lower-middle-class upbringing and expressed enthusiasm for the potential changes Vice President Harris could bring if elected president. When Remington uttered, “It is my honor,” the crowd jumped to our feet as one, sweeping a wave of exhilaration through the stands, and we all whipped out our cameras. Vice President Harris’ appearance on stage set off a roar from the audience rivaling the deafening cheers last heard in 2002 when ECU defeated Dwyane Wade’s Marquette team. Mr. Remington experienced a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when he embraced the sitting Vice President of the United States, a story he’ll undoubtedly recount for years.

While some critics argue that VP Harris’s speeches lack variety, her message consistently resonates with her audience. Moreover, the actions of the 45th president continue to provide her with fresh material, challenging the notion that her talking points remain static.

The event in Greenville proved to be an enlightening experience. Despite the town’s conservative reputation, being surrounded by individuals with similar political views was invigorating. The enthusiasm for a potential President Harris was particularly noteworthy and encouraging. The gathering also allowed me to become better acquainted with local Democratic candidates, such as Rachel Hunt. Putting faces and voices to names on the ballot added a personal dimension to the electoral process, enhancing my understanding of the candidates beyond party affiliation.

I don’t know if Vice President Harris had previously visited Greenville, but the event showcased the vibrant spirit of East Carolina University (ECU) and the local community. The warm reception and lively atmosphere demonstrated our ability to host memorable political gatherings, hopefully leaving a positive impression on the Vice President and her team and letting them know we know how to party.

For me, it will undoubtedly be a night to remember.

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