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

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

My Opinion: Unrequested, Unfiltered, and Unapologetically Candid

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

Nations across the globe are glued to their screens, captivated by the most riveting reality show ever televised, featuring a cast of hardline conservatives as its stars. The only souls not anxiously awaiting a divine twist in this tale of woe are those card-carrying members of the “My Political Hero Can Do No Wrong” fan club. Yet, I suspect even some of these die-hard supporters are secretly crossing their fingers, hoping they don’t get caught in the mire. (Some already have.)

Who among us, having reached the age of wisdom, isn’t familiar with the folly of letting a fox into the hen house? Alas, the cunning fox has infiltrated, and a pack of wolves is standing guard. The high-and-mighty are wreaking havoc, turning everything topsy-turvy – save for their own plush lives – while breeding a quagmire that’ll require eons to set right. All the while, they’re maintaining those tax breaks and financial safeguards for the wealthy elites.

If left unchecked, before long, these devious creatures will be trying to convince the masses that water is dry and fire doesn’t burn. But far be it for me to let logic interfere with a captivating political illusion. Please tune in next time when we’ll be regaled with tales of how the sky is green and gravity is nothing more than a left-wing conspiracy.

Sometimes, it seems that the apocalyptic events in Revelation are unfolding faster than Amazon Prime deliveries. I can’t help but wonder where the hands on the symbolic Doomsday Clock are positioned. At last check, according to the BAS, it was 89 seconds to midnight. The Clock may apply specifically to technology, but I’m considering a quote commonly attributed to Albert Einstein, “Everything is relative.”

Shifting gears closer to home.

Doctors can be annoying, especially to a new patient. Those of us who have been around the block a few times know that — despite their training and medical degree — they don’t know as much as they want us to think they know. Some operate under the principle of “fake it ’til you make it.” Understandably, they don’t have all the answers, but few will admit it. For over twenty-five years, I had an excellent doctor. If she didn’t see an answer to my (often numerous) questions about whatever was ailing me at the time, she’d say something like, “I don’t know, but we’re going to see what we can find out.” I greatly respected her for that, and I was devastated when she retired a year before the COVID-19 Pandemic, and I had to find another PCP. (I’ve been through three so far.)

Physicians are adept at using complex medical terminology, and their educated guesses are practiced with such authority that their diagnoses become self-fulfilling prophecies (hopefully good ones!). Let’s be honest: occasionally, our doctor is just as lost as we are when trying to figure out what ails us based on what we tell them are our symptoms. And because time constraints imposed by insurance companies limit the time they can spend with a patient, they either refer us to another doctor, usually a specialist, or adhere to the unofficial motto of Dr. Makeaguess and write a prescription, “When in doubt, pill them out!”

Humor aside, I try to avoid bringing race into everything, but our world makes that nearly impossible. So, while I’m spouting off about doctors and the medical profession, I want to make my readers aware of a New York Times bestseller, “Legacy: A Black Physician Reckons with Racism in Medicine.” It’s a compelling work authored by Dr. R. Uche Blackstock, a prominent Black physician and healthcare equity advocate. In this insightful book, Dr. Blackstock delves into the pervasive issue of racism within the medical field, shedding light on the disparities in treatment between Black patients and their white counterparts.

Dr. Blackstock draws from her extensive experience and research to illustrate how systemic racism manifests in healthcare settings, affecting the quality of care received by Black patients. She provides a critical examination of the biases, both conscious and unconscious, that persist in medical practices and institutions. It’s a worthwhile read.

Then there is Artificial Intelligence (AI).

As I see it, AI is like a comedian with perfect memory but terrible timing. The other day, as I was doing some research on Google, the following message suddenly appeared on my monitor: “Verifying that you are a human.” The words vanished as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me startled. What??? It felt like a moment straight out of a sci-fi flick. “What next?” I wondered. Will people using personal computers have to blow on the screen or snap their fingers to prove that we are living, breathing human beings?

And just HOW did the site verify my humanness? I didn’t do anything to comply, although I did blink in awe when the message appeared on the screen. Perhaps blinking was the required response. LOL. I wasn’t asked to enter a username and password or answer a ridiculous secret question like, “Why do round pizzas come in square boxes?” I wasn’t prompted to enter a CAPTCHA (Sounds like, but not to be confused with gotcha!) Anyone using a computer has encountered CAPTCHA at some time or another. It prompts the computer user to solve a simple mathematical problem like 3+4= or type a few distorted letters to prove they are humans.

I realize that AI is here to stay, but I’m not a fan. In fact, I’m about as sick and tired of hearing about it as I am of listening to prerecorded messages answering my calls to businesses with, “Press 1 for English. Following that will be a series of ridiculous commands to press this and that number until I’ve run through the entire decimal system twice, only to be told, “No one is available now to take your call.” Aarrgghh!!! By the way, forget pressing zero to reach a live person. They’ve gotten wise to that and nixed it.

I’ve done enough venting for now. Time to let my keyboard cool down before it melts!

2 Comments

The Holy Order of Being Ghosted and Ghosting

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

Would you believe your ambitious blogger has been MIA because her muse decided to take an unauthorized extended vacation? (I think Ms. Muse is on sabbatical, still trying to recover from last November 5.) Nevertheless, without even sending a postcard! POOF! She vanished like my willpower does when I enter an all-you-can-eat buffet!

So, nearly three weeks have passed, and my New Year’s blog post remains in “pending” status – until today. During my “drought” amidst my stagnation, a comforting thought emerged: When faced with the challenge of the blank page, grab a rich caffè mocha and lose yourself in the pages of a good book.

Thus, I’ve been swimming in my home library like Diana Nyad treads water in the Atlantic. Oh, the places books will take you. They are not mere bound volumes of paper and ink but portals to a vast world. Books are the ultimate transformer; they can slip one into the skin of any character. Become a superwoman or a wicked witch! They’re like little magic carpets that whisk you away faster than you can say, “Beam me up, Scotty, (so I can search for that darn muse!)”

It is a sad tragedy that my offspring somehow failed to inherit my bookworm genes. Neither of them is a voracious reader like I am. So, sometimes, I imagine with horror that my precious collection will end up in a landfill after I kick the bucket. Perish that thought. Hopefully, my book babies will find new homes through the charitable organizations I’ve been supporting.

But enough about my future literary estate planning! Let me turn to the matter at hand.

What to write about for my first post of the New Year? I considered climbing back up the family tree, but the last time I did that, I shook the branches too hard, and some leaves flew off and got bent out of shape. As I understand it, some of those leaves are still smoldering, like California wildfires.

So, while trying not to be the devil’s advocate, I’ve decided to be my own muse and explore a less volatile subject. And, speaking of the devil.

As one frequently grappling with profound questions about faith, I find myself at a crossroads between traditional religious beliefs and personal spiritual exploration.

My journey began in childhood when I walked into the living room one evening as my parents were watching a news report about the violence against civil rights workers. I innocently questioned the existence of evil in a world governed by an all-powerful God and asked my mother, “If God is all-knowing and powerful, why doesn’t he just wipe out the evil forces?”

She looked at me like I’d been playing hooky from Sunday school and then said, “We don’t question God,” which left me unsatisfied and curious about why we couldn’t seek answers from a divine parent.

As an adult, I still witness the prevalence of wickedness worldwide, which seems to have intensified since my youth. This observation leads me to revisit my earlier question with renewed urgency. Why can’t we question God and receive clear, unambiguous answers about the evilness in the world? (I ask the questions but don’t get comprehensible answers.)

I suspect others harbor similar doubts but are hesitant to express them, perhaps fearing divine judgment for merely entertaining the question. Yet, if God is truly omniscient, wouldn’t He already know our thoughts?

My spiritual journey has led me away from organized religion and towards a more personal, direct relationship with the divine. That’s why I identify as spiritual rather than religious, a stance some may dismiss as disingenuous. However, I find this approach authentic – striving to embody Christian values of compassion and humility in my daily life without adhering to rigid doctrines or rituals.

For the past few decades, I’ve chosen not to attend church, rejecting the notion of being a “part-time Christian” or a “Sunday Saint, Monday Sinner.” I acknowledge the complexity of faith, recognizing that one can feel blessed while still experiencing stress and doubt. The popular saying, “If you pray, why worry? And if you worry, why pray?” highlights the tension between faith and human nature.

While I believe in the power of prayer, I also grapple with the contradictions inherent in religious texts and teachings. Some might find my approach to Christianity as quasi-Christian or even agnostic. Nevertheless, I focus on living out the core teachings of Jesus Christ – treating others with kindness and respect – rather than strictly adhering to all Biblical scriptures, which – as I see it, are often contradictory and confusing. The spiritual path allows me to feel less hypocritical while navigating the complexities of faith.

Another reason I’ve chosen to distance myself from organized religion is due to its tendency to draw sharp boundaries and claim exclusive truth. I’ve witnessed the divisive potential of religious organizations, even within families. Instead, I embrace a more inclusive view, respecting various names and concepts of the divine across different faiths. Whatever you want to call your Omnipotent One – God, Jesus, Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, it’s all good.

My spiritual journey is continuous questioning, personal growth, and a commitment to living ethically and following the Golden Rule. As I seek the answers, I remain open to exploring life’s profound questions while striving to embody the values of compassion and humility in my interactions with others.

As we enter 2025, may God’s presence guide our every step and fill our hearts with hope, peace, and purpose. May His love surround us, His wisdom illuminate our path, and His strength sustain us through every challenge in the next four years and thereafter.

 

2 Comments

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.”

0 Comments

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!

2 Comments

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.

2 Comments