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

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Trying to Connect the Pieces

by on ·Cousins, Family, General, Strange Happenings

A few days ago, I got an IM on Facebook from my cousin, Velda. But, unfortunately, there was no note, just a photo of a certificate that appears to have been yellowed by age. At first glance, I thought, “Why is she sending this to me?”

I examined the document more closely, letting my eyes slide down the page until they reached the name beneath the words:  This is to certify that . . . .

My antennae went up. Wait a minute! I thought. Rewind. Reread the page. The name on the line above the signatures of four officials affiliated with the program offered by the DC Public Schools’ Department of Industrial and Adult Education was mine.

The certificate, dated January 20, 1966, was presented for completion of a 12-hour course in Individual and Family Survival. I stared at it for the longest time. I couldn’t recall ever seeing that document before, but my maiden name in my handwriting leaped at me from the signature line. But how? When? I drew a stupefied blank.

Granted that it was nearly a hundred years ago (You all stop calculating. Of course, I’m exaggerating, give or take a few decades. LOL), my mind is still relatively keen, and I like to think I would remember taking that course. After all, I still remember that Mr. Simmons, the Business Ed teacher, was, in my opinion, the most handsome and sexiest teacher in our high school, but that’s a post for another time.

Since the resurrected certificate was dated six months before I graduated from high school, I can only surmise that it may have been a class compulsory for meeting graduation requirements. But wow! Who would have thought? And what was the relevance of a course in Individual and Family Survival? Considering the decade, a civil defense Duck and Cover course might have been more appropriate. However, since the certificate shows that the study was presented by the Office of Civil Defense Adult Education, perhaps it was developed to show us how to prepare ourselves and our future families for emergencies or nuclear disasters. I doubt if I would have voluntarily taken what appears to be a mundane course unless I was under the duress of not graduating for lack of required credits.

I instant-messaged Velda and asked how she got the certificate. She said she discovered it while cleaning out one of her mom’s closets. Of course, then I wanted to know how her mom, my Aunt Imogene, got possession of it. Velda said it was inside an old photo album that had belonged to one of our deceased uncles, Uncle Henry. Velda’s mom is married to one of Uncle Henry and my dad’s brothers.

Of course, the next question was how Uncle Henry got it. Although he had lived in the same city as my family and me for years before he moved to North Carolina, I doubt if my mom and dad would have given it to him. As I discovered when my sister and I were clearing out my parents’ home following our mother’s death in 2014, mother kept nearly every report card, honor roll certificate, and other achievement documents that my siblings and I acquired while in school.

Since my parents are deceased and Uncle Henry died over 20 years ago, I will probably never learn how my certificate traveled from my parent’s home and wound up over 250 miles away inside the photo album where Velda discovered it. But I sure would like to know. And it may seem coincidental to those who believe in coincidences (I don’t) that Velda, the Parker family genealogist, would be the one to discover a piece of my personal history. Well, Shazam, Cuz!

There is an old aphorism that holds much truth: “Life is a jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing.” I would include “with some disjointed pieces that don’t seem to fit.”

Thanks, Cuz, for adding another disjointed piece to the jigsaw puzzle of my life.

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Out with the Old, In with the New Bucket List!

by on ·Bucket List, General, New Year

Decades ago, after asking myself, “Why make ’em to break ’em?” I stopped making New Year’s Resolutions and began updating my bucket list on the eve. But, of course, life’s impermanence assures no guarantees, and those cousins – time and circumstance – determine whether my bucket list items get checkmarks, lined out, or revised. And, if I had to choose between having a root canal or taking a plane anywhere, I’ll make the dental appointment. In plain English, if I have to fly to get there, then I’m not going.

So, here is my updated, simple, feet-on-the-ground bucket list.

Fly a kite over the ocean. When my children were young, I would occasionally take them to the parking lot of a nearby schoolyard to fly their kites. Now that they’re grown, whenever I think about kite flying, I remember that I enjoyed it as much as they did, and I’d like to do it one more time, only not in a parking lot. Instead, I’ll fly my kite at a beach and hope my adventure won’t be like the dream I once had where… I’m at a beautiful beach and happy that I won’t have to worry about my kite getting tangled in trees or telephone lines. Instead of flimsy paper, I have a sturdy, nylon diamond kite with vivid red, yellow, and royal blue colors and a long black and purple prism ribbon tail. As soon as I lift the kite, the wind grabs it. The string begins to unravel rapidly as a strong breeze sends my prize soaring so high above the ocean that it kisses a feathery cloud in the bright blue sky. I hold the kite spool tightly with both hands, dig my heels into the sand, and assume a rigid, anti-gravity backward lean reminiscent of Michael Jackson in his Smooth Criminal video. A stronger gust pulls my kite out further over the water, and I struggle to hold on to it even as I am being dragged toward the ocean like a bare-foot water skier. I swerve left and right, trying to avoid colliding with sunbathers while attempting to reel it in. As my feet reach the shoreline, the string snaps, and I fall to the ground. Then, I scramble to my feet and watch my beautiful psychedelic-colored kite sail up, up, and away like a beautiful, helium-filled balloon until it disappears into the horizon.  

Go rock wall climbing again. The tomboy I was during my youth lives inside me. It resurfaced each time I scaled the indoor rock wall at the ClimbZone. It didn’t bother me that the younger and more agile folks climbed rings around me and scampered to the top. I was happy to make it halfway. Nor was I daunted by the fall I took when rappelling in 2019. Thanks to the safety harness, it was a soft drop, and nothing was broken or hurt except my pride. I’m not one who readily accepts defeat. I’ve since learned the proper way to rappel. So, I’m up to the challenge, ready and eager to try it once more. This time I aim to reach the top.

Get tickets (again) for The View. Over the years, I twice requested and was offered tickets to my all-time favorite TV program, The View. Regretfully, I could not go on the assigned dates. But, if it’s true that three’s the charm, and I get the opportunity again to be an audience member, come hell or high water, I’ll be there. That would be second only to the thrill my sister-in-law, Barbara, and I felt after being in Oprah’s audience in January 1986.

Have a granddaughter. Okay, this one is tricky. I have six grandsons and not a single granddaughter. While I love my grandsons to the moon and back, I’d still like to have a granddaughter. And yes, all things considered, I’ll settle for a great-granddaughter. Baby gods, do you hear me?

Travel cross-country in a sleeping car on Amtrak. While I’ve never aspired to be a globetrotter, there are a few places I’ve been that I’d like to revisit, and my travel would be on Amtrak. Denver is one of those places. I was mesmerized by the picturesque scenery near the mountain cabin where we lodged. The other place I’d like to visit again is beautiful Anaheim, California, and while I’m in the Golden State, I’d like to see the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Finally, there are two other places I would enjoy going to see outside the country – Ghana and Switzerland. But since those would require nine or ten hours in the air, I’ve nixed them. Even a one-hour flight is too long for me.

Revel in Times Square on New Year’s Eve one more time. My initial visit to Times Square on NYE was in 1968. That night was frigid. My then-husband and I nearly froze to death. Every year since then, while watching the New Year’s Eve festivities on TV, I say to myself, “Maybe, just one more time.” When I was younger, it didn’t bother me to be in a crowd among hundreds or more people. I enjoyed the camaraderie. I’ve participated in numerous walk-a-thon fundraisers and marches for various causes, including the anti-Klan rally in DC (I believe that was in 1989), the 50th Anniversary of the March on Washington in 2013, and the Women’s March in 2017. Of late, I dislike being in crowds because people have lost their minds, and the safety and health risks are indeterminable. Just today, I learned of a machete attack in Times Square last night. Nevertheless, in a fit of temporary insanity, I might decide to do Times Square one more time.

Finish the darn book I’ve been working on for over a year. I know some authors have taken as long as a decade (some even longer) to finish writing their books. Procrastination is my nemesis, and frequent interruptions don’t help either. (A quiet cabin in the mountains would be the ideal place to write.) Whenever I feel like quitting the project, I draw inspiration from the words of Toni Morrison, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” I swallow Morrison’s dictate with a warm chaser, “If you are not afraid of the voices inside you, you will not fear the critics outside you.” – Natalie Goldberg (author of Writing Down the Bones).

My list is too long to continue elaborating on each topic, so I’ll list the other items without summaries for now.

  • Take another couples kickboxing or self-defense course.
  • Eat all I want and not gain a pound.
  • Meditate, do yoga, and work out every day to stay healthy.
  • Take piano lessons again.
  • Improve my bowling skills.
  • Go roller skating.
  • Volunteer at an animal shelter.
  • Always be humble, express gratitude, and adhere to the teachings of Desiderata – particularly this phrase, “As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Happy New Year, readers. Thanks for your support, and God bless!

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Grinched

by on ·General, Holidays, Humanity

A friend once told me that some of my online journal entries tend to get personal. I laughed as I said to her, “You’re kidding, right? If you think the public entries are personal, you should see what I write in my private journal.” Ha Ha.

I intended this entry to be solely a humorous, upbeat post about Christmas because Yuletide is one of my favorite seasons. But, a recent encounter made me reconsider.

Some days ago, I was cruising along an imaginary highway minding my own business, when out of nowhere, Ms. Grinch appeared. She veered into my lane and tried to side-swipe me. I swerved to avoid a collision, but she, appearing to be aching for a confrontation, returned. Hypothetical road rage, for sure. I usually give as good as I get, but it’s Christmastime, so instead of engaging in a battle of words, I told her to butt out and went about my merry way.

People often say that today’s youth are a generation of troublemakers. Granted, many are, but I believe that the behavior of someone young and dumb is more excusable than the foolishness of an immature adult, especially one who is two decades older than Scrooge, á la Ms. Grinch. People like her are perfect examples of misery loves company. The envy and malice they harbor in their heart lead them to create chaos whenever and wherever they can. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know that mean-spiritedness and a penchant for troublemaking are often due to a lack of self-esteem. As a result, grinches live a lonely and unhappy existence. Life is too short to be prone to indiscretion and unnecessary drama. As Rodney King said, “Can’t we all get along?”

That said, I’m switching gears.

My peace-loving friends, stretch your imagination and envision Santa carrying a remedy for universal peace and love inside his big, red gift bag. The contents are shredded like trillions of bits of confetti to make transport and distribution more manageable. During his sleigh ride across the darkened sky on Christmas Eve, Santa will dip his gloved hand into the bag, grab handsful of the confetti, and sprinkle it everywhere he goes. The shavings will fall like snowflakes in a blizzard, landing on buildings, vehicles, and people. Everybody who comes in contact with it succumbs to the effects. It’s more transmittable than COVID and as potent as nerve gas, only non-lethal. However, it is saturated with a chemical that, when touched or inhaled, causes the host to lose all negative emotions and develop a penchant for harmony. As Santa continues ho, ho, hoing around the world, he revels in his achievement because he knows there will be peace in every country, city, and home – worldwide peace – on Christmas Day and forever after.

And one last thing before my pipe dream ends.

Folks will hear him exclaim, ere he drives out of sight, “HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!“

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Doggonit! That Confusing Gender Binary Language

by on ·General, Language, Opinion, The Way I See It

According to Heraclitus, “Change is the only constant in life. As I understand it, the Greek philosopher’s statement means that everything we are used to will undergo some transformation sooner or later.

I suspect that many of my boomer subscribers, and the sprinkling of millennial readers, feel as intimidated as I do about how things keep changing. What the flux? As soon as we get used to something, it alters, transforms, it changes before you can say abracadabra!

Let’s talk about language. Grammar rules and word meanings constantly change, proving that language, too, is inconsistent. Remember when a mouse meant a rodent you might see skittering across the floor, not a device sitting on your desktop near your computer? And how long did it take some of us to learn that ghosting meant more than a shadowy image on an old television screen? It seems that as soon as we learn the meaning of certain words or the context used, a language adjustment sprouts like gray hair on an AARP member’s head.

It has become trendy now to use pronouns in non-standard ways. Wait a minute. Did I say trendy? Strike that. As sure as it rains on just-washed cars, some sensitive folks will freak out over my using the word trendy in this situation. So, bear with me while I replace trendy with, oh, let’s say, practical. As I was saying, non-standard pronouns are also described as non-binary or gender-neutral pronouns. Some folks may have been educated about those latter pronouns for a while. But, I, on the other hand, only recently, and unexpectedly, learned the lesson.

Imagine you are cruising along, completely absorbed in a book you are reading, when suddenly you get side-swiped by what you think is an improper pronoun. Such an “accident” is more noticeable when you see the word on a printed page than when you listen to a narrator. In an audiobook, you wonder if you heard what you thought you heard, but when you see a word on a page being used in an unfamiliar manner, it looms in front of you like a bright red STOP sign at an intersection.

Recently, I was listening to an audiobook. After the initial introduction of the male and female characters, whenever the author referenced one of them, if she did not use their name, she referred to the character as they instead of her or him. The first time I heard “they,” when I was expecting to hear “her,” I chalked it up to a typo. Then I heard “they” intended for him, and I wondered facetiously, can the narrator read? As the story progressed, and the same perceived mistake kept recurring, sometimes with different characters, I realized something was off-kilter.

(Note: I use read interchangeably, referring to a printed book or an audio one. In this case, it was an audiobook that caused my angst.)

I’m not exaggerating when I say that the pronoun swap got distracting to the point that it wrecked an otherwise intriguing plot and flowing storyline. So much so that, at one point, I considered ditching the book unfinished. Only curiosity about how the story would end kept me reading.

The most common option for gender-neutral pronouns is the singular usage of the pronouns they/them. Instead of using “he” or “she” in a sentence, you would use the word “they.”

If any of you readers are scratching your head trying to figure this all out, the following is an example of sentences with binary and non-binary pronouns.

Ordinarily, I would write this: “Our teacher called in sick this morning, so Principal Moore taught our class today, and she did well. Kudos to her.” I would not write this (non-binary): “Our teacher called in sick this morning, so Principal Moore taught our class today, and they did well. Kudos to them.”

Still scratching? Perhaps this explanation from Google will help: “The non-binary pronouns are “they,” “them,” and “their.” When talking about someone who identifies as non-binary, use “they/them” (not “he/him” or “she/her”), and use “their” (not “his/her”).”

Got it? You think? Well, imagine reading an entire novel containing non-binary language.

When I began reading the book, I thought that perhaps the author failed to have a copy editor proofread it before it was published. But, of course, she did. Finally, after stressing out over what I thought were numerous proofreading flubs, I figured it out.

I understand that gender-inclusive language is a way to embrace persons whose gender is unknown or undeterminable or a non-binary person who chooses to use “they” as their identifying pronoun. By George, I get it! That makes it no less confusing, especially for uninitiated writers and others.

Call me nonprogressive or old-fashioned, whatever. I think using non-binary pronouns is freaking awkward!

I found a Study by the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill somewhat conciliatory after reading the following: “We speculate that relative unfamiliarity with non-binary they and non-binary gender may…lead writers to avoid using a form that may not be familiar to their [audience].” I hope everyone who writes for a general audience will take that seriously.

In the meantime, traditions keep changing like the seasons. No disrespect intended, but what’s next? Will Christmas novels that have Santa saying, “Ho, Ho, Ho” be banned because some people will consider it offensive, instead forcing Santa’s laugh to be “Ha, Ha, Ha” or “He, He, He.” Wait a minute. Strike that. Replace “He, He, He” with “They, They, They.”

And you, he, she, they, their, them – y’all have a very Merry Christmas!

 

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Message to a Black Man

by on ·Black Lives

The longer I stay cocooned in my she cave (my home), the more relaxed I feel. I would say the safer I feel, but every day I hear on the TV news or directly from the mouth of a friend or acquaintance about something terrible that happened to someone while they were inside (what they thought was) the safety of their home. Just yesterday, I learned from a dear friend that her brother had been shot in his house by a stranger attempting to burglarize the home. Thank God, as I write this, her brother is still alive and recovering in the hospital.

Outside or inside, sometimes it doesn’t matter, does it? Nevertheless, the fewer people I deal with face-to-face, the happier I am. No stress, no mess, I always say. Something that happened this morning is a perfect example of why I think that way.

I decided to go to the store. I didn’t need anything that couldn’t wait until my regular order of groceries is delivered next week, or if I were pressed, like craving fresh fruits as I was doing this morning, I’d order from Instacart. Instead, I called my daughter, and we decided to go together to the store. I picked up a few items. As we were getting in line, a black man, I glimpsed from the corner of my eye and guessed was in his late 20s or early 30s, walked up behind us. I never looked back at him, but I could tell he was talking on the phone. He said to whoever he was talking to, “That’s why I don’t deal with black women. They’re all alike.”

My daughter was standing beside me, and she, too, overheard the man’s conversation. Like me, she purposely ignored him. To further convey our disinterest, lest he was thinking he could lure us into a heated conversation in defense of black women, I  began talking to my daughter.

Black people have enough challenges without the acrimony between men and women. And, among other things, I feel that the broadcast and entertainment industry fuels the flame. TV commercials featuring mixed-race families, especially those giving prominence to the coupling of black men and white women, are as popular now as air fryers. I know I am not the only black woman bothered by that, but I’m likely one of the few who would publicly admit it. Love who you want; I don’t care, but why do the commercials display such an unbalanced presentation of mixed-race families? Is it because we – black women – are stereotypically portrayed as angry? Even Michelle Obama could not escape that negative label.

The contempt of the man in the store for black women was evident. He was standing directly behind me and made no effort to lower his voice, giving me no doubt that he wanted us to overhear his conversation. I don’t know if he was actually talking to someone on the phone (He had it to his ear.) or faking it, but I suspected he was baiting a trap either way. My instinct told me that he was hoping my very attractive daughter or I would turn around and give him the how dare you look. That would have been his signal to engage us in a verbal confrontation. I envisioned him saying, “Who you looking at? Yeah, I’m talking about y’all.” And then I imagined that he’d say into the phone, “See, what I mean. Bitches in here all in my business.”

I know the game. I’ve seen it played before. I didn’t take the bait.

Instead, my daughter and I pretended we didn’t hear him. If I’ve learned anything in my life, one sure way to piss-off someone – or invalidate them – is to ignore them. So I turned to my daughter, and we began talking about the high cost of food. Had we reacted to his rant, we would likely have given him the pleasure of loud talking us or reinforcing his point to whoever (if anyone) was on the other end of his phone.

As I walked home, I pretended his conversation didn’t bother me, but it did, and it still does. Disparaging black women will not solve his problem. He has more profound issues troubling him. Perhaps it is self-hatred.

On February 14, 1990, Washington Post Columnist Donna Britt published “For Black Men, One From the Heart.” It was a warm-hearted Valentine’s Day message for Black Men who are often portrayed as criminals, perpetrators of violence, and dead-beat dads. Reportedly, that essay brought Britt dozens of roses, numerous phone calls from people expressing their gratitude, and several awards, including one from the National Association of Black Journalists. She also received high praise from us black women who agreed with her.

Black men do not have to fit the stereotypes. In 1965, in his book Message to the Blackman in America, Elijah Muhammed wrote, “One of the gravest handicaps for the so-called Negro is that there is no love for self, nor love for his or her own kind. This not having love for self is the root cause of hate.”

I still feel the sting of the words of the man who stood behind me in the store, although I think they would have been guided like a verbal missile to any other black woman within the sound of his voice. If I could say some things to him, I’d say this:  Like you, black women face the difficulties of trust, baggage from past relationships, and sometimes even economic instability. We know that there are many upstanding, hard-working black men out there. I’ve been with one for over 20 years. We respect you. We’ve got your back. All black women do not lump all black men into the same barrel. Please don’t do it to us.

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