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

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Playing the B’s like the Dozens

by on ·Politics

Playing the Dozens is a familiar term to many Black people, particularly the older generation. It’s a verbal game popularized in urban ghettoes and played mostly by black males back in the day. The participants try to one-up and insult each other using spoken creativity. The most potent offense often involves one opponent dissing the other’s mother. For example, “Your mother is so old she was the waitress at the Last Supper.”

Activist and Black Panther Party Minister H. Rap Brown wrote in his memoir about playing the Dozens, “We played the Dozens for recreation like white folks play Scrabble.”

I thought about the Dozens recently when Civil Rights lawyer and outspoken Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett delivered a backhanded clapback to far-right MAGA Republican Marjorie Taylor Greene after Greene insulted Rep. Crockett’s appearance during a House Oversight Committee meeting a few days ago when she said “I think your fake eyelashes are messing up your reading.”

Like many people, I am familiar with Greene’s uncouth, atrocious antics, but when I saw her latest stunt, my first thought was, OMG! No, she didn’t! And then I said to myself, “Georgia Gal, you messed with the wrong black woman.”

Rep. Crockett had had enough. She ignored the advice of former first lady Michelle Obama. We all remember her philosophy, “When they go low, we go high.”

Er, nope! Rep. Crockett did not go high. She responded in kind. Because I have the utmost respect for the gentlelady from Texas, I will say this in a way that I hope will not denigrate her:  without removing her earring, Ms. Crockett went straight up hood on the Georgian. She turned to Committee Chairman James Comer and said, “I’m just curious, just to better understand your ruling. If someone on this committee then starts talking about somebody’s bleach-blonde, bad-built, butch body, that would not be engaging in personalities, correct?”

The chairman seemed stupefied. And did I imagine it, or did I see Rep. Jamie Raskin stifling a smile?

Without breaking the House decorum rule, Rep. Crockett had coolly and indirectly let loose a swarm of B’s on Greene:  Bleached Blonde Bad Built Butch Body. Greene never saw it coming. She was dumbstruck. And although she would probably never admit it, those B stings will last a long time.

Rep. Crockett’s clever retort is all over the Internet. Songwriters have rhythmized the phrase. Podcasters, YouTube, and comedians are capitalizing on it. Esty sellers market the Bs on tee shirts, tank tops, coffee mugs, wine glasses, hoodies, pinback buttons, and who knows what else.

Although I don’t particularly like fanning the flames, I get sick and tired of disrespect, and I like it when I see someone get as much as they give. Thank you, Rep. Crockett.

And lest you think it’s a racial thing where African Americans are the only ones riding this B wave. Watch and enjoy this video.

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Flashing Back to School Days

by on ·Memory Lane, School Days

While dusting the volumes in my bookcase recently, guess what I discovered? Never mind guessing, I’ll tell you. It was my junior high school autograph book. I thought I had lost the 4-by-5 ½ paperback long ago, but there it was, squeezed like a dwarf between two hardcover biographies of historical giants Paul Robeson and Frederick Douglass. I was as happy by that find as I am when I unexpectedly discover a 20-dollar bill folded inside my jeans pocket. The pastel-colored pages of the little book have faded, and the front cover is missing, but most of the inscriptions of my former schoolmates are still legible. Only some scribbled in pencil are hard to read.

Days before graduating from Garnet Patterson Junior High School in 1963 (Okay, you can stop doing the math now.), I had purchased that autograph book, anticipating that cute remarks, witty jokes, and heartfelt well-wishes written by my classmates and some favorite teachers would fill the pages.

I carried the little book to another bookcase, where I removed a larger-sized autograph book. That one was signed by my peers from Dunbar High School. It has been years since I opened either of those books.

I brought my two keepsakes to the dining room table, sat down, and began perusing the pages. I wonder if today’s graduating students still maintain the tradition of signing autograph books at the end of the school year, or has that, like many traditions, become a thing of the past in this age of Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, and text messaging?

As I reread some of my junior and high school classmates’ messages, some seemed silly from the vantage point of age and maturity. Others revived pleasant memories of school days. Space won’t allow me to include many of the entries here, but I’ve listed some of my favorites below:

“To a nice chick. May you have the best of luck as you go thru (sic) life.” Ronnie Reece wrote that one. Following his message, Ronnie sketched a stick person walking through the years 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, and 1968. I remember that Ronnie was tall, handsome, and had a wonderful sense of humor.

Ponder “Mr. Soul” White wrote, “Good luck all the time.” Between the words “the” and “time,” he drew a large clock. Nice guy, Ponder.

I met Valerie Blackstone (nicknamed Val) in junior high school. She also attended Dunbar and remained my lifelong friend until she died in 2004. Her entry was a corny rhyme: “On the day of your graduation, you will receive an invitation from the board of education to increase the population. Do you dig this situation? A friend always, Val.” I imagine today’s contemporary teens would write that verse using more provocative language.

Adele Thomas and I grew up across the street from each other. After graduation, she married her high school sweetheart, Francis Smith, another Dunbar student. During Dunbar’s 35th class reunion, they were still married, and I suspect they remain together today. Adele wrote this. “The way to be seen is to stand up. The way to be heard is to speak up. The way to be appreciated is to shut up. Good luck.” Considering I was as quiet as a church mouse throughout my school years, I took her words to heart. With much determination in the years following graduation, I became the outspoken person some people wish would sit down and shut down.

Katherine E. Stanley, I remember being much more mature than other girls at school. True to her demeanor, she penned this, “Let your life be like arithmetic. Joys added. Sorrows subtracted. Friends multiplied. Love undivided. McKinley Tech bound.”

Another nice guy, Stephen Bennett, wrote, “To a very sweet girl. I wish you much luck in your future years.”

Harry Gough was one of our class’s brightest and most popular students. If I remember correctly, he always wore a suit to school, and I think some students considered him a nerd. I would not be surprised to learn that he became a college professor. He wrote “Best of Luck.”

I’ve maintained contact with some former alums, like Phillip Stevens. I knew Phil before high school, just like I did Val. We three have history. We were mutual friends, playmates, and schoolmates. Phil was another ambitious and active student. In addition to being a member of the military band, he was quite the athlete on Dunbar’s football and baseball teams. Besides our lifelong friendship, Phil is one of my dear Facebook friends. He wrote in my junior high book, “A friend of Val’s is a friend of mine,” and in my high school yearbook, “Always remember your junior and high school friend.” I always will.

Another athlete, Mevin Caldwell inscribed, “May God ever be with you and help you in everything you try to do.”

My namesake, Loretta Gaines, was also a bestie. She, Val, and I had our own clique. Loretta wrote, “To my favorite sister. Always stay as sweet and cool as you are. Wishing you the best of luck.”

Schoolmates weren’t the only ones who signed my books. Some of my relatives had their say. One cousin, Velda Parker, wrote, “Remember me. I’m the one who loves you.”

Some of the graduation cards I received remain tucked inside the back cover of my High School Yearbook. One came from Uncle Lucky and Aunt Jennie, another from Uncle Alton and Aunt Imogene. And then – there is the one from my then pen pal (who would become my husband two years later). I was a senior in high school, and he was in the U.S. Air Force, serving the second of his four-year enlisted service in Germany. The graduation card he sent me contained the answer to the question I asked in the last letter I sent him before graduating. “No, I’m so sorry, I can’t return stateside to take you to the prom.”

As shy as I was in school, this former shrinking violet would have blossomed while attending the prom with my military beau wearing his dress blues.

My mom wrote the most memorable prose in my autograph book. I’ve been unable to learn the author of that verse, but the words will remain with me forever:  “Dear Daughter,  Remember, wherever you be, be noble. Whatever you do, do well. Whenever you speak, speak kindly. Bring joy wherever you dwell. Love Mother.”

After reading my way down memory lane, I returned both books to the bookcase. Those school days seem like a hundred years ago. Come to think of it, it’s darn near close!

 

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Unmasking the Invisible Man

by on ·Crime and Punishment, Law and Order, Life and Death, Opinion

“We don’t meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason.”

I never knew his name, but after seeing a photo of him in The Washington Post, I recognized Reggie Brown as the 64-year-old senior with disabilities who was stomped to death by a group of teenage girls last year on October 17. The story of Mr. Brown’s tragic demise came to light again two weeks ago after police arrested three of the girls charged with the horrific crime. Numerous media outlets, including People.com, carried the story.

Like many other people in the neighborhood, I was acquainted with Mr. Brown. Because I saw him hanging around the same spot, I suspected he was a transient until later learning from news reports that he was not. It will be a while before I forget Mr. Brown’s cocoa chocolate face, downturned smile, and dark eyes that revealed years of sorrow. His aura was one of humility. I didn’t perceive him to be aggressive or threatening.

On most mornings near dawn, when I was going to and from the gym, I would see the frail-looking man standing near the McDonald’s drive-thru. I think he fancied himself to be an unofficial traffic controller. He would signal exiting drivers when it was safe to merge onto the avenue or extend a palm on an outstretched hand, instructing them to wait for pedestrians to cross. Some drivers would stop at the curb, lower the window, and hand him money before driving away. Others rolled out without acknowledging him. If their ingratitude angered him, he never showed it.

Whenever I passed him, he always politely greeted me. I admit, the first time I encountered him, I was reluctant to return his greeting because I suspected his next move would be to ask me for money. He never asked. That was just as well because I rarely carry more than my ID, keys, and gym essentials when I go to work out.

One day, as I left the gym, I followed a few steps behind three girls who appeared to be young teens; they were perhaps around 13 or 14 years old. Since they were wearing backpacks, and at least two wore uniforms, I suspected they were students stopping at McDonald’s before heading to school. Mr. Brown greeted them as he often did me, with a cordial “Good Morning.” Instead of returning his greeting or ignoring him, one girl responded with an expletive, “F*** you!” as one of the other two in front of her pulled open the door to the restaurant.

Instead of reacting negatively, as they might have expected, Mr. Brown kept his cool and asked, “How would your mother feel knowing you talk like that?” That provoked the teen to repeat the swear word before the trio entered McDonald’s. All of them were laughing as the door closed behind them.

As I passed him, we briefly made eye contact, and I sensed that Mr. Brown, like I, was wondering why so many young people today are insolent and disrespectful.

Months later, when I learned that three teenagers were arrested and charged with second-degree murder, assault, and conspiracy in Mr. Brown’s death, I was pleased. I also learned something about Mr. Brown.

According to his family, he was not homeless. He lived in the neighborhood with his sister. He had schizophrenia. He also had only three fingers on each of his hands. The missing digits had been amputated because of lupus. He suffered blackouts because, at some point in his life, he fell and injured his skull; that accident resulted in a metal plate being placed in his head. He also had cancer and had chemotherapy earlier on the day of his fateful encounter. According to his sister, walking made him feel better after chemo treatments, and he had gone out for a walk near midnight on the evening when he was pulled into an alley by an unidentified young male, senselessly beaten by a group of teenage girls, and left to bleed to death.

When I learned how young they were, I wondered if they were the same girls I had seen curse at Mr. Brown in front of McDonald’s, but of course, I don’t know.

Police would not reveal the girl’s names because they are juveniles. District law states children under 15 cannot be charged as adults. It sickened me to learn that they were charged as juveniles with second-degree murder and said to be too young to be prosecuted as adults. If convicted, the maximum penalty they face is confinement to a youth rehabilitation facility until they turn 21, after which, by law, they would have to be released. Mr. Brown’s family is pushing for adult charges. His sister said, “They do adult things; they should be treated as adults.”

I’m with her. I think leniency is one reason this city is rampant with juvenile crime. If you commit a major crime, you should do major time.

Every day, we randomly encounter people whose journeys differ from ours. Sometimes, they are street people, invisible to us until something significant happens, making us see them as fellow human beings struggling to get along in a hostile world. We don’t know the burden they carry any more than they know of our load.

The numerous times that I exchanged greetings with Mr. Brown, I saw him, but I never really saw him until after I learned of his brutal murder. If nothing else, I like to think that my morning greetings, as minuscule as they were, added some brightness to his day.

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An Early April Fool’s Joke and a $600 plus Overcharge

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

Even though numerous scientific studies have proven that astronomical bodies do not affect our lives depending on our birth date, many people believe the contrary. Humans have long looked to the stars for answers and directions to plan their lives based on Zodiac signs and horoscope predictions, which began over a thousand years ago. During the 19th Century, Harriet Tubman is said to have used the North Star as a compass to guide her during her numerous trips along the Underground Railroad.

I don’t believe in horoscopes, although occasionally, I read the columns in the newspaper for the fun of it. This being April Fool’s Day, I decided to read my horoscope and see what I am supposed to believe is in store for me today. As I began reading it, one line seemed to fluctuate, and I thought that surely the powers that be have a sense of humor. The horoscope said, “Be careful in your financial dealings because mixed communications and errors might cost you money.” Well, I’ll be a two-fish swimming Pisces! It was the correct prophecy, but it was overdue.

At the risk of angering the astrological gods, I leaned back in my chair and snickered, thinking that my stars must be misaligned because today’s prediction was nine days late.

A week ago, on Saturday, I placed an order online for food delivery from a popular restaurant. I’ve ordered from this place a few times before without incident. After clicking “Submit,” a message appeared on the screen, “Process failed. Try again later.” (I’m paraphrasing because I can’t remember the precise wording.) That was unusual. As instructed, I waited a few minutes and tried again. I got the same message.

I told my SO what happened, and he said the place was probably very busy because a popular sports event was airing on TV, and maybe many folks were ordering online and tying up the website. So I waited a few minutes and then tried again. I got the same message as before. I called the restaurant, told them what was happening, and asked if their website had a problem. They said they were unaware of any issues and suggested that perhaps the site was busy. I should wait a few minutes and try again.

My intuition never fails me — when I listen to it. It told me to stop trying, but I was hungry. I had not defrosted anything from the freezer to cook for dinner because I had my mind and taste buds set on one of my favorite meals. I hesitated but ignored my instinct and decided to try to place the order again. I re-entered my payment information and clicked submit a third time. By now, I’m getting agitated. I told myself I’d try once more, and if my order didn’t go through, I’d give up and maybe fix a couple of choke sandwiches (for the uninitiated, that’s slang for a peanut butter sandwich with or without jelly.)

After a few more attempts, I gave up, and – believe it or not – frustrated, I was pushing my chair away from the computer desk when the doorbell rang. I joined my SO as he opened the door and was surprised to find the DoorDash driver standing there with a brown bag containing our meals. I thought he must be delivering someone else’s order to us by mistake, but when we checked the receipt stapled to the sealed bag, it listed every item we had ordered. When I left the computer, I remembered that the website still showed “Process failed. Try again later.”

After expressing our confusion to the driver, who was oblivious to the problems with the website, he said, “I just deliver the meals, mam.” We tipped him, and he went on his way. As my SO opened the bag and checked to ensure the contents were what we ordered, not someone else’s meals, an ominous thought struck me like a lightning bolt. I rushed back to the computer, where the food site still showed a buffering symbol and the “try again” message. At no time did the website indicate that the order had gone through. I closed the window. Then, my instinct told me to check my bank account. I did so immediately. Holy smoked turkey! To say that I was stunned is an understatement. I was dumbfounded to see that my account revealed seven – yes, seven charges – for a single food order, totaling $623.41.

In my choking Whitney Houston voice, I said, “Hell to the no!” and grabbed the phone and called the restaurant again. After being transferred to what I perceived to be every room except the kitchen, I ended up with someone who claimed to be the tech person, although I had my suspicions. She told me they did not detect any problems with their website. I told the alleged techie about the numerous overcharges on my bank account and said I wanted the error corrected. She said she couldn’t do anything about it (Did she seem nonchalant, or was it my imagination?) and referred me to the corporate office. Of course, when I called Corporate, a recorded message said the office was closed until Monday.

I knew I’d have a nervous breakdown if I had to wait 48 hours to resolve the matter, so I phoned my bank (Thank God the customer service office was open.) Fortunately, I reached an agent who spoke understandable English. After I explained the situation to her and she confirmed seven charges were showing in the same amount for a single order, she reversed six.

Had the mishap occurred today, I might have thought it was an April Fool’s joke by a depraved worker. Instead, I’ll blame a website glitch and the unreliability of an astrological prediction that was nine days late. And as fond as I am of that eatery, I won’t order online from them again.

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Perspective vs. Perception: One woman’s home is another’s museum

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

“Did she just say what I think she said?” That was my first thought when I overheard the remark made by “Mae,” my houseguest.

Although it occurred some time ago, it still bothers me because I haven’t decided whether it was an ambiguous compliment, a subtle insult, or an innocent thought spoken aloud while I was in earshot.

Perhaps Mae said what she said in jest, and my humor gene was on snooze. Nevertheless, when I looked at her upon reentering the room, I didn’t see a hint of a smile or a sign of embarrassment, but indifference seemed apparent.

I have debated whether to leave this issue secured in my private diary and simmer every time I reread it or vent about it on my blog and get it out of my system once and for all.

Whitney Wolfe Herd, entrepreneur and Jill of many trades said, “Life is about perspective and how you look at something; ultimately, you have to zoom out.”

I zoomed out, then zoomed in. Over time, I even considered that I may have made a mountain out of a molehill, so I hoovered over it like a drone for a while. Nevertheless, Mae’s remark irked me. What exactly did she mean?

It happened on Thanksgiving Day a few years ago. I had invited Mae and her husband for dinner. Shortly after they arrived, I left them sitting in the living room, watching a football game on television while I went to the kitchen to check on the remaining dish that was not quite done.

During my absence, Mae must have been eyeing my living room like Martha Stewart because as I was reentering it, I overheard her say, “This looks like a museum.”

Before she could shut her lips after finishing that statement, my antenna shot above my furrowed brows. Then, my meddling inner Lo-zilla whispered, “Did she have the audacity to say that your place looks like a museum? Are you going to let that go unchallenged?”

I was about to ask (politely, of course) what she meant by that remark, but before I could get the words out, her husband jumped to his feet, threw both arms above his head, and enthusiastically yelled, “Touchdown!” His wild outburst caught us both off guard, but it cut the tension like a samurai sword, and then we all immediately turned our attention to the game.

I’ve read that professionals who study human behavior will tell you that sometimes it is not what someone says but how they say it. Intonation and tone reveal emotions and thoughts. You can think one thing when you say something, but the person who hears you express that thought might receive it differently.

Take the phrase, “Get out” for instance.

“Get out!” can be said excitedly to express disbelief. “You say you hit the Powerball? Get out!” Or it can be said angrily and forcefully, indicating that I want you gone. “Get out!”

So as not to risk spoiling the rest of the day, I did not revisit the awkward moment and my guest’s ambiguous statement, but it remained superglued in my mind.

Why did I take offense? Because I don’t think my home looks like a museum. I’m not saying a museum is a bad place—it isn’t, and I like visiting museums. But there was something about the way she said it that irked me. Mae may have meant her remark as a compliment, though her tone belied that. Perspective. Perception. I was conflicted.

My home reflects my affection for black culture, especially the living room with its tranquil earth tones. Throw pillows, some with designs of varied texture and tribal embroidery, are tucked on a medium brown sofa and wide seat recliner. Plain burnt orange cushions add a splash of color. My coveted collection of African masks, art, and other cultural artifacts acquired over decades are strategically arranged on the walls, atop the bookcases, and on other surfaces. A brown, black, and taupe area rug with an ethnic theme is layered on the beige carpet in front of the couch.

This plant lover’s assortment of live and artificial green plants brings the beauty of nature indoors. One viny philodendron I’ve grown for over 15 years climbs the wall and creeps over and around two small, glossy-finished portraits of African girls near the doorway.

My home is my castle. It’s not a museum or a showplace. You’ll never find a photo spread of it in Better Homes and Garden magazine. I decorate (not really decorate, just put together) things to suit my taste and lifestyle. There is nothing high-end about it. But it is neat and clean. I could say it’s hypoallergenic if the dust bunnies would stop shooing away the cleaning fairies.

Nevertheless, it is my safe harbor. My quiet place. When I need a time-out,  a temporary escape from the stressful, insane world, I close the curtains, turn on some smooth jazz, cuddle in my recliner, and escape into a good book.

Ahhh, I feel better now that I’ve vented. I zoomed in and out, and I’m letting it go.

“Perspective alone can make an experience positive or negative, but regardless of which you let it become, it can only have as much power … as you give it.” — A.J. Darkholme

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