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

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Living in America: An Average Citizen Vents

by on ·Law and Order, Opinion, Politics

The following post was written by a Guest Author, Anonymous

Bear with me while I vent. Several hours ago, while listening to Keith Olbermann’s latest podcast (Countdown with Keith Olbermann), I fully realized the appalling potential danger the 45th president created for this country when he took classified documents from the White House.

If you are like me, you’ll feel stunned and outraged after listening to Olbermann’s take on how one depraved and treacherous moron may have set America on a path to subjugation or eventual destruction.

Consider how enemies of the U.S. have worked long and hard to infiltrate and access this country’s most profound, crucial secrets by hook or crook. And then think about the authoritarian wannabe treating the secrets as nothing less than copyrighted recipes that he could use for profit or to gain influence. Of course, his blatant disregard for democracy and this country is nothing new.

Numerous people who could have done something to prevent this national tragedy but did nothing must shoulder the blame. The list of the guilty is lengthy. If Merrick Garland had been forthcoming, he could have exposed the dilemma early on. Mueller, too was deferential. Even Obama could have brought 45 to court for defaming him with false wiretapping allegations. Anyone of them might have prevented what has become a national tragedy. Being submissive to people you know to operate on an entirely malignant, evil, self-serving path is morally costly and reckless. Perhaps it would have created bedlam if any of those who might have taken steps to prevent the tragic results had stepped up, but it also would have shown 45 that America and Americans of good conscious won’t tolerate his nonsense. So, the perpetrator pursued his mission, and it has come to this.

How many people do you suppose have been hired at Mar-a-Lago since 45 was in office and following his defeat? How many housekeepers? How many gardeners, cooks, cleaners, pool boys, janitors? You don’t think Russia, North Korea, or Saudi Arabia is smart enough to assign someone to infiltrate that place? It doesn’t seem unreasonable when you consider some of the sinister, underhanded stuff some of these countries have done in the past. Does it?

This country may never know the extent of the damage done until it’s too late to do anything about it. That’s what’s so creepy and so unforgivable about this situation. What a betrayal. And what an unforced error for those who may have prevented it.

America’s obeisance and submission to the wealthy, privileged whites, and powerful, especially when they espouse an ideology of supremacy and hierarchy, may become this country’s downfall. If the U.S. survives this trial by fire, the government must redouble efforts to make this country dedicated to equality, truth, and justice for all and stop allowing the wealthy and well-connected to play on a different stage.

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451 Degrees Fahrenheit

by on ·Book Lovers, Opinion

Now and then, I do what I call a book dump. I’m exaggerating; I don’t throw away books; my conscience won’t let me do that. Instead, when I feel like I’m about to be buried beneath my books, I donate them to a charitable organization or give them to someone I know who enjoys reading as much as I do. A few years ago, I packed up three cardboard boxes of old books I had finished reading and gave them to a close friend. It was a painful but necessary act of generosity. I felt like I was bidding farewell to loved ones, but I had no choice but to downsize. My overfull bookcases, some closet shelves, and even one drawer on the nightstand were demanding space.

Now that I think of it, there was one time when I did dump books. It happened decades ago and was sort of a grand finale to my marriage breakup.

When my spouse and I called it quits, my kids and I remained in the beautiful, high-rise apartment we had moved into a year earlier. I loved our apartment. We decorated it meticulously. When my spouse left, in addition to his clothing, he took the only other inanimate objects he valued most:  his tall conga drum and an assortment of Last Poets and Nancy Wilson albums, but he left his books. Even before we married, he, like I, had been an avid reader, so together, we brought around 200 hardcover and paperback books into the marriage. Some of mine were first editions.

A few months after we split, I knew I couldn’t stay there. When I threatened to leave all of the furniture behind if he didn’t come and get it, he relented to my request, arrived with a U-Haul van, and took the plush sectional sofa, the large fish aquarian, the floor model stereo, and the few pieces of African Art hanging on the walls, but he left his books.

Judgment and speculations abounded among friends and relatives about why the breakup occurred. “You two seemed so happy,” a couple of close friends told me. I won’t engage in fault-finding. The fact is, we were both – as the saying goes – young and dumb when we married. I suspect that had we been more mature; we might have handled things differently. But that’s irrelevant.

On the last day, as I was preparing to leave the apartment, I dragged the three green trash bags I had filled with books into the living room and dumped the lot of them, one on top of the other, on the floor in the center of the room. I stared at the mound for a few minutes contemplating whether I should go through them and bring some favorites, but I couldn’t. My emotions were still raw over the whole hot mess. So, I hoisted my baby girl into my arms, took my two-year-old son’s hand, rode the elevator to the ground floor, dropped the keys off in the building manager’s office, and walked into the next chapter of my life.

Although it has been decades since then, I regret leaving that treasure trove of books behind. The Valley of the Dolls, Native Son, In Cold Blood, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Feminine Mystique, Black Like Me, The Learning Tree, Jubilee, Manchild in the Promised Land, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (a signed copy, gifted to me by my Aunt Sarah), and my spouse’s books including his collection by Iceberg Slim. I have since replaced some of my books because I want them in my library.

I am not exaggerating nor bragging when I say that I’ve given away hundreds of dollars of books after reading them in recent years. I’m a voracious reader (or a borderline book hoarder). Usually, I’ll read two or three books simultaneously. Nowadays, in addition to paper publications, I have digital and audible books consuming space on my Kindle and iPod.

The more I hear reports about book banning, the more I feel called to action. I imagine myself lacing up my sneakers, pulling one of my quasi-activist caps on my head, constructing a crude sign reading, “Stop Banning Books, Fools,” and then joining other advocates in a public protest. Perhaps it will be held at one of the most utilized rallying sites in the city, Lafayette Square, in front of the White House.

I know book banning isn’t new. It’s been around for centuries, and the uninformed contemporary book banners will likely continue their efforts to have certain books removed from schools and libraries until they grow tired of the fight or educate themselves. In the meantime, they can bet their MAGA caps and bloomers that if their child of a certain age wants to read a particular book, that child will find a way. Rebellion and resourcefulness are second nature for young people.

What are the proponents of the book banning afraid of? I suspect the fact that knowledge is power frightens them. So they try to boost their position based on moral, religious, and political grounds. Books about the LGBTQ community, books containing references to sex and sexuality, rape, abortion, racism, the black experience, and especially slavery, fuel their fire of forbiddance.

Speaking of fire, I think it’s ironic that 451 Fahrenheit is included on some banned books lists. And I suspect contemporary book censurers have an agenda similar to the cast of characters in 451 Fahrenheit:  Suppress minds, hide the truth, and erase history. How sad.

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Remembering Tina Turner, Superstar

by on ·Entertainment, Memory Lane

When a light goes out on a beautiful life force, it is deeply upsetting. I am paraphrasing the words said today by Joy Behar on 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 as the show’s cohosts discussed the sad death yesterday of the phenomenal performer Tina Turner.

Like Joy, since yesterday, I am moved to near tears whenever I hear one of Tina’s songs playing. I thought it was just me. I want to thank Joy for helping me not feel like a weirdo as I associate the memories of many of Tina’s songs with different times in my life.

Like many boomers, I grew up listening to Ike and Tina Turner on the radio. When “The Ike and Tina Turner Revue”  premiered at Washington, DC’s Howard Theater in February 1961, I was a “skinny legs and all” teenager, as Joe Tex would sing. I was also broke and asking my parents for money to go to a show, even though concert tickets were not nearly as costly as they are today; well, let’s just say that I couldn’t scrape up enough change to go see the live performance and leave it at that.

The next time the revue returned to Howard in September 1965, I was in high school and still couldn’t afford the price of admission. So although Tina Turner was performing just a stone’s throw from my home – I’m talking a few blocks, walking distance of about five minutes – it didn’t matter. I missed both shows. I was fortunate, however, to catch the couple’s performance on 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑑 𝑆𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑛 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑤 in 1970. Still, I regret that I never saw them (especially Tina, in later years after she went solo) perform in person.

In 1984 when Tina broke out with Private Dance, I was so happy that she was back on the scene. I fell in love with that song, and her videos and Tina Turner shot right back to the top of my list of favorite female performers. Since yesterday, her album, Tina:  All the Best, has become my playlist’s most frequently played album.

One of my favorite authors, the late Nora Ephron, wrote, “Above all be the heroine of your life, not the victim.” Tina’s refusal to be a victim and stay in a bad situation with her husband led her to rescue herself, and as a result, she became a world-renowned superstar and, for women everywhere, a shero.

Yesterday as a close friend and I were commiserating about Tina Turner, discussing books we’ve read by and about her and movies and documentaries we’ve seen, my friend lightened the moment when she said, “I hope Tina has earned a place in heaven because she sure lived through hell with Ike.”

Rest in peace Tina Turner, from your forever fans. You were an original and will be forever — the Queen.

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Missing: Have you Seen My Grandchild?

by on ·Family, Parenting and Grandparenting

Journals serve several purposes. Among other things, I sometimes use mine to reflect on and heal memories. A case in point is the year when my two-year-old grandson went missing. That was the scariest day of my life. Like every parent whose child suddenly vanished, I lived my darkest fear. I envisioned missing child flyers with my baby’s face stapled on tree trunks, taped on store windows, and the Amber Alert system broadcasting citywide. The thought of my darling grandbaby frightened, alone, and defenseless in a world infested with child predators and other twisted evil-doers sickened me.

Although that unsettling event occurred over three decades ago, every time the memory of it resurfaces, as it often does, not only do I relive it, it sends a shiver down my spine as if it happened yesterday.

It was a late afternoon that spring day when my daughter, her two toddler sons, Ken and Donnie, aged one and two, and I walked to the mini-mall two blocks from my home. Like numerous other mini-malls in the city, the one in my neighborhood occupies about half a block and includes an aging market, dry cleaners, a nail salon, and four or five other frequently changing small businesses.

When we reached the mall, my daughter and I split up. She went to the market with the two little ones alongside her while I went to check out a recently opened Peoples Drug Store a few feet away. We agreed to meet outside the drugstore in five minutes. After browsing for a few minutes, I bought a few things and went back outside. My daughter was already waiting for me; Donnie was by her side.

Her eyes widened when she saw me, and I realized why after she asked me, “Ma, where’s Ken?”

“What? I thought he was with you,” I said.

“No,” She said. “I had Donnie; I thought you took Ken with you. He must have followed you.”

A knot began tightening in my stomach as fear gripped me like a vis.

She and I rushed back inside the stores we had just left. I searched aisle-by-aisle for Ken to no avail and then told myself that my daughter had surely located him in the market, so I headed there. When my daughter saw me approaching without Ken, panic spread across her face. Suddenly, we were experiencing every parent’s worse nightmare.

Usually, when we took the kids out, we always held their hands. But, that day, for whatever reason, after we crossed the street and reached the mini-mall, we let loose their hands, letting them walk alongside us, ignoring what every parent knows – or should know – full well that if you are not gripping your child’s hand, you’d better not blink.

We decided to split up and look for Ken, going in opposite directions along the sidewalk. My daughter walked north, gently pulling Donnie along. I went south. My heart was racing. The street was uncrowded, making it easier to spot and study any small child I saw walking alone or accompanied by an adult. I glanced in the doorways of the few buildings on the block, returned to the mini-mall parking lot, and peered between the parked cars. And even though I figured it was a long shot that Ken had crossed the busy avenue, I looked to the other side of the street. He had to be on this block, I told myself. Fear was gripping me, so I could barely walk.

Suddenly frantic, I was about to tell my daughter that we should call the police when squealing tires made me freeze in place. I was afraid to look in the direction of the sound, but when I did, I was relieved to see a car driven by an impatient driver racing through the intersection to beat the light.

Seconds later, when I looked forward again, I spotted my precious little small fry. I don’t know where he came from, but Ken suddenly stood near the blue USPS mailbox a few feet away as if he dropped from the sky. With his back to me, he turned his head left and right, looking for us or perhaps trying to decide how to get home. A couple of pedestrians side-stepped him as he strolled toward the intersection.

“Ken!” I called him. He didn’t look back but maintained a snail’s pace as he moved toward the curb. As I hurried toward him, I looked at the traffic light facing us and was glad it was red. But, of course, traffic lights don’t mean a thing to a child who has never been outside alone and doesn’t know how to cross the street.

“Ken!” I shouted louder. He turned around just as I reached out and grabbed his arm. Although I didn’t intend to frighten him, it was obvious that I did. The little fellow’s big brown wide eyes welled with tears, and although he appeared to relax when he realized it was me, he gave me a pouty look. I was so glad to see him that I felt like doing a happy dance, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked him up, hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus!” as I stood him back on his feet.

Then, Ken muttered the heartbreaking words I will never forget, “Grandma, you lost me.”

“I’m so sorry, Ken. We didn’t mean to lose you.” I said.

I stooped and hugged him again as an elderly woman with a cane walked around us, and my daughter, who had been near the other end of the block when she heard me calling Ken, had joined us. She hugged her baby too.

As careful as we had always been with the children, I know my daughter promised herself, as I did, to be extra vigilant from then on. We never wanted to relive that horrifying experience again.

Ken is a grown man now and says he only remembers that day because he’s heard about it so many times. Whenever he visits me, and I start telling someone else about that frightful event, he playfully rolls his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again.”

I’m glad we can all laugh about it now because Ken’s story could have had a different and tragic ending.

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Unlocking Dreams and Recollections

by on ·Dreams

Sometimes I have the weirdest dreams, like the one the other night. That was more aptly a nightmare, and it reminded me of a book I read as a teen where machines suddenly come to life and begin attacking humans. An unseen force turns televisions, laundry machines, and other appliances on and off. Kitchen knives go airborne and fling across the room before embedding in the wall while dishes crash to the floor. Vehicles drive into buildings as people, terrified by the chaos, run and hide. I wish I could remember the name of that book. I believe it was written by either Stephen King or Dean Koonz. I read that when I was into sci-fi, horror movies, and scary books. I’m not anymore. My dreams must not know that.

In many of my dreams, I see dead people. Deceased loved ones occasionally visit me as I sleep. Those visions often reflect previous real-life interactions with departed friends and family members. Sometimes they occur on different nights; other times, it is the same night with kaleidoscopic shifting scenes. Mother and I sit at the dining room table, enthusiastically battling on the Scrabble board. * * * It’s early morning on the 4th of July, and Dad and I are at the wharf. He is buying a bushel of crabs for our family get-together later that day. * * * Aunt Ida and I are fishing at the mill pond. I am overjoyed because I just caught a tiny fish but puzzled because she tells me I should throw it back. * * *  Sain and I are in her kitchen fixing a breakfast of country sausages and eggs. Biscuits are baking in the oven. I am laughing at one of her jokes.  

Once, Uncle Allen showed up in my dream. It was the first and the only time I dreamt about him since he died 13 years ago. He and dad (always active sports fans) are alternately cheering and cussing while watching a baseball game on TV. 

About a week ago, just before I awakened at dawn, my friend Susan appeared in my dream for a split second. Her nicely coifed red hair framed a serene pearly face. She displayed a radiant smile but didn’t say anything. And in a flash, she was gone. I immediately awoke and, as I often do, tried to interpret the dream.

Dream experts say, “It’s generally accepted that dreams represent a collection of thoughts, struggles, emotions, events, people, places and symbols relevant to the dreamer in some way.”

Susan was one of my close Facebook friends. Contrary to what some people may think, all Facebook friendships are not superficial. In addition to Susan, I’ve made some genuine friendships on the site. Susan and I were introduced by Mary, another mutual friend, in January 2014. Perhaps because we were all writers, we bonded immediately. Sadly, we lost Mary in 2016.

Susan and I were writing books when we met; my first, her second. As I struggled with my initial draft, she generously gave me solicited advice and then celebrated with me after Legacy was published. We discussed the chapter I wrote about having met Stokely Carmichael (original name of Kwame Ture) when he was a student at Howard University. (For years during my childhood, my family lived short blocks away from Howard University.) “I am a year younger than Stokely would have been had he lived,” she said. Susan enjoyed telling me about some of her and her late husband’s activist days and travel adventures. I found them quite entertaining.

An avid reader, Susan has 67 reviews of various books on Goodreads.com, including one she voluntarily wrote about my book. (“Goodreads is the world’s largest site for readers and book recommendations.”)

The morning after I dreamed about Susan, I went to my computer and reread some of the correspondences we had exchanged over the years. Those included numerous emails and instant messages on Facebook. We even traded a few phone calls. Then, indicative of the bond we formed, after joyfully sharing the news that she had finalized the first draft of her second book, she sent me some chapters to critique.

In late 2019, Susan expressed how excited she was to be planning a move to another apartment. One of her emails contained an attachment depicting photos of two beautiful vintage African figurines she had acquired during her travels. She said she located them while packing and had not decided whether to keep or sell them.

A year earlier, Susan had talked about flying here from her home in Los Angeles to visit the recently opened National Museum of African American History at the Smithsonian. Unfortunately, her visit was an ill-timed one for me, and we missed an opportunity to meet in person.

Then, suddenly, our almost daily contact stopped for several days. I kept writing Susan but got no response. “What’s up, Susan?” I wrote. “Are you okay?”

One day I received a short email from her saying she had suddenly taken ill. “It came on out of the blue, and it is bad,” she said. “It seems to be some kind of flu.” She said she was in hospice care and would write me again when she felt better.

In December 2019, I received an email from Susan’s sister. After identifying herself, she said, “I’m sorry to tell you that my sister died suddenly following a brief illness. I know that she thought a lot of you.” She said Susan had asked her to contact certain friends if she did not make it. That was one month before the CDC reported the first case of COVID-19 in the U.S. I often wonder….

Dream expert Dr. Joshua Black says this about dreams, “The most positive dreams are the ones in which the deceased offers comfort through words or actions, or dreams in which the dream­er sees them, healthy and happy.”

The toughest part about dreaming about someone we care about – be it kin or friend – is waking up to remember that person is gone. True friendships cross color lines, unite cultures, and help people realize they are more alike than different.

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