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

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

To Have and To Hold—or Not

by on ·Friends and Lovers, General, Humor

I have an issue with words that seem inappropriate for a situation or a person. Take the word boyfriend. I don’t think a man older than thirty should be called a “boyfriend.”

Fellows, admit it, if you’re having a mid-life crisis in your fifties, if you’re in your sixties and your gait has gone from a swagger to a shuffle, or if you’re baby-stepping at three-quarter years from a hundred, you are too old, let me restate that – too mature, to be called a boyfriend. As I see it, the word boyfriend isn’t a good fit for a grown a** man.

My male companion and I have been together for over two decades, and I refuse to refer to him as my boyfriend. It also bothers me when I hear other women refer to a grown man as a boyfriend. As I understand it, the word has been used to describe a male suitor since the 19th century, and some folks will think I’m being silly, but something about the “boy” part of that word bothers me. Maybe it is because I am always mindful of history, and the prefix in “boyfriend” was once a derogatory insult. That’s just one of my quirks.

Nevertheless, I use more appropriate words for my main squeeze. I refer to him by any number of other affectionate terms: my SO (significant other), my Boo, or my long-time companion, except when I’m angry with him, then he is a PITA. I’ll leave it to readers to decipher the acronym. Choose any four words you like, but here are clues if decoding is too stressful for you: Clue 1 – PITA isn’t any more gender-specific than SO or Boo. It could apply to a male or female. Clue 2 – I’m not talking about bread. Final clue – think, the rear-end of a donkey. If you guessed what PITA stands for, then you must have used the term. LOL

While using the word boyfriend is awkward, I have no problem referring to my female buddies as girlfriends. We frequently refer to each other as girl or girlfriend. We’ll say, “Girl, guess what I bought today” or “Girlfriend, you’ve got to see the new Ibris Elba movie. That man is finer than gourmet wine.”

Back to discussing SOs, sometimes, when asked if I plan to remarry, I firmly reply No. No. And No. (Although hardly anyone who knows me asks anymore.). Once was enough. My Boo and I will merely ride this union until the wheels fall off or until death do us part (Um, that’s kind of an oxymoron, isn’t it?).

Just as I know more people who are dead than alive, I know more previously married people than couples still living together in wedded bliss. I’m not counting pairs who are unhappily married but remain together for convenience or to adhere to biblical laws, nor am I including those doing it the second time. For some married couples, the second time around is the charm. That’s all well and good—more power to you. But a second marriage is not on my wish list, my things to do before I kick the bucket list, or in my head.

Since I’ve long passed the age of young girls with a heart-shaped-eyes fantasy of marriage, I can now clearly see that union without rose-colored glasses and have a learned insight about marriage.

Looking back, I feel that traditional marriages were ill-fated from the start. (Let me be clear before anyone gets wind in their jaws.) I’m talking about back in the day. I’m not talking about the Millennials, Zs, and subsequent generations, who may never marry for whatever reasons, or they’ll choose to have an anything-goes, let it all hang out, boogie down the aisle half-naked, write your vows, or dispense with vows altogether, and do your own thing contemporary wedding.

As I was saying, sometimes I think marriages back in the day were predestined not to last. Why? You ask. I’ll tell you what I remember. (I know that right now, someone reading this probably wants to smear a piece of wedding cake in my face, but hear me out.)

The separation begins even before the bride walks down the aisle. The ushers greet guests at the church door as they arrive, ask if they are friends of the bride or groom, and then seats them on the appropriate side. That prepares friends and relatives to choose sides before the ink is dry on the license.

And how often is it that when the priest asks, “If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace,” does one of the bride’s exes (or one of the groom’s) bite their tongue to keep from shouting, “Hell yeah! I do.” That unanticipated outburst preceding the “I do” from the bride and groom renders everything null and void. (Side note: Although I invited him, my ex refused to come to my wedding because he told me he’d do just that if he did. And although he was as mild-mannered as Clark Kent, I believed him. Years later, after we reunited and discussed what might have been, he reminded me that he would have stopped the ceremony. Unfortunately, he died before I met my current Boo.)

Something occured on my wedding day that some would say was a bad omen.

It was June 8, 1968. My future husband was almost late for our wedding. He had caught an early train that morning and was traveling to D.C. from his hometown in New York on the day of our nuptials. I was at my parents’ house getting dressed. Other folks there, especially my Uncle Henry, were all hustling and bustling around, getting things ready for the small reception to follow the ceremony. It was very close to the time for us to be at the church, and no one had seen or heard from my betrothed. Everyone was wondering (some out loud) if he would make it to the church on time or if he decided to be a runaway groom.

His delayed arrival coincided with a brief episode in history. My fiancé just happened to be on the same train that was arriving from New York’s Penn Station to bring the body of Senator Bobby Kennedy to D.C.’s Union Station. Sadly, the senator had been slain at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, California, three days earlier, and his body was being brought to lie in state at the U.S. Capitol. [To read about that funeral train, click here.]

Unfortunately, (Did I say, unfortunately?) I meant to say, fortunately (LOL) for my groom and me, the train and the groom arrived on time, and the wedding went on as scheduled. We divorced two babies, and a few years later.

I’ve learned many things during my journey through life. Two are essential:  the road is easier to travel if one keeps a sense of humor, and stuff happens for better or worse, depending on how you receive it.

Epilogue:  When I married, a license cost $2.00. Today it cost $45. And a divorce still costs a small fortune.

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Reflecting on Juneteenth the Day After

by on ·Juneteenth, Lifestyle and Culture

Yesterday was Juneteenth, and my cousin, Velda, phoned me to share her memorable “Juneteenth” experience.

Many cities, including the District of Columbia, have celebrated Juneteenth for several years. Still, yesterday was the second Juneteenth federal holiday since President Biden signed a bill declaring it so two years ago.

I will stretch my optimism here by saying that many black people know what Juneteenth commemorates. Informed white folks do, too. But for my readers who don’t know the history of Juneteenth, here is a mini-lesson:  After slavery was abolished in January of 1863, many enslaved people in the South – Texas particularly – didn’t learn that they were free until June 19, 1865, two-and-a-half years after the Emancipation Proclamation. Thus, numerous black Americans celebrate Juneteenth, the oldest nationally renowned commemoration of slavery in the United States, as our Independence Day.

So, Velda said that she was in a store yesterday, walking along an aisle, minding her own business, and proudly wearing her commemorative Juneteenth tee shirt. (Not the shirt pictured above.) At one point, she passed a young white girl, who my cousin guessed was in her early twenties. The 20-something girl looked at my cousin, noticed the colorful Juneteenth tee shirt she was wearing, and said (wait for it) – enthusiastically, “Happy Juneteenth.”

Velda, pleasantly surprised, said, “Thank you.” And they both smiled and went their way. Because we often think alike, my cousin was eager to share her experience with me, and we both agreed it was an interesting, unexpected, and yet promising event. I think it also made a difference because her interaction was with an open-minded young person, not some set-in-their-way MAGA cult member, young or old.

Some unbiased (and naïve) people reading this will think, So what. It’s no big deal. Ordinarily, my cousin and I  might not think so, except that the interaction occurred in the traditionally red state of North Carolina, where she lives. And we know that the unscrupulous 45th president has raised the heat beneath the pot of racial tension from simmering to boiling over, north to south (mainly south). Therefore, as black people, we are wary when encountering an unfamiliar white person because we can only guess whether our chance interaction will produce a warm, pleasant greeting or a tense, icy stare-down.

According to Yahoo! News, James E. Causey wrote in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, “While Juneteenth is a celebration, it is also a day of paying homage to the ancestors who lost their lives while shackled, chained, and stacked on top of one another in slave ships that crossed the Atlantic Ocean.”

In addition, Mr. Causey’s column addressed a recent controversy in Greenville, South Carolina, concerning a Juneteenth ad featuring a white couple on an advertising banner promoting the holiday. According to his article, many black people feel the white couple should never have been the face of an African American event. As with most controversial topics, that’s debatable.

Nevertheless, people of all races should celebrate Juneteenth. Then maybe cousins or anyone else won’t feel surprised when a person of a different race wishes them, “Happy Juneteenth!”

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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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