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

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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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It Is What It Is or Is It?

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture, Opinion, The Way I See It

“Any fool can know. The point is to understand.” – Albert Einstein

Writing about a sensitive subject is challenging. People are touchy, especially when they are in denial. We all tend to see what we want to see and choose to ignore things that make us uncomfortable.

I decided to disclose an event that a friend recently shared with me. As I often do to protect people’s anonymity, I use aliases instead of the names of the persons involved.

Minnie is a neighbor of mine. She and I have a mutual acquaintance, Addie, who also lives in the neighborhood. We have known Addie since her two sons and daughter were young children. A few years ago, her then twenty-something-year-old daughter, Leslie, left home and eventually returned as Lester. Addie would later confide in us what we had already realized, “My daughter is now my son.”

We don’t know if Leslie had GRS (gender reassignment surgery), but we accepted the transition when she returned home sporting a buzz haircut, wearing men’s clothing, and purporting to be a male.

One day, Minnie went out to run an errand. While she was gone, Lester knocked on her door. Getting no answer, Lester left a note that Minnie found stuck in the door jam upon her return. He asked Minnie to phone him concerning an old sofa that Minnie had made known that she was selling.

Minnie was no more familiar with Lester’s telephone voice than I was. She said when she dialed the number and asked to speak to Lester, she was expecting to hear a masculine voice; instead, an androgynous voice answered and said, “This is she.”

Minnie said she was momentarily confused by the response and asked again to speak to Lester. Again, the voice replied, “This is she.” At that point, Minnie said their conversation proceeded.

Minnie asked me what I thought about that episode. “Let me be clear,” I said to her. “When Lester answered the phone, did he say, ‘This is he’ or ‘This is she?” Minnie said, “He distinctly said, ‘This is she.’ There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”

That led us into a head-scratching discussion. Was “This is she” a Freudian slip, a memory lapse, or something else? What? It seems strange that someone who takes pains to ensure that people like us who knew him when he was her and folks who have only known him since the transition would make such a flub. Yet, he used the inappropriate pronoun twice when referring to himself as she. If trans people are confused about who they are, is it any wonder that some heterosexuals are also confused by them?

Not to be judgmental, I don’t care if someone chooses to change their birth gender. That’s an issue between them and God. Maybe one day in the hereafter, they’ll have to face the consequences of their decision – or perhaps they won’t. But I like to think that if I assume a different persona, I’d remember who I believe I am.

To try and understand transgender people and others like Lester, I recently read a book entitled Trans Life Survivors by Walt Heyer. I am satisfied that it has answered many of my questions.

Before anyone sarcastically asks, “What does he know?” let me give Heyer his props. He is not just someone speculating about transgender people. He is a man who transitioned to a woman. After living for several years as a female, he decided his sexuality was not the root of his unhappiness and detransitioned back to male. He has written numerous books on the subject and his personal experiences. He also has a website.

An article on cnn.com states that The Philadelphia Center for Transgender Surgery posts cost estimates for different procedures, including estimates of $140,450 to transition from male to female and $124,400 to transition from female to male. The message that Heyer conveys in his book is that cross-sex hormones and surgery will not cure underlying mental conditions. He further details how trans lobbyists and “surgical predators” (money-hungry doctors) take advantage of vulnerable people. Some transpeople become so confused and unhappy after transitioning that they consider or commit suicide. Unfortunately, among the suicides are two well-known personalities, 44-year-old transgender comedian Daphne Dorman, featured in a Netflix special, and transgender activist Kyle Scanlon, who killed himself at age 41.

I suspect some of my relatives, friends, and acquaintances won’t dare read Heyer’s book for whatever reason. Some of us have trans relatives and don’t want to risk offending them. (Since when did educating oneself become offensive?) Educating ourselves about anything does not mean that we are being judgmental. On the other hand, it doesn’t mean that we are compliant with groupthink either.

Some data I gleaned from Heyer’s book and already suspected:  No amount of surgery or hormone treatments changes the fact that we are created male and female, and adopting an opposite-sex identity is a futile pursuit. DNA and genetic information are indeligible markers dictating that it is categorically impossible to achieve a sex change biologically, scientifically, or surgically.

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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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Reflecting on the Dark Side

by on ·Black Lives, BLM, Lifestyle and Culture, Opinion

 Co-written with David White

My cousin, David, is a deep thinker, much more so than I am. I often marvel at his insight and what I see as his skill at analyzing situations. He is also very modest, so I’m sure he will admonish me for gushing over him in this post. But I call it as I see it. In addition to many things my cousin and I have in common, our intense dislike for small talk and delight in engaging in stimulating conversations often lead us into deep discussions, usually about politics and social issues. And since at least one (moi – and perhaps both) of us dislikes marathon phone conversations, we primarily correspond via email.

Yesterday, inadvertently, on the eve of Black History month, our topic was the Tyre Nichols tragedy. I did not watch and have no plans to watch the infamous video. Whenever a newscast predictively includes a portion of the videos, I change the channel or mute the TV and look away. I DON’T WANT TO SEE IT. The whole situation has become a repeat of an ongoing practice that keeps many of us (black people) in a perpetual state of sorrow for the victims and their families. The needless killings keep repeating like reruns of old TV shows.

Copicide, as I call it, is a modern-day Shakespearean-type tragedy not made for TV. Here’s how I described the plot of the ongoing series on my FB page: “Unwarranted murder by cop. Heartbreak and outrage expressed by the family. Calls for justice by Crump and Sharpton. Protests by activists. Expressions of regret and condolences to the family by city officials. Calls for reform by those same officials and politicians. Hashtag, here we go again. Second verse same as the first.”

As he often does, my cousin impressed me when he laid out his perspective.

I could write a dissertation on my feelings regarding the Tyre Nichols situation. It is so painful. But humans who feel they are licensed to hierarchize human life on a scale of “more or less worthy of humane treatment ” leads to this – one of the reasons (among many) I’m against the death penalty. Once you deem someone else’s life worthy of less respect than you would give your own, it logically proceeds that things like this happen. It gives [carte-blanche, my two cents] the authority and power to act on those prejudices.

I didn’t watch all of the videos but [saw] enough to know what it was about … Everyone intuitively knows that if that young man had been white and every other circumstance were the same, there would have been a totally different outcome, if any incident at all. 

I worked at a prison, and I know how easy it is for people to be depersonalized and dehumanized. And, to get into the racial part … Eddie Glaude on MSNBC alluded to a Baldwin citation, which I can only attempt to paraphrase. [He said] that racism becomes a systemic way to view others, and blacks can easily assimilate that same racist attitude given the right conditions. It makes it much more painful because many black people are oblivious to how we have adapted and internalized the attitudes we ostensibly rebuke.

I will never forget how hurt and ashamed I felt while walking the historic campus grounds at the predominantly white University of North Carolina. I passed a large group of black students in front of the main library and heard one female approach another person (a male, I believe) and, with a smile, greet him with “Hey nigger.”

Keep in mind that scores of students (mostly white) were making their way to and from classes at that time. I wanted to find Star Trek’s Scottie and have him beam me to my dorm and erase the memory. I’m sure they [the black students] thought they were being hip, cool, and defiant by uttering such an offensive word, and in their mind, making it powerless or some mark of distinction. But I know what they were really saying is “You may be at a white school, you might be academically gifted, but I see you the same way a lot of these white folks see you.”

That’s the sentiment that comes to mind when I hear about [the Nichols tragedy].  

 I know I’m going to sound like an old fogey, but whenever I hear the N-word, it jangles me. I will never be comfortable with that word, and it pains me when I see young people blasting their music, and every other word in the song is N-word this and N-word that, and white and black [people in proximity] hear this. I feel [that those who use the N-word] have an [warped] idea about what racism is and what it is not. For example, some think that a particular effect, attitude, and worldview make you “black.” And if you don’t conform to [that way of thinking], then you’re not really black.

When I was in college, many students dropped a class if they didn’t see any other black students taking the course because they had assimilated the idea that there are certain places where they don’t “belong;” not because anyone overtly told them that but because they had been acculturated to believe it. That’s why [some people] can treat a black stranger entirely differently from a white stranger and not see how that is a form of racism.  

Not to throw fuel on an eternal flame, I’m piggybacking on David’s thoughts about the intricacy of racism and the angst it causes by adding one more thing. I did watch the video showing an intruder’s break-in at the home of now-former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. When the door opened, the police saw a hefty-looking white guy grasping the arm of Peloski’s elderly husband with one hand while welding a hammer in his other hand, and the intruder still lives to talk about it. I’ll leave that right there.

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