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

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The Great Debate: To Read or To Listen

by on ·Audiobooks, Book Lovers, Food for Thought, Opinion, The Way I See It

“When I get a little money, I buy books; if any is left, I buy food and clothes.”

I felt it in my soul the first time I read Desiderius Erasmus’ gem about blowing his cash on books before bothering with trivial matters like food and threads. Talk about a kindred spirit!

Over the years, I’ve amassed a book collection that could rival a miniature Reading Room at the Library of Congress. My home has become a sanctuary for the written word, with books finding cozy nooks in every nook and cranny.

Despite my efforts to keep every literary companion, space constraints have forced me to part ways with hundreds of my beloved volumes. It’s a bittersweet process, like saying goodbye to old friends. But fear not, for many remain scattered throughout my humble abode.

In my bookcases, they stand at attention like loyal soldiers, rows upon rows of literary treasures. Some have found refuge on closet shelves. My headboard bookshelves harbor my nighttime companions, always within arm’s reach for those late-night reading sessions. My Kindle has become a portable library, holding countless digital books that don’t take up any physical space. And let’s not overlook the audiobooks, those storytelling genies that whisper tales into my ears.

One day, I was chatting with a buddy about a book we both started, and I casually mentioned that I was halfway through “reading” it. Suddenly, my friend jumps in with a correction. “Hold up!” she says, “You’re not reading – you told me you were listening to the audiobook. That’s totally different!” This friendly exchange highlights a hot topic in the literary world: Does listening to an audiobook count as reading? Some folks insist it’s a different ballgame, while others argue it’s just another way to consume the material.

While she’s technically correct in distinguishing the two methods of information consumption, I argued that the term reading could be used interchangeably relevant to an audiobook. So went our debate about the nature of comprehension and information retention in the digital age. We even delved into the cognitive processes involved in traditional reading and audiobook listening, exploring how each method engages different brain parts while ultimately achieving the same goal: absorbing and understanding the content.

That’s right. We were diving into the age-old (okay, maybe not that old) debate of whether consuming audiobooks counts as reading. It’s a topic hotter than splattering bacon grease. (Some folks take what should be a matter of simple semantics as serious as a third-degree burn.)

Let’s break it down to elementary arithmetic:

Reading: Eyes + Book = Brain absorbing words

Listening: Ears + Audiobook = Brain absorbing words

As simple as one plus one equals two. Right?

Not adding up? Okay, I understand. Some folks are a bit slower than others. Picture this: You’re perched at your kitchen table, nose buried deep in a riveting hardcover. Your brain is fired up by expresso, and your eyeballs are bouncing from word to word and zipping through paragraphs faster than you can say caffeine overdose.

Meanwhile, your neighbor is outside jogging through the neighborhood and listening to the same story as an audiobook. Two very different scenes, but guess what? Although the information is obtained through various processes, both methods accomplish the same goal. You and your neighbor are absorbing the content in different ways.

I find it simpler to use “read” for both procedures. Life’s too short to get hung up on the nitty-gritty details of how you consumed a book. It’s like saying something is supercalifragilisticexpialidocious when you can easily say, “That’s fantastic!”

Remember VP Kamala Harris, early in her campaign, telling her numerous supporters to get out there, knock on doors, raise funds, work hard to make things happen, and do something to help me win this election? After a while, she cut to the chase and said, “You know the assignment.”

I want to mention one experience in conjunction with the great debate between paper and audio. An intriguing phenomenon sometimes occurs when I listen to audiobooks at bedtime. Sometimes, the soothing voice of the narrator lulls me to a sound sleep. Other times, as I drift off with my earbuds in place, the narrative seeps into my dreams, creating surreal experiences.

One night, recently, I was listening to Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “The Message” when I encountered a vivid example of this peculiar occurrence. In the book, Coates describes his visit to Goree Island in Senegal and his emotional experience at the infamous “Door of No Return” in the House of Slaves. Suddenly, I was transported to that location in a brief but intense dream sequence. I was in chains on Goree Island, desperately struggling against an invisible force attempting to drag me through The Door. Even in my unconscious state, I knew what was happening and what could be the outcome. As I struggled against the chains, I began screaming, “Oh, Deet!” (English translation – “Oh, hell no!”) The visceral nature of this dream jolted me awake, leaving such a lasting impression of the book’s emotional impact that I can’t forget it. Over the years, I’ve had similar experiences with other audiobooks.

Although most of the audiobooks I’ve bought have excellent narrators, the voices of some readers were downright annoying. Some had a nasal twang; others had a rail squeal that reminded me of a speeding train, and some were just gravelly. On those occasions, I often did not make it through the first chapter and never finished the book.

Once, while I was still in the workforce, I interviewed for a position advertising for a Reader at Columbia Lighthouse for the Blind. During the interview, I was handed a sheet of paper and asked to read some of the text. Since I had been a telephone operator in the private sector and as a civilian working for the Department of the Army, I knew I had a pleasant voice with pitch, tone, and diction and read the copy proficiently. Nevertheless, I didn’t get the job. I never learned why not.

That happened so long ago that I had nearly forgotten it until I began writing this post. Had I gotten the job, who knows where it may have led? Fast-forward to the future. I might have become an audiobook narrator. Narrators make pretty good money, often receiving between $100 and $350 per finished hour. They can also receive a royalty share of a few hundred dollars per sale.

So, dear readers (or should I say, dear consumers of written content in various formats), what’s your take on this literary kerfuffle (Judge Judy enjoys using that word.)? Are you Team Read, Team Listen, or Team Who-Cares-As-Long-As-You-Enjoy-The-Book? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below!

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Multiplying Karma x 34

by on ·Crime and Punishment, Justice, Opinion, Politics, The Way I See It

The first time I cried tears of joy over an event involving a politician was on November 4, 2008, when Barack Obama was elected 44th President of the U.S. The second time was Thursday, May 30, 2024, when I saw the words “Breaking News – Guilty” appear on my television screen. Bold white letters on a blood-red background never looked so delicious.

While the jury deliberated for nine hours, I had refused to build my hopes that they’d come back with a single guilty verdict, let alone 34. I haven’t forgotten the disappointment and disbelief, the gut punch I felt on the evening of November 8, 2016, when the election results were announced.

As is my habit, my TV is almost always tuned to MSNBC. It doesn’t matter if I’m working on my computer, reading, or doing housework; my favorite all-news channel is always on. So, of course, I’d been following the hush-money trial of the wannabe dictator. On Thursday, when I learned that the jury had reached a verdict, I began hyperventilating like a Mega Millions ticket holder who realized she matched all the winning numbers.

During the time before the verdict was announced, I busied myself to calm my nerves. I watered my houseplants, dusted the furniture, grabbed the vacuum, and started vacuuming the carpet – for a second time that day while keeping my eyes on the screen. And fearful that there might be an acquittal or some other undesirable quirk of fate, I kept reminding myself of a familiar quote, “Expect nothing and be surprised.” That’s what I did. This typically positive thinker took a time out from optimism because I was determined not to be blind-sided again—no more Deja’ vu.

Over the drone of the vacuum cleaner, I thought I heard Ari Melber say, “Count one, guilty. Count two, guilty.” I turned off the Hoover and turned up the volume.

“Say what, now?” I said to the TV.

When Ari said, “Guilty on all 34 felony counts,” I let out a whoop and began jumping up and down like a holy roller shouting in a Baptist church. Suddenly, in my mind, I could hear the Isley Brothers singing one of my favorite oldies, Shout. “Throw your hands up and shout. Don’t forget to say, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

In a short time thereafter, the TV pundits begun opining about the sentence that could be rendered on July 11 – he could get probation, home confinement, imprisonment or something else. If people in the know are to be believed the outcome of this chapter could be another fluke in The Life and Times of Don-the-Con.

Every imperfect but right-minded component in my body screams, “Please, please, please, lock him up.” But then I rationalize. Imprisonment? That’s probably highly unlikely. How would they manage that – jail his secret service team with him? A Big Mac chance of that happening.

I have no choice but to do like everyone else does, wait and see what happens on July 11.

“If you can make it through the night, there’s a brighter day.” Thank you, Tupac, for the point of light.

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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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Resurrecting Uncle Tom

by on ·Opinion, Politics

I was wrong. Not many people would willingly admit that. The truth can smack them in the face like a Key Lime cream pie, and even while licking off the pastry, they’ll refuse to admit they were wrong.

I’m also opinionated. Anyone who knows me knows that. However, when stating my point of view, I usually feel confident that I am well-informed about my subject and not merely speculating.

Who doesn’t enjoy the ego boost of being right? I do as much as the next person, but my credibility trumps my ego. So, usually, before arguing a point, I fact-check. And sometimes, I learn more than I thought I knew about the subject.

For example, the other day, while on a social media site, I noticed that a politician (I’ll call him Doe, minus the John ) was strongly criticized after a TV newscast showed him kowtowing to a specific presidential candidate. People in the chat room were livid. They said Doe’s behavior was not only degrading but made him look like a genuine suck-up. I agreed with what folks were saying about him, and while enthusiastically adding my two cents, I referred to the subject as Uncle Tom. (Did some of you readers say, “Oh, no, you didn’t?) Yes, I did.

Bad move! One of the other commenters in the room checked me on my remark. She politely but dutifully informed me that Doe was not an Uncle Tom and added that calling him that would be insulting to Uncle Tom.

My fingers were positioned over the keyboard, preparing to type a humorous retort, but I changed my mind. Instead, after leaving the site, I did what I often do when challenged – I researched the subject. And I soon discovered that Uncle Tom (a fictional character from abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin) was not the minion many people believe him to be.

Tom’s character is based on a slave named Josiah Henson, who became a minister after being introduced to religion. (Some of you readers are saying, “I knew that.” Good for you. I didn’t know it; if I did, I forgot it. So, I’ll continue.)

Henson was born June 15, 1789. As he grew older, his enslavers recognized him for his exceptional physical strength and leadership ability. That gave Henson some leeway that he used to his advantage. He was a clever fellow and had a sense of humor, too.

In 1830, Henson ran away from the plantation in Charles County, Maryland, to Canada. A few years later, he returned to the plantation and stole away his wife and children, bringing them to his new homeland. In the years following, the courageous fugitive led other enslaved people to freedom along the Underground Railroad.

In 1849, with the assistance of abolitionist Samuel Atkins Eliot, Henson published Uncle Tom’s Story of His Life: An Autobiography of the Rev. Josiah Henson. That same year, Henson met author and abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Four years later, Stowe wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin to buoy an argument against the injustices and hideousness of slavery.

Stowe’s book was eventually adapted for theaters. Shrewd producers of stage performances, fearing they could not attract an audience for the theatrical production as written by Stowe, took liberty and fashioned minstrel shows based on the novel. Those shows where actors appeared in blackface diminished Stowe’s disclosure of the inhumanities of slavery. Instead, it made a mockery of it. In 1903, Edwin S. Porter’s film production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin further grossly distorted Tom’s character and embodied racial stereotypes. Those theatrical productions were instrumental in contributing to the negativity and the fable that encouraged black Americans to begin using the misnomer to slur other blacks who they felt relinquished their dignity to elicit the favor of influential Caucasians.

I’ve been familiar with the “Uncle Tom” slur all my life. I heard it used often during the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill hearings and even more recently ascribed to Dennis Rodman and Kanye West aka Ye.

I know that name-calling is wrong. (Mother, rest your soul, you taught me that.) But I’ve never claimed to be perfect. Like every other flawed individual, I am sometimes judgmental, often opinionated, and an equal opportunity wisecracker. All one can hope to do in this crazy world is end up on the right side of wrong and keep educating oneself in the process.

As long as people remain ignorant of the truth behind Stowe’s main character, the myth of Uncle Tom as a model for negative racial stereotypes will persist.

I should not have been surprised to learn that soon after its publication because it exposed the horrors of slavery, Uncle Tom’s Cabin was banned in the Southern United States and Russia. In these contemporary times, it remains on the banned books list in some states. Lesson learned.

 

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Being Unapologetically Me

by on ·Journaling/Writing, Opinion, The Writing Life

The thing about expressing thoughts in a public journal instead of a private one is that the public journal exposes otherwise insulated thoughts to everyone and leaves me vulnerable.

As I learned from at least a half-dozen family members and a couple of non-related readers, my last journal entry ruffled some feathers. Specifically, my comments about toxic kin struck a nerve. Truth be told, the truth hurts, but I won’t dwell on that topic.

I learned long ago that anything written for the public, whether a silly poem, an opinion piece in a newspaper, or a blog post, is susceptible to criticism. I also learned that’s why a writer must develop a thick skin. Since, by nature, I‘ve always been an easy-going, compassionate person, it took a while for me to grow that extra layer of epidermis. That doesn’t mean things my critics say don’t bother me; I’ve just learned to keep it in perspective. I know that, just like me, other people have their opinions. So, I’m not apologizing for having the audacity to express myself in a way many people might not.

Although I’ve been writing since childhood, my first published piece was an article in The Washington Post in March 1985, followed by a poem in an Anthology of Poetry in 1988. Since then, I’ve been in writer’s bliss. I find writing to be a cathartic and therapeutic experience. I write a public journal to express my feelings to others and get feedback from my readers who may want to share their opinions on the same or other subjects. Often, I will disclose details about past or present events in my life, reveal new goals, reflect on my anxieties, or express gratitude. (To God, I always give glory.) But whatever I write about, my intention remains to be honest and open.

One of the most challenging things I had to overcome when accepting the suggestion to create this blog was the fear of what people might think about something I wrote until I learned that the fear of saying or writing the wrong thing, making mistakes, or being criticized stifles my creativity. Since discarding that asphyxiating security blanket, I have become stronger and more self-confident.

For too many years, I was a go-along-to-get-along person. To avoid being seen as illiberal, I felt inclined to support issues I disagreed with or believed were morally wrong. Now, I refuse to be one of those people who pretend that the emperor is wearing clothes when it is perfectly evident that he is butt naked. I am and plan to always be unapologetically me.

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