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My Opinion on topics

Taking the Christ out of Christmas

PC Snowman - RevisedI don’t send Christmas Cards every year. Whether I do or don’t depends on how much holiday spirit I have. When I send cards, I often write a brief message inside.

One year, I bought a beautiful card for one of my aunts and wrote a personal note in it ending with “Wishing you a very Merry Xmas.” Days later, as she and I were discussing how commercialism and anti-religious factions are destroying the true meaning of Christmas, she seized the opportunity to tell me, “I don’t like it when people substitute Xmas for Christmas.”

Immediately picking up on her subtle message, I respectfully asked (I emphasize respectfully because no matter how old we get, anyone with good upbringing is going to be respectful to their elders) “What’s wrong with Xmas?” Her response revealed her frustration with the issue and was similar to what I frequently hear from people concerned about Christ being taken out of Christmas.”

It seems like only a decade or two ago when the Merry Christmas greeting was put in the crosshairs of the PC brigade. Suddenly, on television broadcasts, in newspapers and magazines, and face-to-face people were saying, “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.”

I understand that Happy Holidays is an inclusive greeting that is less offensive to some people including nonbelievers and freethinkers. Also, there are people who because of their religious or personal inclination prefer wishing others a “Happy Hanukkah” or “Happy Kwanza.” Believe me — I get it!

Nevertheless, as I see it, PC is not only sucking the Merry out of Christmas, it is wreaking havoc all year long — revising the language, influencing behavior, and troubling the thoughts of people who are struggling to adjust to the so-called new norm.

American culture has rapidly disintegrated into one where people constantly

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Slave Babies as Gator Bait

Black BabyHow many times have you hear it said that finding a solution to the ongoing racial strife in this country would be much easier if people talked about it more? That statement has been made many times over the years by people yearning for racial harmony. Following the deaths of Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray, Eric Garner, Walter Scott, and others too numerous to list here, amicable people – black and white – keep reiterating “Let’s talk.”

Is race relations an issue that people really want to discuss or is it simply that some  individuals merely pay lip service to the idea of dialoguing, because they think that’s what blacks want to hear?

I’m pondering this question because recently there was an interesting discussion on a genealogy website concerning whether – in addition to other atrocities — some black infants born to slaves were used by whites as alligator bait. The conversation began after one of the members of the gen group posted a post card and video relevant to the subject. (You can see it when you click on the link.) Several of the group members commented on the topic. Some said that it could have happened, others said it was a myth.

Curiosity about this subject led me to check the Library of Congress online newspapers. My search revealed that in newspapers published from 1836-1922 alligator bait was mentioned in 119 papers. I reviewed 24 of those 119 before abandoning the task. At least nine of the 24 made direct reference to black children (and in some cases black adults) as alligator bait, including the February 5, 1899 edition of The Richmond Times.

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To Be Determined

Check boxesA friend who is a police officer, I’ll call him Jim, also works part-time doing security in an office building. Jim is required to check visitor’s IDs and have them sign in. He told me that recently, a very tall, professionally-dressed woman came into the building and when Jim asked her (we’ll call her Casey) for ID, Casey presented a driver’s license. The photo on the permit revealed a man with a five o’clock shadow, and the gender identification showed M.

“This ID indicates that you are a male,” Jim said politely to Casey. Casey replied cheerfully, “Actually, I was born a male, but I am in the process of transitioning to female.” Although there was some resemblance in facial features, Jim felt that the person pictured on the ID and the one standing before him might — or might not — be the same person. So, what’s a person to do when that happens? The issue is not only a quandary for people like Jim, but others are also concerned about how to handle this kind of situation, now and in the future.

When we are born, our gender is recorded on our birth certificate. Do transgenders receive an altered birth certificate to reflect their sex change? Will birth certificates eventually be revised to include a blank line following the word sex or gender with a check-box “To be determined.” Or will sex be presented as a multiple choice option? Please check one:  __male, __female, __ both, __ other.

I am not trying to be funny or mean-spirited. It’s a fact that things are changing in this world at warp speed and many changes are beyond the scope of imagination, or to put another way — stranger than fiction.

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Putting an Old Spin on the New Norm

Banana 2Contemplating the state of  things boggles my mind. I can’t speak to other countries, but in America, the land of the free, the home of the crazed, er, I mean brave, in the land of opportunity, you can be anything you want to be. If you are male, you can transform to female or vice versa. Just ask Caitlyn or Chaz. If you are white, you can go black without transforming anything, except your skin tone and hair texture. Ask Rachael. And if the King of Pop were alive, you could ask him about making an ethnic transformation from black to white. Plainly stated, with courage and enough money, you can have it your way. And I’m not talking about a burger.

Rational dictates that just because you consider yourself to be something doesn’t make it so. Perhaps in Fantasyland. But in the real world no matter how you try to color it, reconstruct it, snip it, implant it, legislate it or rename it – it is what it is. Remove the thorns, trim the stem, and pick the petals off, a rose will still be a rose. Calling a dog a cat doesn’t make it a feline any more than calling a tomato stuffed into a cucumber stuffed inside a banana skin makes it a new fruit. Or does it?

Political Correctness or fear of reprisal prevents numerous people from publicly expressing their feelings about controversial issues, especially if their opinion goes against the grain of what some call “the new norm.” But there are some brave hearts who are not afraid to speak out.

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Watching Mother Die from Behind an Emotional Firewall

Rose on the tombstoneAt my mother’s funeral service a few weeks ago, I read a tribute to her which I wrote. Some remarks from the tribute are referenced in this post. In the days after the service, several people told me what a good job I’d done with the tribute and how nice it was.  Considering the occasion, I aimed to do the right thing. But what many people didn’t know was that – although I always loved my mother – I had been mourning her loss for years before her demise.

Although her Anglo-Saxon name – Mildred – means gentle strength, my mother was an incredibly strong-willed and self-sufficient woman.  She was also more controlling than a drill sergeant indoctrinating new recruits. Mother ran a tight ship. Not only were her offspring required to abide by the “my house, my rules” dictate that many parents – rightfully so – impose on their children, we also had to contend with a mother who was very strict and sometimes overbearing.

I recall an occasion during my adolescence when mother was upset with me about something. I honestly don’t remember what it was. Probably something that I wanted to do that she wouldn’t allow. Or perhaps it was something that I did that I shouldn’t have. Nevertheless, I was moping over whatever was bothering me and mother was trying to get me to talk about it. I refused. I just sat there on the sofa beside her, teary eyes lowered, saying nothing.

“Why won’t you talk to me when something is bothering you?” mother asked in her typical demanding tone.

When I mustered up the nerve to answer I replied, “Because you always talk like you are fussing, and I don’t want to be fussed at.”

“That’s just the way I talk,” she said in a manner that I perceived to be serious attitude, causing me to again revert to silence.

Mother had a quick wit and an even quicker temper. It didn’t matter who you were, she would not hesitate to give you a take-no-prisoners tongue lashing when she felt it was warranted. So rather than risk drawing her wrath I kept my emotional distance. When I recall past conversations with my siblings, I think that perhaps mother never knew how to talk with her children on a level that did not alienate us.

Granted the teenage years are a time when most teens find it difficult to communicate with their parents, unfortunately sometimes that lack of communication extends into adulthood. And since mother was not one to pull punches, when she and I had tense conversations, out of respect, the best I could do was bob and weave to deflect the verbal blows, or erect an emotional firewall. Over the years, the latter became my refuge.

During the last month of mother’s life, my sister and I took turns spending alternate weeks at mother’s home – bringing her meals, meds, and tending to her other needs. It was a difficult period, but it allowed my mother and me to spend more time together than we had shared in years.

In spite of the fact that — prior to her illness — we talked on the phone nearly every day; unfortunately our busy and dissimilar lifestyles barred us from spending much face-time together.

Mother was the daughter of a Southern Baptist minister and she had been raised in the Christian faith. Sometime during the mid-1970s, she joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Her conversion not only changed our family dynamics, it splintered our family unit. Gatherings at Thanksgiving, Christmas time and other holidays, and even the exchange of birthday greetings were curtailed and eventually ended.

During the final days of her life, mother’s voice grew gradually weaker until even her whispers could not be understood. I recall one day, as I sat beside her bed, she murmured, “Why can’t I talk?” Although I suspected that the lung cancer had spread to her throat, I just slowly shook my head side-to-side implying that I didn’t know.

Like any dutiful daughter who assumes the role of caregiver, I did what I could to make my mother comfortable in her last days, even to the extent of neglecting my own obligations and putting my life on hold.

The short weeks during mother’s hospice, allowed she and I to spend time together, to share some laughter and a few brief, but long overdue, lighthearted conversations. And although there were many things that I wanted to say to her, when someone is on her deathbed is not the time to bring up and rehash bygone discord. Therefore, many things that I would like to have discussed calmly with my mother before she died were left unsaid.

When I was growing up – and even as an adult – mother and I had several conversations about religion and family.  We even discussed cults, especially in the days following the Jonestown massacre. Yet, the time ultimately came when I perceived that mother did not heed her own advice. In that regard, the thing that I regret most that I never had a chance to say to my mother is this:  We should never allow people – or institutions — to speak to us so loudly that we cannot hear ourselves – or to command us to such loyalty that we lose ourselves.

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The preceding page is from my forthcoming book, A Whistling Tea Kettle and Other Sounds of Life. If you would like to be notified when the book is available, please provide your email by clicking this button

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