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

Browsing Category The Way I See It

Milestones and Memories: Charting a Life from Girl to Grandmother

by on ·Aging, Politics, Racism, School Days, The Way I See It

Part I

A few weeks ago, my cousin Cameron attended a rally for the Democratic presidential hopeful, Vice President Kamala Harris, during her appearance in Greenville, North Carolina. (If you missed reading Cameron’s enthusiastic commentary, scroll down to the previous post, dated October 20.)

Last Tuesday evening, former prosecutor Harris held court on the ellipse. A few short years ago, I would have gotten together with some of my buddies, and faster than you could say, “grassroots activists,” we’d have been there front and center, waving signs and hollering support till our voices gave out. But my bum knee kept me away.

My body, once as sturdy as an oak, now picks and chooses which joint wants to cry foul on any given day. Usually, it’s a knee. So, I was stuck at home while history was being made just a stone’s throw away. Of course, I watched the rally on TV, but it wasn’t the same as being there.

It’s a peculiar thing, this aging business. Sometimes, while humming Helen Ready’s hit, “I am Woman, hear me roar,” I dare myself to jog to the corner store.

Enthusiastic civic engagement and social activism moments have marked the past decades of my life. On a crisp Saturday in January 2017, my girlfriends and I joined thousands of other women participating in the Women’s March on Washington, a powerful demonstration of solidarity and advocacy for women’s rights. Just four years prior, in 2013, I was among passionate protesters decrying the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, an unarmed Black teenager. That same year, I joined countless other crusaders commemorating the 50th anniversary of the historic March on Washington, reflecting on the progress made and the work still ahead in the ongoing struggle for civil rights and equality. During the 1980s, I believe it was ’83, I was participating in an anti-KKK rally and jeering as the hate group brazenly marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in the Nation’s Capital.

The question “What advice would you give your seven-year-old self?” is a common thought experiment many encounter. Although I’ve never been asked this directly, I’ve often contemplated my response.

If given the chance, I would reassure my younger self, that timid, skinny little girl, not to worry about the future. I would tell her, “I understand that right now you feel misunderstood, shy, and apprehensive about the world around you. But rest assured, this won’t always be the case. As you grow older, you’ll develop a strong sense of self-confidence. You’ll learn to balance your inherent kindness with assertiveness; life’s experiences will help you build resilience. I’d reassure her that there’s nothing inherently wrong with being kind. The world could benefit from more kindness. However, there is also truth in the adage that people often mistake kindness for weakness, so serve your kindheartedness with a dose of caution.

As a young student, you sought refuge in the back of the classroom, a silent sentinel hoping to blend into the shadows. The mere thought of the teacher’s gaze falling upon you sent shivers down your spine, for attention was an unwelcome spotlight on your fragile self-esteem. You yearned for invisibility during those long school days, wishing you could disappear into the worn pages of your textbooks. Even when knowledge danced on the tip of your tongue, you refused to raise your hand, unwilling to risk giving the wrong answer.

But listen closely, Little One, for the future holds a beautiful metamorphosis. That timid caterpillar will emerge as a vibrant butterfly, spreading wings of confidence and strength. The shy girl of yesterday will blossom into a self-assured elder, her voice clear and unwavering.

In the years following high school, you’ll shed your timidity like an old skin. As you enter college, you’ll find yourself brimming with newfound confidence. Gone will be the days of seeking refuge in the back of the classroom or silently rejoicing over your alphabetically advantageous surname. Instead, you’ll stride into each lecture hall with purpose, claiming your spot in the front row without hesitation. Your hand will shoot up eagerly whenever a question is posed, fueled by a genuine desire to engage rather than a fear of being wrong. The sting of an incorrect answer will no longer wound your pride; you’ll shrug it off as a learning opportunity and press forward. This resilience will become your new norm, replacing the crushing self-doubt of your younger years with a robust sense of self-assurance and intellectual curiosity.

Part II

Through life’s journey, you’ll experience the joys of marriage and motherhood, welcoming two beautiful children into the world. Though your marriage will eventually end in divorce, you’ll find yourself fortified by the resilience passed down through generations of strong women in your family.

Your commitment to social justice will flourish as you engage in various civic activities, such as attending anti-homelessness rallies, walking for charitable causes, and volunteering to support political campaigns. While you may never achieve the same level of recognition as iconic civil rights figures, you’ll take pride in your role as a dedicated community advocate.

As the years unfold, you’ll have the privilege of crossing paths with notable figures from various fields, including the acclaimed playwright August Wilson and Award-winning photographer and filmmaker Gordon Parks. In another memorable moment, while volunteering to feed people experiencing homelessness at Mitch Snyder’s CCNV shelter on Thanksgiving Day, you’ll have the opportunity to shake hands with Martin Sheen, one of your favorite actors. He, too, will be there that day to feed the homeless.

Significant experiences and achievements in media, politics, and writing will also mark your journey. Saturday Magazine, an hour-long television program, will feature you and your children in a segment focusing on single-parent families. You’ll attend a taping of the influential Oprah Winfrey show. As your life unfolds, you’ll discover a passion for politics, steering your career toward a field where you’ll frequently interact with politicians. This path will culminate in a significant encounter with Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States. These experiences will weave together to create a life well-lived, marked by personal growth, community engagement, and meaningful encounters.

Throughout these experiences, your love for writing will continue to grow. Your talent and perseverance will pay off as several pieces find their way into prestigious publications such as The Washington Post and The Afro-American. Pursuing your dream of becoming a journalist, you’ll seize an opportunity to write for a local weekly paper, The Metro Chronicle, where you’ll spend three years honing your skills.

Your creative journey will take an unexpected turn as you delve into the world of genealogy. This newfound interest will inspire you to author and publish a book, adding “published author” to your list of accomplishments. Your life’s journey will be a series of interconnected experiences, each building upon the last, leading to your achievements in media, politics, and writing.

You will have obstacles along the way and try to erase the bad memories of times when you were disrespected or humiliated by at least two employers. You’ll feel you have no recourse but to tolerate their mental abuse because you need your job. Little girl, if you could tell those employers now how you felt then what would you say? “$%@!#.”

Sorry, that would require a content warning on this post. Try again. “I’d ask the fifty-something-year-old executive who playfully slapped me on my butt at work one day, ‘How would you like it if someone in your daughter’s workplace did that to her? Don’t ever put your hands on me again, you old geezer.” But you were young and naïve, and that occurred decades before the “Me too” movement.

A second episode occurred a few years later at another workplace. I sometimes fantasize about what I wish I had said to the arrogant office director; I’ll call her Dr. Karen, who accused me of stealing a three-hole puncher, even though I told her that her assistant (who had already left for the day) told me she was borrowing it and taking it home to use over the weekend. I’d say to Karen, “You bigoted diva. Racism is in your DNA. You could have phoned your assistant and asked her if she had the hole puncher, but you didn’t because you were too eager to accuse the only black girl in the office of stealing it. And then, after I protested, you said that we – meaning black people – (I read very well between the lines) always want to play the victim. I wasn’t playing a victim, darn you. Without any cause or reason, you accused me of being a thief. When your assistant returned to work and produced the hole puncher, you thought it was beneath you to apologize because you never did. I should forgive and forget that incident, but acrimony remains.

Navigating life’s journey might be considerably smoother for all if we could peer into the future during our youth rather than reflect on our past experiences as elders.

But back to the present. While I couldn’t be at the ellipse in person last Tuesday, reveling and waving a sign, you can bet your bottom dollar I was there in spirit. Because self-pride and activism aren’t just about showing up physically – it’s about keeping that flame of change burning bright, no matter where you are or how creaky your joints might be. And let me tell you, my fire and desire for activism is still blazing like a bonfire on a summer night, and it probably will until it is finally extinguished.

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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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From Family Drama to Smooth Jazz

by on ·Family, Inheritance, The Way I See It

Well, raise my window and call me Pearl (Remember the lady in the window from the sitcom 227). It seems my last blog post stirred up more drama than an episode of The Sopranos. Who knew that a hypothetical could cause anxiety attacks in so many people? I should’ve posted a warning: “Caution: Reading this may cause out-of-control suspicion, guilt, or rage.”

When talking about wills, nothing brings out long-lost relatives faster than the prospect of an inheritance. Shortly after that post was published last week, my brother and I were suddenly the most popular people on the family tree for some strange reason. We were inundated with calls, texts, and emails from folks we hadn’t exchanged a word with since typewriters gave way to computers. It was like a family reunion gone digital. Everyone presumed theirs was the hypothetical family and wanted to know how to get a piece of the family pie—or at least to know if there was a pie to be sliced.

The buzz around the blog post didn’t just stir up family and friends; it also boosted my readership. Thank you very much.

Who knew that sharing a little information about wills and heirs would be like dropping a genealogical grenade? Regarding inheritance, everyone wants to be in the will—and in the know! But life’s a fleeting carnival, and we’re all temporary ticket holders. One day, we’re chasing windmills, and the next, we’re expressing final wishes. To help me keep things in perspective, I often remind myself of a statement credited to Mahatma Gandhi: “The world has enough for everyone’s needs, but not everyone’s greed.” That’s deep, isn’t it? So, while some of you ponder that, I’m flipping the script on this subject and moving on to something more mellow.

I’ve read that music, soothing melodies, and gentle rhythms have a magical effect on our bodies. It whispers to our hearts, “Slow down, take it easy.” And our hearts listen! Scientific studies have revealed that our stress level drops when we listen to calming tunes. The heart rate gently decreases, and blood pressure lowers, too.

I find few things are more relaxing than being in the comfort of my home, lounging in the recliner, keeping the lights low, and listening to smooth jazz (SJ). Don’t get me wrong. I love some rhythm and blues. After all, we Boomers grew up with R&B, but smooth jazz is soothing. That sensual and relaxing music that seems to touch the soul is the next best thing to meditation.

One contemporary SJ melody has become my favorite. It absolutely blows my mind. No matter what I’m doing when that tune comes on, I drop everything, stop and listen. It’s titled Hypnotized. I’m not talking about the 1967 sultry version performed by Linda Jones. That’s cool, too, and it remains one of my favorite oldies. However, this year’s contemporary, smooth jazz version, Hypnotized — The TNR Collective, released April 12, is off the charts! Turn up the volume on your speakers, sit back in your chair, click the arrow below, listen, and enjoy.

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Musing on the Quirks of Inheritance

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

A few months ago, I was deeply engrossed in a series of captivating documentaries. One standout was Silver Dollar Road, which chronicles the Reels family’s courageous fight to protect their beloved waterfront property in North Carolina from encroaching developers. This film dives deep into the complex issue of heirs’ property, making it a must-watch for anyone interested in land rights and family legacies.

Watching documentaries can be quite an educational journey. I was so intrigued by what I learned that I was inclined to consult some legal experts.

Picture this hypothetical: a man passes away without leaving a will. That’s a surefire recipe for family drama! His widow inherits a life estate—a type of joint ownership allowing her to live on the property for her lifetime. When she dies intestate (without making a will), the property passes to the heirs; then, it’s game on! It might take days, weeks, or even years, but that’s when things start getting messy.

I learned something long before I heard of the documentaries: Every responsible adult should have a will. This legal document is crucial to estate planning, ensuring your wishes are honored after your death. A will isn’t just for the wealthy or elderly; it’s essential for anyone wanting to protect their assets and loved ones.

It was only when my mother was on her deathbed, suffering from terminal cancer, that I was able to convince her to draw up a will. Since she couldn’t travel, I summoned the lawyer to her bedside. Twelve days after she signed it, she passed away.

Continuing with the hypothetical, suppose descendants jointly own family land. The heirs have the right to use the property, but they lack a clear or marketable title due to unresolved estate issues. Unfortunately, this type of heirs’ property is more prevalent among Black and Indigenous communities.

Now, let’s talk about profits from inherited property. Navigating this tricky situation feels like doing aerobic yoga. It’s challenging and uncertain, yet undeniably intriguing. All heirs have equal rights to use and profit from it. So, any income the property generates—be it rent or something more substantial—needs to be divided based on each heir’s ownership share. In other words, if a property makes money, each heir deserves their slice of the pie.

Just as greed is a bottomless pit, nothing stirs up drama like unequal asset distribution. That’s just how the cookie crumbles in inherited real estate. But hey, I’m no lawyer—just a blogger who has done the research and is sharing my two cents!

I’ve learned that the absence of a will becomes more complicated as generations pass. Each successive generation typically adds more heirs to the land inheritance. See what I mean when I say things get messy? Descendants and heirs add more complexity to an already complicated situation, and the dispensation of heirs’ property often sparks family feuds.

What’s love got to do with it? When it comes to divvying up grandma’s china or granddad’s pocket watch collection, even the most lovey-dovey families can turn into a pack of squabbling wolves faster than you can say, “There is no last will and testament.” And let’s be real, even if nobody’s throwing punches over Great-Aunt Edna’s church hats, you can bet your bottom dollar there’s some serious side-eye action and venomous phone calls happening behind the scenes.

You know, through my family’s grapevine, I discovered something intriguing about my grandmother’s passing over 35 years ago. Let me whisper it to you: There was some bickering over some of her possessions. (Shhh.) It’s funny how some things never really change, isn’t it?

If I learned nothing else from watching documentaries like Silver Dollar Road and Gaining Ground: The Fight for Black Land, it’s that after the owner or executor passes, communication is critical to reducing the possibility of family conflict, and inheritance sure has a way of bringing out the worst in folks.

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A Little This ‘n That

by on ·Political, School Days, The Way I See It

“We are not what we know but what we are willing to learn.” Mary Catherine Bateson ***

I spend a lot of time in introspection. (Yes, Muse, I have better things to do, but I’m writing this right now, so hush.) Lately, I’ve been thinking about school days or, as I prefer, the cute title of Spike Lee’s 1988 film, School Daze. Anyway, wordplay aside, I don’t mind admitting that I was not too fond of school, not any level of K through 12. One exception: kindergarten was okay. I had a beloved kindergarten teacher named Ms. Carrott. It’s incredible that I still remember the names of all my grade school teachers.

It wasn’t the learning that fueled my dislike of school; it was the annoying students who enjoyed picking on other kids. If you were skinny, fat, unattractive, or didn’t have a trendy wardrobe, you were a target. Today, those annoying students are called bullies; back in my day, they were just mean (bad-ass) kids.

I wasn’t the brightest student in any of my classes, and because of negative peer pressure, I didn’t want to appear that way, either. Nobody likes the teacher’s pet. However, because I effortlessly made the honor roll a few times during my school years, I knew I wasn’t the dumbest student either.

Although aggregating classmates were less prevalent in high school, most of the subjects I was required to take were as boring as music in a call queue. My least favorite classes were math – primarily algebra and geometry (Hated it! When have I ever used either of those? Someone tell me when?) Running close behind my disdain for math was U.S. History, U.S. Government, and Science. The Science teacher told us on the first day that to earn a passing grade in his class, we’d have to dissect a frog; otherwise, we’d flunk the course. Not in my wildest imagination could I fathom cutting up any animal, not even a dead one, back then. The thought made me sick to my stomach. I took the F.

My English class was more tolerable, and although diagramming sentences and conjugating verbs stressed me out, I enjoyed writing and literature. It probably helped that I had a secret crush on my English teacher, whose hazel eyes made him look much like a young Harrison Ford when I think about it now. I often babysat his and his wife’s five blond-haired, well-behaved children. My mother told me that several months after I graduated, had married, and moved out of town, he called one day to see if I still babysat. Mother said that when she told him I’d gotten married and moved away, he told her that he wished I’d told him and said that he and his wife would love to have attended my wedding if I had invited them. It was a different world back then, during the tumultuous sixties. I didn’t have a single friend who wasn’t black (that was by chance, not choice), and my thoughts at the time were that a white couple, even one who knew me well, wouldn’t care to attend a black girl’s wedding. (My Muse tells me I am disclosing TMI – too much information. Well, it is what it is, or in this case, it was what it was. Over the years, I’ve made friends of various ethnicities and racial groups, some of whom are as close as kinfolk.)

Although I wouldn’t say I liked the course when I studied U.S. Government in high school, it didn’t prevent me from admiring the people who held influential positions like the U.S. President. My adolescent mind told me that any man who won the presidential election had to be the smartest guy in the land. No women were vying for the job during my high school years. However, during the years after I graduated high school, the “Unbought and Unbossed” New York Representative Shirley Chisholm and Lenora Fulani on the New Alliance Party ticket would run for the highest office. I was registered to vote by then, and having sprouted my activist and quasi-feminist wings, I voted for both women.

As I matured and my interest in government and politics grew, I realized that not all Commanders-in-Chief, throughout history, had been playing with a full deck. Just because they held the title didn’t mean they were stable geniuses. And – not to name names – only God (and perhaps some unidentified co-conspirators) know what twist of fate facilitated the election of the 12-shy-of-a-dozen brain cells, morally bankrupt POTUS in 2016.

That same naïve school girl perceived Supreme Court Justices as the country’s most fair and unbiased citizens. She believed they were nothing less than modern-day King Solomons. After all, didn’t they solemnly swear (or affirm) to “administer justice without respect to persons, and do equal right to the poor and the rich,” and blah, blah? Well, so much for idealism. The current court – one woman and six men in black, in particular – that handed immunity to the former joker-in-chief squelched my admiration for SCOTUS.

My school days are decades behind me now. And everybody knows that holding a job title, whether a CEO or POTUS, doesn’t mean you’re incapable of corruption, trickery, and treachery. It doesn’t make you an ethical person, either.

“Learning is not attained by chance; it must be sought for with ardor and diligence.” -Abigail Adams.

 

 

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