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

Browsing Category The Way I See It

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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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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An Open Letter to Nikki Haley

by on ·Political Humor, Politics, The Way I See It

Nikki Haley, you blew it, girl. But you know that, don’t you? That’s why you’ve been backtracking and trying to clean up your mess ever since the New Hampshire town hall meeting last Wednesday. Your evasiveness on that Civil War question so outraged the spirits of my ancestors that I could visualize them pursing their lips and shaking their heads.

How could a former governor of South Carolina, SOUTH CAROLINA, of all states, flub the answer to a question about the Civil War? Remember Fort Sumter? No, not the Alamo, Fort Sumter. Would you have responded the same way if, instead of campaigning for president, you were on Celebrity Jeopardy, and the final question was, “What was the cause of the United States Civil War?”

Joking aside, between you and I, we know you didn’t really flub it. You knew what you were doing. You were playing your cards right and dealing them from the bottom of the MAGA deck.

When asked about the cause of the Civil War, you mentioned freedom relative to the government’s role and how it would be run. But the “S” word, “slavery,” never slipped off your tongue. And then you tried to flip the script by asking the questioner what he thought caused the Civil War. Nikki. Nikki. Nikki. SMH

I hope you or one of your assistants is reading this, Nikki because I want you to know that it’s people like you who have turned this former political junkie against politics and shady politicians. Yes, I’m gradually weaning myself away from all things political. “What’s that?” you said. Of course, you don’t care. And I don’t care that you don’t care. But let me tell you about when I became interested in politics.

It was decades ago. Before I retired, I worked for a couple of lobbying firms. One day, my employer, a former Chicago State Senator, had me accompany him to Capitol Hill for a meeting with then-Senator Barack Obama. You remember him, don’t you? Of course you do. Some months after I met him, Senator Obama became President of the United States. That made my day but probably spoiled yours.

I enjoyed working at both of the lobbying firms. Shortly after I entered that profession, one manager told me they prefer to be known as a government relations office instead of a lobbying office. Apparently, “lobbying and lobbyists” get a bad rap. (That’s rap as in reputation, Nikki, not music. I’m just saying, in case you didn’t know.) I suppose that bad rap concerns PAC contributions and how they influence politics, right? Surely, you know all about PACS and Super PACS. But we’ll keep that on the down-low.

My position required that I visit the Capitol building and the six Senate and House office buildings on numerous occasions. I even rode the subway beneath the Capitol building, which shuttles senators and staff between their offices a few times. Although my trips to Capitol Hill were usually to retrieve bills from the document room, meet with Congressional staff, or deliver PAC checks, I didn’t mind being the gofer because I got to see and experience a side of the legislative branch of government that many folks don’t.

I think Capitol Hill is one of this city’s most beautiful areas, whether blanketed in snow or adorned in springtime by various beautiful flowers, plants, and trees. That’s why, to this day, I get so angry whenever I think about or see a TV news clip showing the January 6, 2021, insurrectionists climbing up the side of the building like an intrusion of cockroaches.

During my years of employment in government relations offices, I met many politicians besides President Obama. Some of the others I remember include the late Senators Ted Kennedy, Bob Dole, DC Mayor Marion Barry, House Speaker John Boehner, and Former Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin.

I’m glad that I’m retired and away from all things political. Who wants to be associated with that profession? And who would like to be president? Bad question. Strike that. I won’t say that politicians are to blame for all the things tearing this country apart, and I wouldn’t dare suggest that one particular party, sometimes described as the MAGA-ring circus, fueled the fire. Wink.

Even a blind man can see that the whole world is having a nervous breakdown. The detrimental effects of global warming and climate change are wreaking havoc on the environment. With its expensive robotic contraptions and elaborate devices, the technological revolution is further straining the relationship between the affluent and the disadvantaged. And whether the blame gets laid on the economy, social injustice, or the status quo, people everywhere have gone rogue and lost their freakin’ minds. Unconscionable souls embrace all things immoral, evil, and unlawful. Warfare, crime, and mass killings are escalating. Progress is regressing on women’s rights, civil rights, human rights overall, and racists are banning books and trying to whitewash black history. Jumpin’ Black Jesus! What next?

I’m closing this letter to you now, Nikki. I just had to get some things off my chest and remind you that God don’t like ugly; that includes lying and denying. Before I go, may I suggest some books for you to read? Nevermind that some of them are on the banned list:  The 1619 Project by  Nikole Hannah-Jones; Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You by Ibram X. Kendi and Jason Reynolds; and Without Consent or Contract: The Rise and Fall of American Slavery by Robert William Fogel

One last thing, girlfriend, and I’m done. Wasn’t it Will Rogers who said, “Everything is changing. People are taking their comedians seriously and the politicians as a joke?”

 

 

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Family Dynamics: What’s Love Got to Do With It?

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

My family’s reunion was this past weekend. I wasn’t there. From what I heard on the grapevine and viewing photos, folks seemed to have had a good time, and that’s a good thing. A family affair should be a happy occasion.

I spent the past few days discussing family reunions with some friends and doing an unofficial survey. A few of them told me that their family never had reunions. One said he doesn’t know why they don’t have them. He said he once asked his older sister why the family had never had one, and she said no one wanted to do the work.

As I was jotting down notes from my survey, I remembered discussing the same subject decades ago with another close friend, Carol. She told me that her mother died when she was a child. She had a small extended family, and “We aren’t close at all.” She said. She affirmed what most folks know: a biological connection doesn’t always equal a love connection.

Carol went on to tell me that she and her older brother were very young when their mother died. She was around five; he was three years older. The two of them were separated and sent to live with different families, and as they grew up, they grew apart and eventually became estranged and lost touch. One day, when she was forty-something, as she was walking home from the grocery store, she and her brother happened to be approaching each other from opposite directions. He recognized her and called her name before she saw him. They greeted each other politely but didn’t exchange a so-happy-to-see-you hug. She said she was surprised but wasn’t excited to see him. “I didn’t feel any kind of way,” she said. “In essence, we were strangers.”

After chatting for a few minutes without exchanging phone numbers or other contact information, they said, “See ya’,” and each went along their way. Carol said she didn’t feel a familial relationship existed between them. A year or so later, someone told her that her brother had died and would be buried in two days. She didn’t attend the funeral.

After Carol told me about that encounter, I felt terrible for her and her brother. I couldn’t understand how kinfolk could be so alienated – until years later.

I recently read a humorous, thought-provoking anecdote: “When we are between middle age and almost dead, our perspective on many things tends to change.” That’s true. As I’ve grown older, once puzzling things have become crystal clear; being related to someone doesn’t mean you have to like them.

In an ideal world, family functions are a joyous occasion. It is an opportunity for everyone to mingle, catch up on old times, and have fun. But – REALITY CHECK – we don’t live in an ideal world, and just because folks are related doesn’t mean they have a love fest.

When I discuss the issue of family dynamics with other people, most agree that the family’s elders are the glue that holds the family together. Once the patriarch and especially the matriarch dies, the family ties unravel. Layers of resentment build and minor family feuds sometimes escalate into full-blown warfare. That brings me back to family reunions.

Family reunions are good for rekindling relations with kinfolk. So often, we don’t even get to talk to some family members except at funerals, and sometimes, due to time constraints, not even then.

My friend Gail told me that her family has a reunion every year. On my father’s side, there has been an annual reunion for as long as I can remember. My cousin Velda, who skillfully organizes every reunion on that side of my family, cleverly hosted the family reunion during the pandemic over Zoom, and we had a blast!

On the contrary, my mother’s side has a reunion every few years. Family reunions, in general, are often a mixture of familiar relatives and kinfolk who are so distant that they are practically strangers except for the shared bloodline. Take the last reunion I attended in 2018. Of course, I knew my surviving aunts and uncle, my numerous first cousins, and some of their children. On the other hand, several distant relatives I had never met were there, also. The beauty of a family reunion is that it facilitates the introduction of new or not previously known family members. However, good, bad, and ugly components sometimes surface at family gatherings.

The good – Genial kin. Because of the distance between where we live, I don’t see some of my favorite relatives as often as I’d like to, so when we do get together, we have a joyful time. We are close. They are the kinfolk I love unconditionally. Sadly, some of my faves are deceased aunts and uncles who live only in my memory, but like them, their offspring are kind-hearted, humorous, and genuinely loving folks.

The bad and ugly – Toxic kin. Remember the adage, “If we weren’t related, we wouldn’t even be friends?” Being related to someone doesn’t mean that you have to like them. I don’t know a family that doesn’t have at least one unlikeable drama queen or king (sometimes more than one). Those toxic kin are not physically ugly. It is their behavior. They are ugly because they are devious, insecure, miserable, and dissatisfied with their lives; therefore they thrive on gossiping and bad-mouthing others. Their reputation precedes them, so practically everyone knows who they are. Some folks try to avoid them inconspicuously; others tolerate them because we recognize that they are drowning in their misery.

As children grow up and mature, they form opinions about family members based on their interactions, and other family members occasionally influence them. I keep repeating it, but kinship doesn’t necessarily convert to friendship. Unfortunately, you don’t always love people just because you are related. You don’t even have to like them. What’s genetics got to do with it? Nothing. I treat family like I treat friends and acquaintances. If we get along, we’ll have a genuine relationship, but if our personalities don’t mesh, I avoid them like a plague.

Some folks don’t like to talk about family relationships. It’s like airing dirty laundry. But this subject is as fitting for scrutiny as any other topic. Everyone has a right to their perspective, to call it as we see it, and I just did.

 

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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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