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

Browsing Category The Way I See It

Pushing Up Daisies

by on ·Aging, Funeral Services, Life and Death, Opinion, The Way I See It

I’m sitting here thinking about putting a light spin on what is a dark part of every one of our lives. It’s something that no one wants to discuss. That unwelcome visitor that everyone knows is coming who makes us want to snatch the welcome mat from in front of our door. That one-way trip that we will all take eventually whether we want to go or not. That journey to the valley of death.

Since I’ve got more years behind me than before me, I’ve been giving the subject a lot of thought. Certainly, after I fall into the big sleep, I won’t have a say over anything concerning my former self, so I am herein expressing my last wishes for funeral and burial.

Before I continue with details, let me reiterate what I have often said – that I hate attending funerals and avoid them when I can. But as we all know there is one funeral that we won’t miss. Our own.

About funeral-goers. I put them into three categories. First, there are the truly bereaved mourners who have lost a loved one, relative, or friend. Second are the curious, casual acquaintances of the deceased whose ulterior motive for attending the funeral is to get a copy of the program, with the hope of learning things that they didn’t already know about the deceased. The third group attends funerals because it is a social gathering. During the hour or two, while they are attending the service and the repast, it breaks-up the monotony of their otherwise mundane life. I’m not judging. I’m just calling it as I see it.

Skepticism aside, we all have limited time on earth. Before my time comes to be the grim reaper’s reluctant guest of honor, I want to make my last wishes known to my family. And family, don’t feel guilty if you do not comply with these requests because as I’ve learned over the years not everyone’s last wish is granted. It is the living, not the dead who have the final say over the dead body. I’ll give you an example.

After mother died, a few days before her funeral service, my sister and I carried the outfit for her to be buried in to the funeral home. On the day of the funeral, I arrived shortly before the wake was scheduled to start. When I looked in the casket, I was beyond upset. Mother’s chemo-thinned, silvery hair had been nicely pressed, curled, and styled, BUT that was not the issue. She had worn a wig for years before she died, and while on her deathbed, when she was suggesting to my sister and me which outfits we could bury her in, she said, “And don’t forget my wig.”

We had placed the wig neatly on top of the clothing in the bag before carrying it to the funeral home. The undertaker’s grave mistake was that he or she inadvertently forgot to put mother’s wig on her head. That’s what I mean when I say that the dead don’t always get their last wish fulfilled, but there was a twist to this.

Mother’s wig was ultimately retrieved by the undertaker after the first service and was placed on her head before her body was transported over 200 miles away for a graveside ceremony and burial in her hometown. My cousin, who had attended the first service and then followed the hearse to the burial site, later told me that when the casket was opened for the graveside service, she was surprised to see mother was wearing her wig.

I repeat. I do not want an open casket funeral. I don’t want people walking up to my casket gawking over me and then later telling others how I looked. I know that people mean well, but during my lifetime, I have heard (and overheard) too many obtuse comments made about dead people.

“Ms. Estelle sure looked nice. She had on a hat and gloves, dressed like she was going to church. They even had her usher pin on her lapel.”

Or here’s another one, “LaQuita looked good in that white casket. Her weave was tight, and that purple eye shadow matching her lavender shirt was nice. Her boyfriend should not have did that to her.”

It is the female corpses that get scrutinized most, but occasionally comments are made about the males. “Why did they bury Mr. Johnson in his glasses? It’s not like he’ll be able to see where he’s going.”

Undertakers deserve credit for doing their best to make corpses presentable. Still, the thoughtless remarks that some people make after the services bothers me. The sad fact is that no matter how well they are laid out, the bodies of dead people look just like what they are – lifeless and dead. Nothing more. Nothing less. And I say that with much respect.

Like every other corpse, I will have no control over what I am wearing, how my hair is combed or whether my lips have been fixed to look like I am smiling on the way to eternity or pissed off because I am in the land of the dead. Therefore, I repeat, I do not want an open casket funeral. Sadly, I make that request knowing full well that I won’t have the last word about that. You, my family, will.

I tell you what, let’s not have a funeral for me. Services and headstones are expensive. Use that life insurance money for something else. Cremate me. I don’t care. Cremation is cheaper, and think, in the future, you’ll be able to truthfully tell your friends that I had a smoking hot body.

And another thing. I’ve seen insensitive people take pictures of the deceased when they go to view the body. Not only do I think that is inappropriate, but it is downright disrespectful to the family and the deceased. The deceased deserve the dignity of going to their final resting place without a photo op.

If you have a service for me, please call it a funeral. Do not call it a homegoing. I know that term is popular and frequently used. But I never liked it. I understand the concept of homegoing to a heavenly home. But when I think of home going I envision myself taking out my key, unlocking the door, and walking into the place where I live, not transported in a hearse to a cemetery.

In the great scheme of things, we are all insignificant. When and how we are born into this world is the luck of the draw. We have no say in the matter. Who will be our birth parents? Was our birth planned and eagerly anticipated or a fluke? Will we be born a rich child, into a wealthy family, or a poor child in poverty? How we fare in life is a game of chance, and it is pretty much the same when we depart. We don’t know when or how we will leave here. Natural causes. Murder. Accident. Suicide. It’s paramount to live our best life and celebrate it now. When we come here, how long we stay, and when we leave is not a choice.

The Bible prophesizes, and people can speculate all they want, but who on earth can say for sure what happens to us after we die? Christians believe that depending on how we live; we will ultimately ascend to a heavenly home or spiral down into a hellish abyss. Who knows? The hereafter is as perplexing as the present day and time. The goal, oh yeah, and a song you can play at my service if you wish is Stayin’ Alive.

This composition began as a personal letter to my family, but while writing it, I decided to post an alternate version with the hope that it might make someone smile about a subject that is often taken deathly seriously.

2 Comments

Thank a Mother – Revisited Again

by on ·Family, Lifestyle and Culture, The Way I See It
A message for women who have a good man. What many Boomers know and some Gen Xers and Millenials have yet to learn.

If you are in a relationship with — or married to — a man who you love because he respects you, provides for you, and treats you like his queen – thank his mother. Listen up women, while nothing is set in stone, there is much truth to the adage that the way a man treats his mother reflects on how he will treat you.

We’ve all heard conversations on TV talk shows and among women who we know personally, where the subject is mother bashing — not their mother, but his. I am talking about women who are filled with resentment or envy because they begrudge the relationship between their man and his mother.

I discount the myth that sons who are close to their mothers are mama’s boys, in every sense of the words, though in some cases it is true. I’ve known a couple of mama’s boys in my lifetime, who could not cut that apron string. Bye-bye baby. However, the closeness between a mother and her son could indicate that he is a loving man, who knows how to treat a woman because he learned from his mother how a good woman deserves to be treated. He’s the kind of man that most women want.

Whether a son is raised by a strong, determined mother in a wholesome, nuclear family unit, or in the home of a struggling, yet well-grounded, single mother, if he has the guidance and the mindset to do so — that boy will grow up to be a well-adjusted, independent man. And ask just about any woman what qualities she desires in a loving relationship with her man and many will tell you that – aside from the essentials like respect, love, trust, and accountability — affection is high on her list of desirable traits.

From the time my two children were born I constantly showered them with hugs and kisses. Such affection is the norm in our family. When divorce forced me to become a single working parent and to assume the roles of both father and mother, the bond between my children and I grew even stronger.

I groomed my daughter and son to be responsible, compassionate, and affectionate adults. Both of them are now grown and married with families of their own. And I proudly boast to anyone in earshot – that in spite of the many challenges our young family faced years ago in our single-parent household — my daughter now writes poetry and my son is a successful entrepreneur. But this post is intended to be about sons more than daughters, so let me get back to the point.

According to William Pollack, Ph.D., “Far from making boys weaker, the love of a mother can and does actually make boys stronger, emotionally and psychologically. Far from making boys dependent, the base of safety a loving mother can create – a connection that her son can rely on all of his life – provides a boy with the courage to explore the outside world . . . a loving mother actually plays an integral role in helping a boy develop his masculinity.”

There is always an exception to every rule, but more often than not a good man was molded by his mother.

0 Comments

Coffee — If Loving You Is Wrong

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

As soon as I get up in the morning I turn on my mister. (Not that mister. Get your mind right.) My Mr. Coffee automatic drip coffee machine.

Experts suggest that upon rising after a night’s sleep we should drink water; at least 2 cups or one 16oz bottle. Water rehydrates the body. It also fires up the metabolism and helps the body flush out toxins. They further recommend that coffee lovers like me delay that cup of joe until an hour after we awake.

If you – like me – wake up thinking about coffee, you’ve got a serious case of coffee on the brain. We are bonafide coffeeholics. The good and bad of that is this. We may crave caffeine, but unlike addictive drugs, caffeine doesn’t threaten our physical, social, or economic health. And as you may already know coffee has health benefits. (An hour is an excruciatingly long time to wait for that first sip).

On mornings when I go to the gym, water is my first drink of the day. I usually finish a bottle of it during my pre-dawn workout. Sip by boring sip. But on days when I don’t exercise, all bets are off. Coffee is my go-to beverage. I like it freshly brewed and strong every morning. Sometimes I drink it black, or occasionally with a little cream, but never, ever do I add sugar. Confession – decades ago when I began drinking coffee, I could only tolerate it with 4-6 heaping spoonsful of sugar. Yucky! I know. I can’t tell you how many times back then someone would flippantly say to me, “I see you take coffee in your sugar.” I stopped that. Now, when I need a sugar fix with my coffee, I have a blueberry muffin on the side.

Coffee is one of the world’s most consumed beverages, third place behind water and tea. Studies show that coffee drinkers have a lower risk of some serious diseases likely due to the high levels of antioxidants and beneficial nutrients in the beverage. Coffee improves various aspects of brain function and the body— including memory, mood, and energy levels. It increases fat burning and physical performance which is why some fitness enthusiasts drink coffee before working out. On the rare occasions when I drink coffee before exercising, I do notice that my energy level increases.

Studies also show that coffee drinkers have a lower risk of Parkinson’s and Alzheimer diseases.

Black coffee is calorie-free. Anyone trying to lose weight should avoid the cream (or milk) and sugar (and probably the muffin, too).

Excluding bacon frying in a skillet, coffee is the next best thing to smell in the morning.

Cars need gas to run, and I need coffee. I prefer it hot, strong, and fresh. I occasionally drink java after it has cooled to room temperature, but hours-old or microwave reheated coffee not only diminishes the taste it’s downright nasty.

I’m a frugal hometown girl so I rarely buy gourmet coffee, but I hear that some brands are so good they will make you jump up, click your heels together and spin in circles. Among the top five gourmet brands, you’ll find La Colombe Corsica Blend, Peet’s Coffee Big Bang Medium Roast and Death Wish Whole Bean Coffee. Billed as the world’s strongest coffee, Death Wish is highly rated and highly caffeinated. It has double the caffeine of your average cup. One bag will cost you around $20.00.  You’ll recognize the brand by the skull and crossbones on the package.

I have no taste for instant coffee so I’ll skip it. I prefer to brew one of my favorite regular brands each morning from any one of two or three 12oz packages of ground that I keep on hand. Each cost around $7 or $8.

There are over 100 brands of coffee. Over the years, I have tasted many brands though probably less than half. Among those that I’ve sampled are Maxwell House, Folgers, and Gevalia, but my favorites are Dunkin Donuts (Hazelnut), Starbucks (Breakfast Blend Medium Roast) and Seattle’s Best. Seattle’s Best is currently my go-to brand. It’s mild and delicious.

Let me share with you a mugful of more tips about coffee strength and coffee roast. Coffeeholics don’t particularly care about stuff like this, but I’ll tell you anyway. The ratio of coffee grinds to water during the brewing process determines the strength – the actual caffeine content – in a  particular amount of coffee. There are three main stages in roasting: drying stage, browning stage, and development or roasting stage. Light roast coffee is mild. Dark roast is bold. Many dark roasts are used for espresso brands. Medium roast and medium-dark – medium brands are not too light, not too bold. Breakfast blends can include different types of coffee beans and different sorts of roast levels. Like medium brands, blends are not too strong and not too weak.

Decaffeinated coffee – forget it, drink water instead. I mean without the caffeine, what’s the point? Coffee minus caffeine is like Christmas without carols, a beach without an ocean, a popsicle without the stick. Clearly, I dislike decaf coffee and that’s that.

Take note coffee lovers. To maintain freshness and flavor, packaged coffee must be kept away from moisture, heat, light, and strong odors. Refrigerating it is not a good idea because moisture will quickly deteriorate its quality. Instead store your package (especially after opening) in an airtight ceramic, metal or plastic container until needed.

As I see it, coffee tastes better when drinking it from a ceramic mug instead of a Styrofoam or paper cup.

That’s my spiel on the brown beverage. Stay grounded and take time to smell the coffee.

0 Comments

Forcing the Smile

by on ·Activism, Race Matters, The Way I See It

Before she died in 2011, my Aunt Sarah often told me that there was one thing that she liked most about my writing. “I like your humor,” she would say. It didn’t matter if I thought a particular post stunk like a wet mop, as long as Aunt Sarah thought it was funny my day was made. My aunt enjoyed humor, and she had an unwavering sense of it. She would crack me up with some of the jokes she told. More importantly, she focused on the bright side of life even in her darkest hour. Oh, how I miss her.

If my aunt were alive she would understand when I say that it’s getting difficult to maintain a sense of humor. The political and social climate we live in leaves little to laugh about or even smile.

In her speech before the 1964 Democratic National Convention civil rights leader Fannie Lou Hamer said, “I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.” She might not have imagined that fifty years later, her words would become a mantra for people praying for relief in a society that appears to be stepping back in the past toward racial injustice as it steps forward to a resurgence of senseless and criminal acts against black and brown people.

If we are to believe the words of the Preamble to the Constitution, aren’t we (too among) the people entitled to “secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity?”

Like Fannie Lou was in her day, generations of us today are sick and tired of feeling that we must constantly justify our existence and demand our human rights to life and liberty. We are sick and tired of being inherently suspect and perceived as threatening by people who look for reasons, no matter how irrational, to call the police. We are sick and tired of being stereotyped and presumed guilty until proven innocent. We are damned sick and tired.

We parents and grandparents feel compelled to reiterate the self-preservation talk with our black youths. “I recall a few occasions when one of my grandsons was younger and naïve, his response to “the talk” would be, “But I don’t bother anyone.” And my immediate reply was, “You don’t have to be bothering anyone for someone to bother you. It’s the world we live in.” They are grown men now and have come to understand. I think they get it.

It doesn’t help me to read disturbing articles like the one recently published by the Los Angeles Times. It discloses the findings of a study that reveals that Getting killed by police is a leading cause of death for young black men in America.

I have never forgotten an incident that happened years ago when my son was about 15. I took him and his male friend of the same age shopping. Nordstrom was one of many stores along the shopping strip in a high-rent district in Washington, DC. I knew that prices inside could make a hog squeal, but for the heck of it, I decided to go inside to see if I could find anything I wanted. Within moments after we entered the store, I noticed that an inconspicuous store employee pretending to be a shopper was trailing a short distance behind us. When we stopped to look at something, so would she. After a few minutes of cat and mouse, I was tempted to disregard her unspoken indication that you don’t belong here and continue browsing for the hell of it. Instead, because I was getting pissed off I told the boys, “Let’s go.” We left that store and I have never gone back there. That was over 30 years ago and every time I think about the experience, I get angry all over again.

Whether it is being followed in a department store or pulled over for driving while black, there is no justification for racial profiling and racist behavior. One bad choice or miscalculated move on our part could be a matter of life or death. That is our grim reality, and it is no laughing matter.

I prefer to write about lighthearted topics and would rather not write about my frustrations regarding racism. But I usually express what is weighing heavily on my heart and mind and right now, today, this is it. The subject of racism is exhausting, but we must keep talking about it.

One commonality shared by my Aunt Sarah and Fannie Lou Hamer is that both were proponents of civil rights. My aunt who participated in the 1963 March on Washington, would see no humor in this post, but she would certainly understand it. So would Harvard University professor Henry Louis Gates Jr., who in 2009 was arrested at his Cambridge, Massachusetts home after someone placed a 911 call about someone breaking and entering a residence. Gates was suspected of breaking into his own home. Rashon Nelson and Donte Robinson would also understand it. The two African American men were arrested in  2018 at a Philadelphia Starbucks while peacefully waiting for a friend to join them.

I am not implying that Black people don’t commit crimes, but so do whites.

I am sure that Aunt Sarah would understand why there is no humor in this post. She would also understand why I am not smiling as I write this, but I’ll smile again. Maybe tomorrow. I may even write something lighthearted – tomorrow.

In the meantime, if any of you readers have doubts about the absurdities perpetrated against Black people every day read The Root’s list of 100 Things Not To Do #While Black. Some of the things on the list are so ridiculous they might even make you smile as you shake your head at the idiocy.

2 Comments

My Thoughts of Mumia Abu-Jamal

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

The following post was written by Kathleen Flax, Guest Author. The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this post are those of Ms. Flax and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher of this blog.

 

 

After viewing “Long Distance Revolutionary,” a documentary about Mumia Abu-Jamal, I felt compelled to express some of my thoughts as presented below.

I spent an afternoon researching a black man named Mumia Abu-Jamal. He is a man who is well known by many Philadelphians.

Mumia was a radio disc jockey for a hometown favorite station, WDAS. He was also a journalist and an outspoken activist for the black community. He became a visible and openly staunch supporter in Philadephia for what was labeled by the city as a “radical organization” known as MOVE.

In 1981, Mumia was convicted of the murder of police officer Daniel Faulkner. He was subsequently tried and sentenced to death. The incidents surrounding the murder of Officer Faulkner at the hands of Mumia has always been shrouded by controversy. There were and still are firmly held beliefs, allegations, and theories of a police conspiracy and a cover-up.

What I remember from the report is that Mumia was driving a taxi cab to supplement his income. During one early morning, while driving the cab, he happened upon a scuffle and could see that some Philly police officers were beating his brother. It was reported that he exited his taxi cab and ran to the aid of his brother. What transpired between all of the individuals involved in that scuffle, continues to remain an ongoing discussion and has been debated by many individuals over several decades.

What remains factual, is that the lives of all of the subjects involved in that unfortunate incident:  the Philadelphia Police Department, Police Officer Daniel Faulkner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, his brother, and several eyewitnesses, were forever altered.

My heart is torn and saddened by all that I have read regarding Mumia and the untimely death of Officer Faulkner on the cold streets of Philadelphia. Perhaps it is because I am myself the child of a former Philadelphia Police Officer. My father worked those same streets as Officer Faulkner.

I have read the debates, criticisms, and open discussions regarding Mumia and his lengthy imprisonment. I have attempted to decipher the charges lodged against him and the sentence rendered. As I continued doing research on Mumia, I smile.

You see people; I remember Mumia’s voice of yesterday. As stated earlier he was a disc jockey for WDAS radio station in Philly. I was a young adult when his sultry, hypnotic, voice, and the R&B music that he played echoed throughout my home on many Sunday evenings.

From the time he was incarcerated, I have viewed many photographs of Mumia published throughout the years. My mind’s eye has also kept a certain image of him in a safe place, taking me selfishly back to a simpler, peace-filled time in my own life and small world. I have a self-made poster of Mumia hanging on the wall of my home not far from where I sit as I compose these thoughts.

I created the poster from a flier that I took off of a telephone pole in Philadelphia. The flier was asking Philly citizens for support for an upcoming “free Mumia rally” which was being held sometime in the late eighties. The poster that I created of Mumia has traveled many miles and over thirty years with me. To this day, I continue to hope and pray for Mumia’s exoneration of the charges lodged against him and his ultimate release from prison.

As I gazed upon that photograph of Mumia today on my computer screen, his picture reminded me of another photograph. Ironically, the other photograph was of another incarcerated black activist and lawyer named Nelson Mandella. From the time I was a young child until I was a grown woman, I held an image of Nelson Mandela etched in my mind. I remembered him as he stood tall, round-faced, brawny, a robust forceful looking man. In my eyes, he represented a “true” black man. Mr. Mandella was released in 1990, after serving a twenty-seven-year prison sentence in South Africa. The entire world took notice of his release. His countrymen rejoiced, and his admirers everywhere were elated.

News programs on stations all over broadcast the moment Mandela walked back into freedom. I watched my television with bated breath. Mandela was a heroic icon. Sadly, what I saw when Mr. Mandela walked out of prison caused my heart to immediately sink. I simultaneously became upset, shocked, hurt, and saddened. He who once stood before the world as a tall, brawny, robust man now resembled someone’s elderly grandfather. He was extremely thin, hunched over, gray-haired and was shuffling along with a cane. I cried that day for Nelson Mandella. The flood gates opened, and the tears cascaded down my cheeks. If it were possible to measure them, I’d say that I shed twenty-seven years of tears; and I remember uttering out loud, to no one in particular, “THEY BROKE HIM. THEY BROKE HIM”.

Who would have guessed that this determined, steadfast man, would become his nation’s president after being released from prison? I would be lying if I didn’t say that revelation in itself caught me by surprise a few years later. I still do not fully comprehend how it happened – former activist, lawyer, and prisoner, Nelson Mandela became the president of South Africa.

When I look at side-by-side photos of the young activist, Nelson Mandela and the older President Mandela and then look at photos of a young Mumia Abu-Jamal, and the older man who he is now, my mind screams again, “THEY BROKE HIM. THEY BROKE HIM.” In spite of that sorrow, I smile broadly and refuse to shed tears.

What I have experienced is a personal insight into America. In my opinion, this country still has not learned about the resolute conditioning of the human spirit, the black spirit in particular.

America needs to understand that our physical black bodies are just a vessel. It has been our minds, which you have tried to control, contain, and understand for hundreds of years now, to no avail.

You have beaten, raped, castrated, hung, enslaved, and systematically attempted to destroy our existence since bringing us to these shores. I believe, America, that the thought process of the black man after the tragedy we’ve endured and survived at your red, white, and blue hands have been a factor that you struggle continuously to comprehend. Sadly, I believe your well-documented history of the intentional mistreatment and abuse of the black man, woman, and child, is still acceptable in your country.

I, as well as Mumia Abu-Jamal and the late Nelson Mandela, reside in a world where black people are looked down upon by white people and other races for no other reason than our hue. If anyone should dare to be an outspoken activist towards a nation built on racism and brutality, such as Mumia and Mandela did, there is a chance that they too could face imprisonment; ironically for exercising a human right and one of their Constitutional rights, freedom of speech.

I realize that Mumia is in prison for the alleged murder of a police officer in 1990. However, the question is still being debated here in Philadelphia and around the world in 2019 as to whether or not the entire incident was a set up by the Philadelphia police and Philadelphia politicians to take down an outspoken black activist and journalist.

What became apparent, in my opinion, is that Mumia as a journalist began writing articles and speaking out on the Philadelphia police department’s alleged mistreatment of members of the MOVE Organization. In doing so, he became a target.

When looking at photographs of Mumia and Mandela, I not only reflect on their situations, but on America and her continued mistreatment of black people. Our black heritage and black pride is the one thing that America will never truly understand. Our black honor, black steadfastness, black truths, black beliefs, black strength, black diligence, black resilience, black kindness, black forgiveness, black spirituality, black family, black unity, and our extreme black love for all humankind – that includes even you AMERICA. As wicked and evil as you have been to black people, we still love you.

Our black strengths which you can’t understand nor destroy continues to grow deep and rooted inside of black people. That strength is continuously fed to us by the blood of our ancestors seeping through America’s soil with our every footstep. That particular strength is not external. You will never control or understand its value to us as black people.

1 Comment