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

Grinched

by on ·General, Holidays, Humanity

A friend once told me that some of my online journal entries tend to get personal. I laughed as I said to her, “You’re kidding, right? If you think the public entries are personal, you should see what I write in my private journal.” Ha Ha.

I intended this entry to be solely a humorous, upbeat post about Christmas because Yuletide is one of my favorite seasons. But, a recent encounter made me reconsider.

Some days ago, I was cruising along an imaginary highway minding my own business, when out of nowhere, Ms. Grinch appeared. She veered into my lane and tried to side-swipe me. I swerved to avoid a collision, but she, appearing to be aching for a confrontation, returned. Hypothetical road rage, for sure. I usually give as good as I get, but it’s Christmastime, so instead of engaging in a battle of words, I told her to butt out and went about my merry way.

People often say that today’s youth are a generation of troublemakers. Granted, many are, but I believe that the behavior of someone young and dumb is more excusable than the foolishness of an immature adult, especially one who is two decades older than Scrooge, á la Ms. Grinch. People like her are perfect examples of misery loves company. The envy and malice they harbor in their heart lead them to create chaos whenever and wherever they can. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know that mean-spiritedness and a penchant for troublemaking are often due to a lack of self-esteem. As a result, grinches live a lonely and unhappy existence. Life is too short to be prone to indiscretion and unnecessary drama. As Rodney King said, “Can’t we all get along?”

That said, I’m switching gears.

My peace-loving friends, stretch your imagination and envision Santa carrying a remedy for universal peace and love inside his big, red gift bag. The contents are shredded like trillions of bits of confetti to make transport and distribution more manageable. During his sleigh ride across the darkened sky on Christmas Eve, Santa will dip his gloved hand into the bag, grab handsful of the confetti, and sprinkle it everywhere he goes. The shavings will fall like snowflakes in a blizzard, landing on buildings, vehicles, and people. Everybody who comes in contact with it succumbs to the effects. It’s more transmittable than COVID and as potent as nerve gas, only non-lethal. However, it is saturated with a chemical that, when touched or inhaled, causes the host to lose all negative emotions and develop a penchant for harmony. As Santa continues ho, ho, hoing around the world, he revels in his achievement because he knows there will be peace in every country, city, and home – worldwide peace – on Christmas Day and forever after.

And one last thing before my pipe dream ends.

Folks will hear him exclaim, ere he drives out of sight, “HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!“

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Doggonit! That Confusing Gender Binary Language

by on ·General, Language, Opinion, The Way I See It

According to Heraclitus, “Change is the only constant in life. As I understand it, the Greek philosopher’s statement means that everything we are used to will undergo some transformation sooner or later.

I suspect that many of my boomer subscribers, and the sprinkling of millennial readers, feel as intimidated as I do about how things keep changing. What the flux? As soon as we get used to something, it alters, transforms, it changes before you can say abracadabra!

Let’s talk about language. Grammar rules and word meanings constantly change, proving that language, too, is inconsistent. Remember when a mouse meant a rodent you might see skittering across the floor, not a device sitting on your desktop near your computer? And how long did it take some of us to learn that ghosting meant more than a shadowy image on an old television screen? It seems that as soon as we learn the meaning of certain words or the context used, a language adjustment sprouts like gray hair on an AARP member’s head.

It has become trendy now to use pronouns in non-standard ways. Wait a minute. Did I say trendy? Strike that. As sure as it rains on just-washed cars, some sensitive folks will freak out over my using the word trendy in this situation. So, bear with me while I replace trendy with, oh, let’s say, practical. As I was saying, non-standard pronouns are also described as non-binary or gender-neutral pronouns. Some folks may have been educated about those latter pronouns for a while. But, I, on the other hand, only recently, and unexpectedly, learned the lesson.

Imagine you are cruising along, completely absorbed in a book you are reading, when suddenly you get side-swiped by what you think is an improper pronoun. Such an “accident” is more noticeable when you see the word on a printed page than when you listen to a narrator. In an audiobook, you wonder if you heard what you thought you heard, but when you see a word on a page being used in an unfamiliar manner, it looms in front of you like a bright red STOP sign at an intersection.

Recently, I was listening to an audiobook. After the initial introduction of the male and female characters, whenever the author referenced one of them, if she did not use their name, she referred to the character as they instead of her or him. The first time I heard “they,” when I was expecting to hear “her,” I chalked it up to a typo. Then I heard “they” intended for him, and I wondered facetiously, can the narrator read? As the story progressed, and the same perceived mistake kept recurring, sometimes with different characters, I realized something was off-kilter.

(Note: I use read interchangeably, referring to a printed book or an audio one. In this case, it was an audiobook that caused my angst.)

I’m not exaggerating when I say that the pronoun swap got distracting to the point that it wrecked an otherwise intriguing plot and flowing storyline. So much so that, at one point, I considered ditching the book unfinished. Only curiosity about how the story would end kept me reading.

The most common option for gender-neutral pronouns is the singular usage of the pronouns they/them. Instead of using “he” or “she” in a sentence, you would use the word “they.”

If any of you readers are scratching your head trying to figure this all out, the following is an example of sentences with binary and non-binary pronouns.

Ordinarily, I would write this: “Our teacher called in sick this morning, so Principal Moore taught our class today, and she did well. Kudos to her.” I would not write this (non-binary): “Our teacher called in sick this morning, so Principal Moore taught our class today, and they did well. Kudos to them.”

Still scratching? Perhaps this explanation from Google will help: “The non-binary pronouns are “they,” “them,” and “their.” When talking about someone who identifies as non-binary, use “they/them” (not “he/him” or “she/her”), and use “their” (not “his/her”).”

Got it? You think? Well, imagine reading an entire novel containing non-binary language.

When I began reading the book, I thought that perhaps the author failed to have a copy editor proofread it before it was published. But, of course, she did. Finally, after stressing out over what I thought were numerous proofreading flubs, I figured it out.

I understand that gender-inclusive language is a way to embrace persons whose gender is unknown or undeterminable or a non-binary person who chooses to use “they” as their identifying pronoun. By George, I get it! That makes it no less confusing, especially for uninitiated writers and others.

Call me nonprogressive or old-fashioned, whatever. I think using non-binary pronouns is freaking awkward!

I found a Study by the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill somewhat conciliatory after reading the following: “We speculate that relative unfamiliarity with non-binary they and non-binary gender may…lead writers to avoid using a form that may not be familiar to their [audience].” I hope everyone who writes for a general audience will take that seriously.

In the meantime, traditions keep changing like the seasons. No disrespect intended, but what’s next? Will Christmas novels that have Santa saying, “Ho, Ho, Ho” be banned because some people will consider it offensive, instead forcing Santa’s laugh to be “Ha, Ha, Ha” or “He, He, He.” Wait a minute. Strike that. Replace “He, He, He” with “They, They, They.”

And you, he, she, they, their, them – y’all have a very Merry Christmas!

 

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Message to a Black Man

by on ·Black Lives

The longer I stay cocooned in my she cave (my home), the more relaxed I feel. I would say the safer I feel, but every day I hear on the TV news or directly from the mouth of a friend or acquaintance about something terrible that happened to someone while they were inside (what they thought was) the safety of their home. Just yesterday, I learned from a dear friend that her brother had been shot in his house by a stranger attempting to burglarize the home. Thank God, as I write this, her brother is still alive and recovering in the hospital.

Outside or inside, sometimes it doesn’t matter, does it? Nevertheless, the fewer people I deal with face-to-face, the happier I am. No stress, no mess, I always say. Something that happened this morning is a perfect example of why I think that way.

I decided to go to the store. I didn’t need anything that couldn’t wait until my regular order of groceries is delivered next week, or if I were pressed, like craving fresh fruits as I was doing this morning, I’d order from Instacart. Instead, I called my daughter, and we decided to go together to the store. I picked up a few items. As we were getting in line, a black man, I glimpsed from the corner of my eye and guessed was in his late 20s or early 30s, walked up behind us. I never looked back at him, but I could tell he was talking on the phone. He said to whoever he was talking to, “That’s why I don’t deal with black women. They’re all alike.”

My daughter was standing beside me, and she, too, overheard the man’s conversation. Like me, she purposely ignored him. To further convey our disinterest, lest he was thinking he could lure us into a heated conversation in defense of black women, I  began talking to my daughter.

Black people have enough challenges without the acrimony between men and women. And, among other things, I feel that the broadcast and entertainment industry fuels the flame. TV commercials featuring mixed-race families, especially those giving prominence to the coupling of black men and white women, are as popular now as air fryers. I know I am not the only black woman bothered by that, but I’m likely one of the few who would publicly admit it. Love who you want; I don’t care, but why do the commercials display such an unbalanced presentation of mixed-race families? Is it because we – black women – are stereotypically portrayed as angry? Even Michelle Obama could not escape that negative label.

The contempt of the man in the store for black women was evident. He was standing directly behind me and made no effort to lower his voice, giving me no doubt that he wanted us to overhear his conversation. I don’t know if he was actually talking to someone on the phone (He had it to his ear.) or faking it, but I suspected he was baiting a trap either way. My instinct told me that he was hoping my very attractive daughter or I would turn around and give him the how dare you look. That would have been his signal to engage us in a verbal confrontation. I envisioned him saying, “Who you looking at? Yeah, I’m talking about y’all.” And then I imagined that he’d say into the phone, “See, what I mean. Bitches in here all in my business.”

I know the game. I’ve seen it played before. I didn’t take the bait.

Instead, my daughter and I pretended we didn’t hear him. If I’ve learned anything in my life, one sure way to piss-off someone – or invalidate them – is to ignore them. So I turned to my daughter, and we began talking about the high cost of food. Had we reacted to his rant, we would likely have given him the pleasure of loud talking us or reinforcing his point to whoever (if anyone) was on the other end of his phone.

As I walked home, I pretended his conversation didn’t bother me, but it did, and it still does. Disparaging black women will not solve his problem. He has more profound issues troubling him. Perhaps it is self-hatred.

On February 14, 1990, Washington Post Columnist Donna Britt published “For Black Men, One From the Heart.” It was a warm-hearted Valentine’s Day message for Black Men who are often portrayed as criminals, perpetrators of violence, and dead-beat dads. Reportedly, that essay brought Britt dozens of roses, numerous phone calls from people expressing their gratitude, and several awards, including one from the National Association of Black Journalists. She also received high praise from us black women who agreed with her.

Black men do not have to fit the stereotypes. In 1965, in his book Message to the Blackman in America, Elijah Muhammed wrote, “One of the gravest handicaps for the so-called Negro is that there is no love for self, nor love for his or her own kind. This not having love for self is the root cause of hate.”

I still feel the sting of the words of the man who stood behind me in the store, although I think they would have been guided like a verbal missile to any other black woman within the sound of his voice. If I could say some things to him, I’d say this:  Like you, black women face the difficulties of trust, baggage from past relationships, and sometimes even economic instability. We know that there are many upstanding, hard-working black men out there. I’ve been with one for over 20 years. We respect you. We’ve got your back. All black women do not lump all black men into the same barrel. Please don’t do it to us.

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Things That Go Bump in the Night

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Strange Happenings

A strange thing happened to me this morning. Talk about weird occurrences.

As I often do while lying in bed between snoozes, I had a flash of inspiration. It was around 4 AM. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my laptop, and hurried to the dining room table. Before taking a seat, I switch on the kitchen light but leave the dining room light off. My concentration is sharpest when I’m writing in a dimly lit room. I set the laptop on the table, open it, and begin typing. I’m anxious to save the thoughts in my head to the hard drive before I forget them.

My fingers are burning up the keyboard, and I’m enjoying myself in the creativity zone. The early morning hours are my favorite time of the day; it’s when I am most inspired. It’s quiet outside and indoors. For the time being, no noisy emergency vehicles are flying up and down the streets with sirens wailing. No neighbors chattering or children playing loudly outside. The phone isn’t ringing. The TV is off. In my bliss, I recall a line from a Christmas story – “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” I glance at the clock. It’s 5:12.

Satisfied that I have saved my story ideas to my hard drive, I click on Facebook and scroll down the page. Then, I click my photos. The first image my eyes land on is a favorite picture of my mother that I posted last Saturday in observance of what would have been her 95 birthday. I decide that I don’t want anyone to steal that photo. (Of course, I realize it’s already too late. Everyone knows that once a picture is posted on social media, it becomes fair game for anyone who wants to copy it.) Still, I decide to delete it. I select the image and tap the delete button on the keyboard. A message on the screen warns me, “Deleting this photo will also delete the post.” Additional instructions about how to delete just the photo and not the post are available if I click “Learn more,” but I don’t click it. Thanks, but no thanks for the warning Facebook. I delete the photo, my message, and all of the appreciated comments from my friends and relatives.

As soon as I delete the post before I even lift the finger that pressed the delete key, I hear a sound like something has fallen near me in the room. Without turning my head, I swing my eyes toward the sound. I am sitting at the dining room table in front of the door leading into the kitchen. The kitchen light behind me and the light on the laptop monitor is the only illumination in the otherwise dark room. And I know the only other person at home is asleep in the bedroom, so I ask myself, “What was that noise?”

I have a pair of 8-by-8-inch canvas African art pieces hanging near the door leading into my apartment, so I think that perhaps the hook came loose, and one of the pieces fell off the wall. I lean back in the chair, reach for the light switch on the wall and flip it on. Then I look toward the door. And I see it, the source of the noise.

The little wooden bird that perches on the console table with my other ornamental animals, a parakeet, and a turtle (my menagerie, I call it), has fallen to the floor. I wonder, how did that happen? Is it possible that the stems on my philodendron plant had a sudden growth spurt and tipped the bird over? Nah. But maybe so. A few days ago, while watering my plant, I picked up a stem extending to the floor and gently laid it over the bird. The stem on my house plant isn’t strong enough to knock a wooden bird or any other inanimate object off that table. I’ve got to stop reading Stephen King.

My rational and imagination wrestle over the issue.

Fact – Immediately after I deleted my mother’s photo, the bird fell (or was knocked off the table by something). Nothing has ever fallen off of that table except one time after a house guest accidentally bumped the table while walking past it. So, how did the bird get off the table and onto the floor? It didn’t fly.

My mother, for religious reasons, did not observe birthdays. I do. Last Saturday, I posted a photo with a message acknowledging mom’s birthday on Facebook. The post generated several kind comments and “Happy Heavenly Birthday” remarks from my friends and relatives.

Imagination – During the days that the birthday message for my mother was posted on Facebook, could it have been transmitted beyond the grave? Did mother see it?

“You know I don’t observe birthdays.” She used to repeat that so often I can still hear her saying it. “But ma, I do,” I’d reply. Did mom’s spirit flick the bird off the table as a playful yet ghostly way of showing me that she knows I continue to acknowledge her birthday?

Okay, enough with the spookiness. Still, I need an explanation. That bird has perched on that table in the same spot for years and has never flown the coop, so to speak. No one was stomping downstairs in the hallway of the building. There was no large truck rumbling by outside. I didn’t feel an earthquake, tremor, or anything that would cause the building to vibrate. The only movement in the room was my fingers tapping on the keyboard. No matter how I try to come up with a reason for how the bird wound up on the floor, I can not. Guess I’ll have to settle for it being a fluke. Stuff happens.

Halloween is two days away. I wonder, are the ghosts (even the holy ones) and goblins already haunting?

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Word Games and Anecdotal Nonsense

by on ·Humor

I’m in seventh heaven when I’m writing or playing word games. More outgoing people would rather be shaking their booty on the dance floor, matching winning symbols on a slot machine, or sightseeing in Spain. They’d probably think my idea of bliss is as boring as watching a leaky faucet. The aforementioned activities are an enjoyable diversion for some, but not for me. I dance like a wooden soldier. I dislike having one-armed bandits gobbled up my money with little or no return, and flying anywhere has been removed from my bucket list. (I’ve replaced flying with plans to be an audience member on The View one day. I’d take the train to the Big Apple.). On the contrary, this logophile is enthusiastically into word games. It doesn’t matter if the game is Scrabble, Wordle, or my favorite online game, Puzzly Words.

Sometimes just for fun, I create my own word games or anecdotes using crafty phrases.

For instance, about four months ago, Gertrude Stein’s expression, “there is no there there,” was being volleyed like a hot potato by politicians and commentators mimicking them. I was so intrigued by the phrase that I created an imaginary conversation between two friends trying to outwit each other using Stein’s expression. Listen to Karen and Becky.

Becky:  Stein was right, you know, there is no there there; nowhere.

Karen:  Of course, there is a there there. Everywhere.

Becky:   Where?

Karen:   Depending on the viewer’s perspective, there can be here or in that place. Where? There.

Becky:  Where can’t be there because there is no there there.

Karen:  Au contraire. Where indeed can be there.

Becky:  I’m telling you, where is nonexistent, and there is no there there.

Karen:  But there is there. There is a place nearby, far away, all over.

Becky:  There is where?

Karen:  There is anywhere and everywhere.

Becky:  There can’t be anywhere and everywhere if there is nowhere for there to be.

Karen:  I’m telling you there is a there there. Like where — there can be any place.

Becky:  Listen, there is no where, and no there.

Karen:  So, you believe there is no where and no there? How can I convince you that there is? If I say, let’s walk across the street. You might ask ….

Becky:  Why would we be going over ther ….

Karen:  Over where? Say it; over there.

Becky:  Don’t play with me. Stein had it right; there is no there there.

Karen:  Girlfriend, you’ve taken the whole thing out of context. Stein was referring in her autobiography to her childhood home that was gone after she left and returned years later. That’s what she meant by there is no there there.

Becky:  I don’t know about that. I just know she’s right; there is no there there and no where.

Karen:  If there is no there there nor where, then maybe there is no what either.

Becky:  What? Are you making fun of me? Where is this conversation going?

Karen:  Didn’t you just say there is no there there and no where?

Becky:  This is nonsense.

Karen:  Don’t stop now. I’m all for riding this clunker till the wheels fall off.

Becky:  Whatever!

Karen:  If there is no there there, and no where, what makes you think there is a whatever?  Hey, Becky, come back! Where are you going? Don’t stomp away mad.

 

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