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

Unmasking the Invisible Man

by on ·Crime and Punishment, Law and Order, Life and Death, Opinion

“We don’t meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason.”

I never knew his name, but after seeing a photo of him in The Washington Post, I recognized Reggie Brown as the 64-year-old senior with disabilities who was stomped to death by a group of teenage girls last year on October 17. The story of Mr. Brown’s tragic demise came to light again two weeks ago after police arrested three of the girls charged with the horrific crime. Numerous media outlets, including People.com, carried the story.

Like many other people in the neighborhood, I was acquainted with Mr. Brown. Because I saw him hanging around the same spot, I suspected he was a transient until later learning from news reports that he was not. It will be a while before I forget Mr. Brown’s cocoa chocolate face, downturned smile, and dark eyes that revealed years of sorrow. His aura was one of humility. I didn’t perceive him to be aggressive or threatening.

On most mornings near dawn, when I was going to and from the gym, I would see the frail-looking man standing near the McDonald’s drive-thru. I think he fancied himself to be an unofficial traffic controller. He would signal exiting drivers when it was safe to merge onto the avenue or extend a palm on an outstretched hand, instructing them to wait for pedestrians to cross. Some drivers would stop at the curb, lower the window, and hand him money before driving away. Others rolled out without acknowledging him. If their ingratitude angered him, he never showed it.

Whenever I passed him, he always politely greeted me. I admit, the first time I encountered him, I was reluctant to return his greeting because I suspected his next move would be to ask me for money. He never asked. That was just as well because I rarely carry more than my ID, keys, and gym essentials when I go to work out.

One day, as I left the gym, I followed a few steps behind three girls who appeared to be young teens; they were perhaps around 13 or 14 years old. Since they were wearing backpacks, and at least two wore uniforms, I suspected they were students stopping at McDonald’s before heading to school. Mr. Brown greeted them as he often did me, with a cordial “Good Morning.” Instead of returning his greeting or ignoring him, one girl responded with an expletive, “F*** you!” as one of the other two in front of her pulled open the door to the restaurant.

Instead of reacting negatively, as they might have expected, Mr. Brown kept his cool and asked, “How would your mother feel knowing you talk like that?” That provoked the teen to repeat the swear word before the trio entered McDonald’s. All of them were laughing as the door closed behind them.

As I passed him, we briefly made eye contact, and I sensed that Mr. Brown, like I, was wondering why so many young people today are insolent and disrespectful.

Months later, when I learned that three teenagers were arrested and charged with second-degree murder, assault, and conspiracy in Mr. Brown’s death, I was pleased. I also learned something about Mr. Brown.

According to his family, he was not homeless. He lived in the neighborhood with his sister. He had schizophrenia. He also had only three fingers on each of his hands. The missing digits had been amputated because of lupus. He suffered blackouts because, at some point in his life, he fell and injured his skull; that accident resulted in a metal plate being placed in his head. He also had cancer and had chemotherapy earlier on the day of his fateful encounter. According to his sister, walking made him feel better after chemo treatments, and he had gone out for a walk near midnight on the evening when he was pulled into an alley by an unidentified young male, senselessly beaten by a group of teenage girls, and left to bleed to death.

When I learned how young they were, I wondered if they were the same girls I had seen curse at Mr. Brown in front of McDonald’s, but of course, I don’t know.

Police would not reveal the girl’s names because they are juveniles. District law states children under 15 cannot be charged as adults. It sickened me to learn that they were charged as juveniles with second-degree murder and said to be too young to be prosecuted as adults. If convicted, the maximum penalty they face is confinement to a youth rehabilitation facility until they turn 21, after which, by law, they would have to be released. Mr. Brown’s family is pushing for adult charges. His sister said, “They do adult things; they should be treated as adults.”

I’m with her. I think leniency is one reason this city is rampant with juvenile crime. If you commit a major crime, you should do major time.

Every day, we randomly encounter people whose journeys differ from ours. Sometimes, they are street people, invisible to us until something significant happens, making us see them as fellow human beings struggling to get along in a hostile world. We don’t know the burden they carry any more than they know of our load.

The numerous times that I exchanged greetings with Mr. Brown, I saw him, but I never really saw him until after I learned of his brutal murder. If nothing else, I like to think that my morning greetings, as minuscule as they were, added some brightness to his day.

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An Early April Fool’s Joke and a $600 plus Overcharge

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

Even though numerous scientific studies have proven that astronomical bodies do not affect our lives depending on our birth date, many people believe the contrary. Humans have long looked to the stars for answers and directions to plan their lives based on Zodiac signs and horoscope predictions, which began over a thousand years ago. During the 19th Century, Harriet Tubman is said to have used the North Star as a compass to guide her during her numerous trips along the Underground Railroad.

I don’t believe in horoscopes, although occasionally, I read the columns in the newspaper for the fun of it. This being April Fool’s Day, I decided to read my horoscope and see what I am supposed to believe is in store for me today. As I began reading it, one line seemed to fluctuate, and I thought that surely the powers that be have a sense of humor. The horoscope said, “Be careful in your financial dealings because mixed communications and errors might cost you money.” Well, I’ll be a two-fish swimming Pisces! It was the correct prophecy, but it was overdue.

At the risk of angering the astrological gods, I leaned back in my chair and snickered, thinking that my stars must be misaligned because today’s prediction was nine days late.

A week ago, on Saturday, I placed an order online for food delivery from a popular restaurant. I’ve ordered from this place a few times before without incident. After clicking “Submit,” a message appeared on the screen, “Process failed. Try again later.” (I’m paraphrasing because I can’t remember the precise wording.) That was unusual. As instructed, I waited a few minutes and tried again. I got the same message.

I told my SO what happened, and he said the place was probably very busy because a popular sports event was airing on TV, and maybe many folks were ordering online and tying up the website. So I waited a few minutes and then tried again. I got the same message as before. I called the restaurant, told them what was happening, and asked if their website had a problem. They said they were unaware of any issues and suggested that perhaps the site was busy. I should wait a few minutes and try again.

My intuition never fails me — when I listen to it. It told me to stop trying, but I was hungry. I had not defrosted anything from the freezer to cook for dinner because I had my mind and taste buds set on one of my favorite meals. I hesitated but ignored my instinct and decided to try to place the order again. I re-entered my payment information and clicked submit a third time. By now, I’m getting agitated. I told myself I’d try once more, and if my order didn’t go through, I’d give up and maybe fix a couple of choke sandwiches (for the uninitiated, that’s slang for a peanut butter sandwich with or without jelly.)

After a few more attempts, I gave up, and – believe it or not – frustrated, I was pushing my chair away from the computer desk when the doorbell rang. I joined my SO as he opened the door and was surprised to find the DoorDash driver standing there with a brown bag containing our meals. I thought he must be delivering someone else’s order to us by mistake, but when we checked the receipt stapled to the sealed bag, it listed every item we had ordered. When I left the computer, I remembered that the website still showed “Process failed. Try again later.”

After expressing our confusion to the driver, who was oblivious to the problems with the website, he said, “I just deliver the meals, mam.” We tipped him, and he went on his way. As my SO opened the bag and checked to ensure the contents were what we ordered, not someone else’s meals, an ominous thought struck me like a lightning bolt. I rushed back to the computer, where the food site still showed a buffering symbol and the “try again” message. At no time did the website indicate that the order had gone through. I closed the window. Then, my instinct told me to check my bank account. I did so immediately. Holy smoked turkey! To say that I was stunned is an understatement. I was dumbfounded to see that my account revealed seven – yes, seven charges – for a single food order, totaling $623.41.

In my choking Whitney Houston voice, I said, “Hell to the no!” and grabbed the phone and called the restaurant again. After being transferred to what I perceived to be every room except the kitchen, I ended up with someone who claimed to be the tech person, although I had my suspicions. She told me they did not detect any problems with their website. I told the alleged techie about the numerous overcharges on my bank account and said I wanted the error corrected. She said she couldn’t do anything about it (Did she seem nonchalant, or was it my imagination?) and referred me to the corporate office. Of course, when I called Corporate, a recorded message said the office was closed until Monday.

I knew I’d have a nervous breakdown if I had to wait 48 hours to resolve the matter, so I phoned my bank (Thank God the customer service office was open.) Fortunately, I reached an agent who spoke understandable English. After I explained the situation to her and she confirmed seven charges were showing in the same amount for a single order, she reversed six.

Had the mishap occurred today, I might have thought it was an April Fool’s joke by a depraved worker. Instead, I’ll blame a website glitch and the unreliability of an astrological prediction that was nine days late. And as fond as I am of that eatery, I won’t order online from them again.

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Perspective vs. Perception: One woman’s home is another’s museum

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

“Did she just say what I think she said?” That was my first thought when I overheard the remark made by “Mae,” my houseguest.

Although it occurred some time ago, it still bothers me because I haven’t decided whether it was an ambiguous compliment, a subtle insult, or an innocent thought spoken aloud while I was in earshot.

Perhaps Mae said what she said in jest, and my humor gene was on snooze. Nevertheless, when I looked at her upon reentering the room, I didn’t see a hint of a smile or a sign of embarrassment, but indifference seemed apparent.

I have debated whether to leave this issue secured in my private diary and simmer every time I reread it or vent about it on my blog and get it out of my system once and for all.

Whitney Wolfe Herd, entrepreneur and Jill of many trades said, “Life is about perspective and how you look at something; ultimately, you have to zoom out.”

I zoomed out, then zoomed in. Over time, I even considered that I may have made a mountain out of a molehill, so I hoovered over it like a drone for a while. Nevertheless, Mae’s remark irked me. What exactly did she mean?

It happened on Thanksgiving Day a few years ago. I had invited Mae and her husband for dinner. Shortly after they arrived, I left them sitting in the living room, watching a football game on television while I went to the kitchen to check on the remaining dish that was not quite done.

During my absence, Mae must have been eyeing my living room like Martha Stewart because as I was reentering it, I overheard her say, “This looks like a museum.”

Before she could shut her lips after finishing that statement, my antenna shot above my furrowed brows. Then, my meddling inner Lo-zilla whispered, “Did she have the audacity to say that your place looks like a museum? Are you going to let that go unchallenged?”

I was about to ask (politely, of course) what she meant by that remark, but before I could get the words out, her husband jumped to his feet, threw both arms above his head, and enthusiastically yelled, “Touchdown!” His wild outburst caught us both off guard, but it cut the tension like a samurai sword, and then we all immediately turned our attention to the game.

I’ve read that professionals who study human behavior will tell you that sometimes it is not what someone says but how they say it. Intonation and tone reveal emotions and thoughts. You can think one thing when you say something, but the person who hears you express that thought might receive it differently.

Take the phrase, “Get out” for instance.

“Get out!” can be said excitedly to express disbelief. “You say you hit the Powerball? Get out!” Or it can be said angrily and forcefully, indicating that I want you gone. “Get out!”

So as not to risk spoiling the rest of the day, I did not revisit the awkward moment and my guest’s ambiguous statement, but it remained superglued in my mind.

Why did I take offense? Because I don’t think my home looks like a museum. I’m not saying a museum is a bad place—it isn’t, and I like visiting museums. But there was something about the way she said it that irked me. Mae may have meant her remark as a compliment, though her tone belied that. Perspective. Perception. I was conflicted.

My home reflects my affection for black culture, especially the living room with its tranquil earth tones. Throw pillows, some with designs of varied texture and tribal embroidery, are tucked on a medium brown sofa and wide seat recliner. Plain burnt orange cushions add a splash of color. My coveted collection of African masks, art, and other cultural artifacts acquired over decades are strategically arranged on the walls, atop the bookcases, and on other surfaces. A brown, black, and taupe area rug with an ethnic theme is layered on the beige carpet in front of the couch.

This plant lover’s assortment of live and artificial green plants brings the beauty of nature indoors. One viny philodendron I’ve grown for over 15 years climbs the wall and creeps over and around two small, glossy-finished portraits of African girls near the doorway.

My home is my castle. It’s not a museum or a showplace. You’ll never find a photo spread of it in Better Homes and Garden magazine. I decorate (not really decorate, just put together) things to suit my taste and lifestyle. There is nothing high-end about it. But it is neat and clean. I could say it’s hypoallergenic if the dust bunnies would stop shooing away the cleaning fairies.

Nevertheless, it is my safe harbor. My quiet place. When I need a time-out,  a temporary escape from the stressful, insane world, I close the curtains, turn on some smooth jazz, cuddle in my recliner, and escape into a good book.

Ahhh, I feel better now that I’ve vented. I zoomed in and out, and I’m letting it go.

“Perspective alone can make an experience positive or negative, but regardless of which you let it become, it can only have as much power … as you give it.” — A.J. Darkholme

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She Said. He Said. Two Perspectives on the Fani Willis Testimony

by on ·Law and Order

This post was co-written with David White, Guest Author

She (I) Said.

Fani Willis was the hot topic last Thursday during and following her testimony at the Georgia election tampering case hearing. Some of my friends, acquaintances, and I were tuned in to MSNBC or other TV channels broadcasting the proceedings and commenting among us via text, brief phone calls, and social media.

Most of us were in agreement that professional ethics and avoidance of any improprieties should have been the topmost priority in Fani’s mind relative to any court case, but especially one where the stakes are so high.

“What was she thinking?” was repeated so often it could have been a round in a song.

Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. Fani, don’t you realize that life is not a dream?   

And now you are caught up in a nightmare. Girl, didn’t you think that any romantic or alleged romantic involvement with Nathan Wade, who you appointed as special prosecutor in the case, might raise some suspicion? (I like to flatter myself into believing that some public figures I write about read my posts, and occasionally, I get an unexpected response.)

Despite the unfortunate circumstances, the District Attorney of Fulton County got high-fives for deportment because of her professional behavior on the stand. We liked how, with her head high and shoulders squared, she strolled into that courtroom like she owned the place.

The saying that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned could be rewritten in this case to imply that hell hath no fury like a woman who feels she is being used as a deflection. Regardless of the innuendoes, assumptions, and admissions, it is evident that the intent is to throw Fani and her team under the bus or, more precisely off the case, to delay proceedings.

I was happy to see that Fani did her homework. She didn’t waste any time waving court documents like she was fanning away flies as she lashed out at Ashleigh Merchant for lying in the filings. It was an Oscar-worthy performance of an angry black woman, but one who made her point while showing intelligence and class.

Regardless of the impropriety of the relationship with Mr. Wade, my buddies and I were cheering Fani on for standing her ground. As I said to one friend – she is no shrinking violet; she is a live wire. Anyone who comes to her had better come correct with their information.

I think some of the questions by the opposing team were improper and invasive, and at times, I found myself cringing, but Ms. Willis appeared cool under pressure and gave as good as she got. It was a heartwarming moment for me when Fani responded to a question from Merchant by saying, “I will not emasculate a black man.”

I was also elated when Fani’s dad, John Clifford Floyd III, a criminal defense attorney, took the stand on behalf of his daughter and turned to the judge before answering a question about Fani keeping sufficient cash in her home. He said, “I don’t mean to sound racist, but it’s a black thing.” Indeed it is. Every woman I know was taught to keep some cash on hand.

He (David) Said.

I first became familiar with Fani Willis when she was being interviewed about taking on the momentous task of prosecuting an American president on criminal charges. It was more than evident from her direct and unwavering manner that she felt she was up to the task. She spoke forcefully about her obligation to Georgia’s citizens to protect and observe their laws. From then until now, nothing has shaken my belief that the task is not too big for her.

As I watched the hearing Thursday, I identified with Fani as she suppressed what had to be an almost intolerable amount of indignation and rage over a concerted effort to impugn her character.

Growing up as a black child in the South, I recognized something that was also familiar to Fani. If she grew up like I did, she was taught from a very young age that she was as good as the next person and should never cede dignity or self-respect to other people.

I imagine her seething over the innuendos and intimations spewed by the opposing team. And when I saw the resolve on her face, I knew there would be fireworks! I’ve seen too many black women in my family, and others unrelated to me, wear that look of umbrage and indignation when offended. So, I identified with Fani and held my breath.

She is brilliant and professional, so I didn’t expect that there would be dicey words exchanged that could turn the event into a caricature of the Jerry Springer show. Still, I sometimes imagined Fani pulling off her earrings, kicking off her shoes, and taking a fighting stance.

She let Team We-Know-Who know she would not allow them to tarnish her reputation and drag her through the muck. She showed them that she could see through their tactics and clarified that she was not a  “defendant” and was not on trial. I feel that it was essential that she laid out the dynamics, and she did it expertly.

She also reminded everyone that although she is a district attorney, she also has a personal life. She said there was no unethical intent in bringing on board a former boyfriend and reiterated that she and Wade were no longer an item when he joined her team.

There were obvious racial undertones implied in many of the questions. “What are you doing with that kind of cash on hand?” “You mean you can reimburse each other without receipts? What kind of a relationship is that?”

The more the opponents explored that premise, the less ground they gained and the more obvious it became that they were merely trying to discredit her and get her and the rest of her team removed from the case. If not for her forceful defense, it may have worked. Not because it was warranted but because, like so many other instances, those on the high ground cede to the bully because the bully complains loudly and raises too much of a stink. Sometimes, the competitor has to be smacked down! And that’s what I feel Ms. Willis did. She rendered a verbal smackdown. And I felt so proud that she did.

 

 

 

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Resurrecting Uncle Tom

by on ·Opinion, Politics

I was wrong. Not many people would willingly admit that. The truth can smack them in the face like a Key Lime cream pie, and even while licking off the pastry, they’ll refuse to admit they were wrong.

I’m also opinionated. Anyone who knows me knows that. However, when stating my point of view, I usually feel confident that I am well-informed about my subject and not merely speculating.

Who doesn’t enjoy the ego boost of being right? I do as much as the next person, but my credibility trumps my ego. So, usually, before arguing a point, I fact-check. And sometimes, I learn more than I thought I knew about the subject.

For example, the other day, while on a social media site, I noticed that a politician (I’ll call him Doe, minus the John ) was strongly criticized after a TV newscast showed him kowtowing to a specific presidential candidate. People in the chat room were livid. They said Doe’s behavior was not only degrading but made him look like a genuine suck-up. I agreed with what folks were saying about him, and while enthusiastically adding my two cents, I referred to the subject as Uncle Tom. (Did some of you readers say, “Oh, no, you didn’t?) Yes, I did.

Bad move! One of the other commenters in the room checked me on my remark. She politely but dutifully informed me that Doe was not an Uncle Tom and added that calling him that would be insulting to Uncle Tom.

My fingers were positioned over the keyboard, preparing to type a humorous retort, but I changed my mind. Instead, after leaving the site, I did what I often do when challenged – I researched the subject. And I soon discovered that Uncle Tom (a fictional character from abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin) was not the minion many people believe him to be.

Tom’s character is based on a slave named Josiah Henson, who became a minister after being introduced to religion. (Some of you readers are saying, “I knew that.” Good for you. I didn’t know it; if I did, I forgot it. So, I’ll continue.)

Henson was born June 15, 1789. As he grew older, his enslavers recognized him for his exceptional physical strength and leadership ability. That gave Henson some leeway that he used to his advantage. He was a clever fellow and had a sense of humor, too.

In 1830, Henson ran away from the plantation in Charles County, Maryland, to Canada. A few years later, he returned to the plantation and stole away his wife and children, bringing them to his new homeland. In the years following, the courageous fugitive led other enslaved people to freedom along the Underground Railroad.

In 1849, with the assistance of abolitionist Samuel Atkins Eliot, Henson published Uncle Tom’s Story of His Life: An Autobiography of the Rev. Josiah Henson. That same year, Henson met author and abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Four years later, Stowe wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin to buoy an argument against the injustices and hideousness of slavery.

Stowe’s book was eventually adapted for theaters. Shrewd producers of stage performances, fearing they could not attract an audience for the theatrical production as written by Stowe, took liberty and fashioned minstrel shows based on the novel. Those shows where actors appeared in blackface diminished Stowe’s disclosure of the inhumanities of slavery. Instead, it made a mockery of it. In 1903, Edwin S. Porter’s film production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin further grossly distorted Tom’s character and embodied racial stereotypes. Those theatrical productions were instrumental in contributing to the negativity and the fable that encouraged black Americans to begin using the misnomer to slur other blacks who they felt relinquished their dignity to elicit the favor of influential Caucasians.

I’ve been familiar with the “Uncle Tom” slur all my life. I heard it used often during the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill hearings and even more recently ascribed to Dennis Rodman and Kanye West aka Ye.

I know that name-calling is wrong. (Mother, rest your soul, you taught me that.) But I’ve never claimed to be perfect. Like every other flawed individual, I am sometimes judgmental, often opinionated, and an equal opportunity wisecracker. All one can hope to do in this crazy world is end up on the right side of wrong and keep educating oneself in the process.

As long as people remain ignorant of the truth behind Stowe’s main character, the myth of Uncle Tom as a model for negative racial stereotypes will persist.

I should not have been surprised to learn that soon after its publication because it exposed the horrors of slavery, Uncle Tom’s Cabin was banned in the Southern United States and Russia. In these contemporary times, it remains on the banned books list in some states. Lesson learned.

 

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