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

Not Black Like Me

by on ·Race Matters

Recently, as a friend and I were walking home from the neighborhood fitness center we encountered a casually dressed white man who looked to be about 30-something. He was pushing a trendy baby stroller. Riding in it was a cute, rosy-cheeked, infant with wispy tufts of blond hair. We exchanged polite greetings as we passed each other, and I waved at the infant who was sucking on her balled-up fist and curiously observing the sights around her.

“Wow,” I said after we were out of the man’s hearing range.

“What? Wow what?” my friend asked while looking around to see what might have caught my attention.

“I know this will sound crazy,” I say to her. “But I don’t see that much anymore.”

“See what?” she asked.

“A white person with a white child.”

To answer the question that you, dear reader, are probably asking yourself:  Did she say that?  Yes, she did. And I am as serious as a defendant pleading a case before Judge Judy.

Decades ago, during my youth, whenever I happened to see a white family, all of them were white. They looked like white families did on the fifties and sixties TV programs like Leave It to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and The Brady Bunch. Now, transracial adoption is changing the complexion of families in America. Except for a controversial Cheerios commercial and a few other contemporary TV ads, the situation is much more evident in real life than it is on the boob tube.

It is no longer uncommon to see white people in the supermarket, at social gatherings or strolling the street with their rainbow crew or shades of brown-skinned children.

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Slave Babies as Gator Bait

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

Black BabyHow many times have you hear it said that finding a solution to the ongoing racial strife in this country would be much easier if people talked about it more? That statement has been made many times over the years by people yearning for racial harmony. Following the deaths of Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray, Eric Garner, Walter Scott, and others too numerous to list here, amicable people – black and white – keep reiterating “Let’s talk.”

Is race relations an issue that people really want to discuss or is it simply that some  individuals merely pay lip service to the idea of dialoguing, because they think that’s what blacks want to hear?

I’m pondering this question because recently there was an interesting discussion on a genealogy website concerning whether – in addition to other atrocities — some black infants born to slaves were used by whites as alligator bait. The conversation began after one of the members of the gen group posted a post card and video relevant to the subject. (You can see it when you click on the link.) Several of the group members commented on the topic. Some said that it could have happened, others said it was a myth.

Curiosity about this subject led me to check the Library of Congress online newspapers. My search revealed that in newspapers published from 1836-1922 alligator bait was mentioned in 119 papers. I reviewed 24 of those 119 before abandoning the task. At least nine of the 24 made direct reference to black children (and in some cases black adults) as alligator bait, including the February 5, 1899 edition of The Richmond Times.

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The Warmth of a Hug

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

In a city where politicians rule and the power handshake is the customary greeting, I am probably an anomaly. I am a hugger.

I hug my relatives. I hug my neighbors. I’ve been known to hug co-workers and, depending on the circumstances, I sometimes hug people who I meet for the first time.

Just as the nod of Namaste recognizes a divine spark within each of us, a sincere hug, like a genuine smile, is a heart-generated gesture. It is a brief, spirit-to-spirit connection between the giver and the receiver that non-verbally expresses a range of emotions. And according to psychologist, Dr. Joe Rock, research shows that a hug not only “breaks down some of the barriers that can make us feel detached,” they also have a therapeutic effect.

There are plenty of people like me for whom hugging comes naturally, and there are people who aren’t huggers at heart. The latter often will not initiate a hug and will return one simply to avoid hurting the other person’s feeling. Sadly and perhaps unbeknownst to the reluctant hugger, a non-reciprocal hug can feel as empty as a limp handshake.

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Bedtime Story

by on ·General, Lifestyle and Culture

Counting SheepOne of my regular blog readers, Vye, recently left a note in my “What do you want me to write about?” box. She even signed her name (Gutsy, aren’t you, Vye? Just kidding.)
Vye said that although she enjoys reading my “two cents worth” blogs, I write too many serious posts (Was she alluding to the last one that I wrote about transgenders?). “Lighten-up,” she said. “I know from reading you in the past, that you have a great sense of humor. I’d like to see you write more entertaining, personal posts, and less newsy material. There are already too many blogs being written about contemporary trends and doom and gloom issues.”

Well, excuse me! I was tempted to tell her, “Girlfriend, I am serious by nature. If you want humor watch Donald Trump — on any platform.”
But I didn’t go there. To appease her – since she is one of my many loyal blog followers — Is it up to three now or four? — I decided to lighten the mood, this time, by writing something less opinionated and more personal. Like this.

∞

Several months ago, I bought a new bedroom suite to replace an aging, 20-year-old mahogany set. The timeworn and crammed dresser drawers would not slide in and out smoothly and the armoire, with a slightly unhinged door, had become a nuisance. I held on to that furniture for as long as I did because I dreaded the thought of transferring all of my stuff from one storage place to another. But it was worth the change.
My current, beautiful bedroom suite has a cherry finish and plenty of storage space. The chest and mirrored dresser has lots of drawers with shiny knobs. But my favorite piece is the queen-sized platform bed. Ahh, the bed. It is my dream bed with a bookcase headboard and ten spacious drawers around the frame. I love a platform bed. The one that I have now is the second one that I’ve owned. Box springs begone!
The best thing about a platform bed is that it eliminates the irritating squeaky noises and groans commonly made by an old mattress and box spring set. If you’ve ever had that kind of bed or have one now, then you know what I am talking about. You climb into bed; it squeaks. You roll over during the night, squeak! If there is more action than rolling over it is squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. And there is additional squeaky, creaky noise when you are getting out of bed. Take it from someone who habitually tosses and turns in her sleep most nights, my platform bed with its memory foam pillow top mattress is as quiet as a monk in monastic silence.
Unlike when I was a child who delighted in jumping up and down on my mattress and box spring twin bed, my neighbor’s four-year-old grandson could jump on my current bed and not create a single bounce. Although he’d better not try it. There is only one downside to my platform bed. It is unlike the first one I owned which was low, down near the floor. I could sit on the side of that old bed, stretch out my legs on the floor and lay back on the mattress without bending my knees. My current bed gives new meaning to the term “climb into bed.” It is high. Waaay high. I am a five foot six woman. I consider myself in excellent health and flexible, but I almost need a springboard or step ladder to climb on that high a** bed. And Lord help me if I roll over while sleeping and fall on the floor. Regardless of the carpeting beneath it, from the top of my bed to the floor is a 32-inch drop. If I don’t break every bone in my body, I’d probably be hospitalized and in traction for months.
There, Vye. I have let you and the rest of the Internet community peek inside my bedroom. It won’t get much more personal than that. Can I now get back to expressing my two cents about the rest of the world?
[To buy my book, Legacy, at Amazon.com. Click on the “Buy My Book” tab above.]

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To Be Determined

by on ·Opinion, The Way I See It

Check boxesA friend who is a police officer, I’ll call him Jim, also works part-time doing security in an office building. Jim is required to check visitor’s IDs and have them sign in. He told me that recently, a very tall, professionally-dressed woman came into the building and when Jim asked her (we’ll call her Casey) for ID, Casey presented a driver’s license. The photo on the permit revealed a man with a five o’clock shadow, and the gender identification showed M.

“This ID indicates that you are a male,” Jim said politely to Casey. Casey replied cheerfully, “Actually, I was born a male, but I am in the process of transitioning to female.” Although there was some resemblance in facial features, Jim felt that the person pictured on the ID and the one standing before him might — or might not — be the same person. So, what’s a person to do when that happens? The issue is not only a quandary for people like Jim, but others are also concerned about how to handle this kind of situation, now and in the future.

When we are born, our gender is recorded on our birth certificate. Do transgenders receive an altered birth certificate to reflect their sex change? Will birth certificates eventually be revised to include a blank line following the word sex or gender with a check-box “To be determined.” Or will sex be presented as a multiple choice option? Please check one:  __male, __female, __ both, __ other.

I am not trying to be funny or mean-spirited. It’s a fact that things are changing in this world at warp speed and many changes are beyond the scope of imagination, or to put another way — stranger than fiction.

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