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

A Celebration of Life and Tribute to Friendship

by on ·Friendship

Grief can roll over you like a dump truck driven by a drunk driver. That’s what happened to me last night. The assault was sudden and unexpected.

While sitting at my computer, I decided to reach out to a long-time friend, LaVerne Gill. She was also a former employer. I first searched for her on Facebook and discovered her last entry was in August 2018. We had corresponded online a few years before that, but until then, it had been decades since we touched base. I did a Google search.

There is an adage that says, “Be careful what you ask for because you might get it.” A parallel principle can apply when looking for something or someone – be careful what you search for because you may not get what you anticipated.

In hindsight, I’d have been better off if I’d left well enough alone because what my Google search brought was the last thing I expected:  a YouTube video depicting a full-screen portrait of my friend beneath the title, Rev. LaVerne Gill Memorial Service.

To say that I was shocked is an understatement. My immediate thought was that it couldn’t be. Perhaps it was someone else with the same name, but the accompanying photo dispelled that notion.

I stared at the screen for the longest time, my hand cliching the mouse and my index finger hovering over the clicker. I felt compelled to click the arrow to start playing the two-hour video, but I dared not. How could I virtually attend her memorial service when it was just moments earlier that I learned she died three years ago? Had I not been sitting down, I would have fallen to my knees, covered my face with both hands, and wailed. Instead, I sat there, staring in disbelief at the screen until I suddenly began crying uncontrollably as my mind reeled back 36 years.

It was the summer of 1988. I had been searching for a part-time job to supplement the salary from my full-time position and came across an ad from the classified section in a newspaper. The editor was seeking a journalist for a local Weekly. I was not a journalist, but I knew I could write. My confidence was bolstered by my previous writing for various publications.

I called the listed number, and the editor was accommodating enough to schedule my interview during my lunch break the following day. The next day, I caught a cab to the office of the Metro Chronicle at the National Press Building.

I will always believe that my first assignment was a test to see if I could cut the muster. Following the interview and as I was preparing to leave to return to my “day” job, LaVerne asked if I’d like to review a play. Of course, I said I would.

She handed me two tickets and a press kit and told me to attend the play at The Studio Theater that night (Tonight! Say what? That was my first thought.). Then, she told me she needed me to turn in the assignment by noon the next day. (My second thought was, HUH? Tomorrow!)

“Can you do that?” She asked.

“Sure, I can,” I said, hoping that my voice would not reveal my sense of trepidation.

After getting off work, I hurried home, grabbed a bite to eat, and headed to the theater. I recruited my teenage daughter to accompany me. Reminding me she had school the next day did not save my reluctant companion.

The play The Mystery of Irma Vep was a Gothic melodrama.

We returned home around 10 or 11 p.m.; I don’t remember exactly. I do remember being dog-tired after a long workday. And I remember staying up all night pecking on my IMB Correcting Selectric III typewriter while working on that assignment. (I didn’t have a computer then.) I don’t remember how many unsatisfactory pages I ripped from the typewriter and tossed in the wastebasket. I finally completed the article at 6 a.m. Then, I showered, got dressed, and went to work. I couldn’t drink enough coffee that day to thwart a sleepless night. I was wired. And 5 o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

LaVerne became a dear friend and mentor. My quasi-reporter job allowed me to meet and interview numerous people, from everyday citizens to an Emmy award winner with a national TV station and various local politicians, including one whom I most admired and still do, DC’s Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton.

During my three and a half years with the Metro Chronicle, I went from freelancing and having op-ed pieces and some articles published in The Washington Post, The Washington Afro-American, and a few other newspapers to being a regular contributor to the Metro Chronicle.

LaVerne was a kind, gentle, beautiful black woman. Her laughter and smile were contagious. Her philosophy was, “Remember you can do whatever you want to do. Just help someone along the way.”

She eventually ceased publication of the paper and told me that she was going to pursue a degree in theology. In addition to her numerous skills, LaVerne was a brilliant writer. Before she left town, she gave me a signed copy of her book African American Women in Congress, which I will always treasure.

After reminiscing about my time with LaVerne, I watched the video. I listened as she received numerous accolades from those who arrived at the podium. A silver urn with bright red roses around it was on a pedestal before the stage.

Speaking through tears and sniffles, her sister-in-law spoke on behalf of the family, sharing LaVerne’s passions and travels to Europe, Africa, Coast Rica, Guana, and numerous other places. One minister, referencing LaVerne’s four master’s degrees and books she authored, including one she worked on in her last days, described the Howard University graduate as “An accomplished second career woman.” Indeed, she was.

Next Friday would have been my friend’s 76 birthday. She died during the pandemic, but I don’t know if COVID-19 was the cause of her death.

As the saying goes, “God works in mysterious ways.” I wonder why yesterday was the day I decided to contact her. And I believe God intended for me to discover that video. Although time and distance do not destroy true friendship, periodically reaching out is always a good idea because we don’t know when that friend will be gone forever.

This post is my belated tribute to publisher, author, humanitarian, radio talk show host, world traveler, and theologian Reverend LaVerne McCain Gill. (A photo and full biography are available on Amazon.)

I feel blessed to have known her.

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Being Unapologetically Me

by on ·Journaling/Writing, Opinion, The Writing Life

The thing about expressing thoughts in a public journal instead of a private one is that the public journal exposes otherwise insulated thoughts to everyone and leaves me vulnerable.

As I learned from at least a half-dozen family members and a couple of non-related readers, my last journal entry ruffled some feathers. Specifically, my comments about toxic kin struck a nerve. Truth be told, the truth hurts, but I won’t dwell on that topic.

I learned long ago that anything written for the public, whether a silly poem, an opinion piece in a newspaper, or a blog post, is susceptible to criticism. I also learned that’s why a writer must develop a thick skin. Since, by nature, I‘ve always been an easy-going, compassionate person, it took a while for me to grow that extra layer of epidermis. That doesn’t mean things my critics say don’t bother me; I’ve just learned to keep it in perspective. I know that, just like me, other people have their opinions. So, I’m not apologizing for having the audacity to express myself in a way many people might not.

Although I’ve been writing since childhood, my first published piece was an article in The Washington Post in March 1985, followed by a poem in an Anthology of Poetry in 1988. Since then, I’ve been in writer’s bliss. I find writing to be a cathartic and therapeutic experience. I write a public journal to express my feelings to others and get feedback from my readers who may want to share their opinions on the same or other subjects. Often, I will disclose details about past or present events in my life, reveal new goals, reflect on my anxieties, or express gratitude. (To God, I always give glory.) But whatever I write about, my intention remains to be honest and open.

One of the most challenging things I had to overcome when accepting the suggestion to create this blog was the fear of what people might think about something I wrote until I learned that the fear of saying or writing the wrong thing, making mistakes, or being criticized stifles my creativity. Since discarding that asphyxiating security blanket, I have become stronger and more self-confident.

For too many years, I was a go-along-to-get-along person. To avoid being seen as illiberal, I felt inclined to support issues I disagreed with or believed were morally wrong. Now, I refuse to be one of those people who pretend that the emperor is wearing clothes when it is perfectly evident that he is butt naked. I am and plan to always be unapologetically me.

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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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Pledging Allegiance

by on ·Opinion, Religion

A man is accepted into a church for what he believes, and he is turned out for what he knows.  – Mark Twain

I was in grade school in the 1950s when many public schools in the U.S. began requiring students to place their hands over their hearts and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Within days after the routine started, my mother began helping me memorize the Pledge, although she expressed her disapproval of the school’s policy. She said that we owe allegiance to God, not a flag. My siblings and I heard our mother repeat that statement numerous times during our early school days.

I don’t think mother was unpatriotic. But being black in America and having grown up under racist Jim Crow laws in a small North Carolina town didn’t inspire patriotism. I wonder if her strict religious upbringing also discouraged saluting the flag. Sometimes, during our chats on the subject, mother would emphasize the point by referencing Bible scriptures like those in Exodus. “Thou shall have no other gods before me.” “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image,” “Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them.”

From her perspective, the flag represented a graven image, a god of sorts, and her children reciting what was frequently referred to as the flag salute was disrespecting God.

In the 1970s, when mother began studying with the Jehovah’s Witnesses (I also refer to them as JWs or the group), she must have had a hallelujah moment and done a happy dance after learning that their long-dead leader, Joseph Rutherford, had declared that the flag salute and numerous other social activities and customs violate Biblical commands. (Rutherford, the second president of the incorporated Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society, renamed the sect Jehovah’s Witnesses following the death of the founder Charles Taze Russell).

I was a young woman when my mother – one of nine children of a pastor and his wife – rejected her Southern Baptist background and converted, so I escaped being born into a family that worshiped with the group. My dad never became a JW, nor did I.

Maybe I’ve been looking in all the wrong places, but I have yet to find anywhere in the Bible that says a Pledge of Allegiance to a flag or singing a National Anthem is sacrilegious. I didn’t say it wasn’t in there; I said I haven’t found it.

Because of my strong desire to understand what led my mother to convert from her Christian upbringing to join the JWs, I’ve done much research on the group, scouring books, articles, and websites over the years. I learned that Rutherford was disgruntled with the government following what he considered his unjust imprisonment in 1918 after he began promoting Russell’s anti-government book The Finished Mystery.

Following his release, Rutherford proceeded to reorganize the group and issued a blistering condemnation of things of “the world,” including the celebration of holidays and birthdays. He also disapproved of other religions, claiming that theirs is the one true religion.

Decades ago, years before my mother joined the group, I studied with Blanche, a JW whom I had met and befriended when we lived in the same high-rise building. After knowing her briefly, she invited me to “Bible study” with her. That’s when I learned she was a JW, and I suspected I had been targeted to become a baptized JW.

I may not be the brightest bulb on the string, but I have high wattage. It didn’t take long for me to understand that if I were to join the JWs, I’d have to give up my self-autonomy and conform to the group’s doctrine. I had been baptized as a Baptist when I was a young teen. One baptism was enough, thank you.

Soon after I stopped studying with Blanche, I learned that Witnesses are discouraged from mingling with “pagans,” eventually, our friendship dissolved.

JWs are forbidden from questioning “the Word” and must adhere to the group’s rules. They are discouraged from having close relationships with “worldly” people because they (we pagans) are seen as bad influences. In addition to not saluting the flag, JWs avoid military service, singing national anthems, jury duty, and voting. They do not celebrate holidays or birthdays, and they don’t accept blood transfusions because they believe the procedure creates a risk of losing eternal salvation.

In 2018, Derek Miller and a CTV investigative team published some facts about the JW religion that many people might not know.

People can and will worship however and whomever they choose, and for various reasons, I choose to avoid all organized religions.

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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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