THE POWER OF A MADE-UP MIND
The terrain was off-limits. It was a wild space. Unwelcoming. Prohibited. A place where human visitors were not supposed to tread. And yet there we were, two overly-curious young people ignoring a “do not enter” sign, overstepping boundaries and sneaking down a rugged length of gravel and soil in the backwoods of a Michigan Park. Out there in the hush-hush of nature, my friend and I squeezed our way through a crushing cluster of trees, teetered across a log that lay in the middle of a creek and awakened the adventure in our spirits. In the midst of that sun-dappled…
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THE EXTRAORDINARY TALE OF BIDDY MASON
More than three hundred covered wagons rumbled across the open plains of Illinois, through the mountains and streams of Colorado and onward toward the Utah territory. Braving the rigorous, 1,700 mile-journey were droves of Mormon pioneers…. and at least fifty Negro slaves. One of them was Bridget “Biddy” Mason, a mother of three with her youngest, an infant, strapped to her back. For Mason, the hazardous trek was exhausting. She and the other slaves weren’t allowed to ride on the wagons and were forced to remain in the rear of the caravan, often doing 15-to-20 miles a day by foot. …
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FROM DECK HAND TO SHIP CAPTAIN
In the late 1800s, a needy young black man was hired to sweep the deck of a ferry that made routine trips down the Ohio River. The job would change his life. The son of former slaves, Cumberland Willis Posey grew up in poverty in Tobacco, Maryland and had never been aboard a water vessel. Fascinated by his new surroundings, he became a sponge, soaking in as much knowledge as he could about boat mechanics. During his breaks, he would slip into the engine room and study the machinery. While on deck, he watched and learned. Soon, Posey was…
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hope, reflections and wanderlust
I was met with a burst of musical laughter. Next came a sea of wide eyes that followed me wherever I went. I had just arrived in a remote region of Zimbabwe at the office of Save The Children, an international organization with outlets around the globe. The obscure site, tucked on the outskirts of the capital city of Harare, sat on an expanse of sun-drenched land filled with lots of giggling, romping elementary school students. It was October of 1985 — summertime below the equator – and I had volunteered to assist in the area. So, there I was,…
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SHINY ROADS & GLISTENING SHOES
It happened at least once a month. There I was in my dreams fumbling through a basket of shoes, only to come up with one lone piece of footwear. After searching aimlessly, I never succeeded in finding a matching pair. Unfortunately, my dream state was a hazy mirror for what was going on in my everyday reality. I had suffered multiple heartbreaks, including a job loss and the deaths of loved ones. I was directionless. Confused. Hopelessly broke. The proverbial crossroads were staring me in the face and all I could do was mope. Then one night came a breakthrough.…
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OUR egyptian LEGACY IS IRREFUTABLE
Did you know that the pharaohs who resided in the Valley of the Kings actually suffered from a body-swelling malady known as elephantiasis disease? That’s the strange rumor some misguided scholars have been circulating for years. They rely on it to explain why the dark-hued people dwelling in a land once known as Kemet drew pictures, molded statues and created hieroglyphic images of themselves with “exaggerated features.” Their absurd reasoning is exhausting and, frankly, not worthy of debate. But, in light of the recent Cleopatra controversy, I’m jumping into the discussion anyway. For the record, I’m not an expert on…
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THE BLACK MAN WHO OUTSMARTED NYC SLUMLORDS
They were called “human hives.” Cramped and overcrowded, the dilapidated tenements lacked basics like heat and hot running water. There were no private bathrooms. The ceilings leaked. Rooms were infested with pests. Yet, nearly 5,000 mostly Black residents were crammed into the tight quarters — a neighborhood known as the Tenderloin District of New York City. Enter Philip A. Payton. Often considered the “Father of Harlem,” Payton is credited with transforming living conditions for African Americans in the early 1900s. The son of a barber, Payton was a self-taught businessman on a mission to break into the real estate market…
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LOVE IS A FLOWER THAT NEVER DIES
On Planet Earth, we have a problem with love. But the problem is not due to a lack of love in the world. It’s due to a lack of belief. The problem is unwillingness and deep-seated fear. We’re afraid to trust, to let go and to receive the abundant love all around us, flowing to us, though us and from us. We get overwhelmed. We get mired in duress. We contract and don’t expand. We forget to breathe in the beautiful rhythms of life and ride its welcoming waves. Sometimes they’re turbulent. Sometimes, they’re gentle. Either way, they are messengers,…
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THE BLACK HISTORY I LEARNED FROM MY GRANDMOTHER
(published in the Detroit News, February 28, 2022) My grandmother lived in a tattered, old house with stairs that sometimes creaked when it rained. She was poor and, some might say, downright “country.” She said “yestidid” for yesterday, “chillen” instead of children and had never made it past the fourth grade. None of it fazed me. Every chance I’d get, I would spend the night at her place, eating warm tea cakes or chunks of the hot water corn bread she baked once a week. We would talk for hours, my grandmother and me, and I’d try not to giggle…
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DARK MAGIC OR FEMININE MAJESTY?
The memory still clings to me. It’s been 34 years since I resided for 12 months in Harare, Zimbabwe. Yet, whenever I’m asked about the experience, I always reflect on the same phenomenon: the women of Africa and their uncanny “center of gravity.” During my sojourn, I spent one night in a thatched roof hut, watched lions roam the dusty savannah and canoed down a crocodile-infested river. But nothing captivated me as much as the graceful strut of my African sisters. I can still picture them — their eyes distant, their rhythms subtle — gliding like gazelles across vast stretches…
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The Truth About “The Real McCoy”
Do you know the true story behind the label “The Real McCoy?” It’s a sad but intriguing saga that began in the mind of a bespectacled young Black boy named Elijah. A budding genius, Elijah McCoy was the son of fugitive slaves who escaped the cotton fields of Kentucky and fled to Canada in the mid-1800s. After a short stay, they decided to farm plots of land in Michigan. Elijah, who was three years old at the time, journeyed across the Detroit River with his parents and 11 siblings and settled in Ypsilanti before moving to a burgeoning metropolis that…
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THE LEGACY OF PIG FOOT MARY
Her behavior was unthinkable. The daughter of former slaves, Lillian Harris traveled from the Mississippi Delta to New York City in 1901 with pennies in her pocket and a vow not to “work in White folks’ kitchens.” Vows like that simply weren’t made by poor, illiterate Black women. But it’s a vow she broke only once. In need of quick cash, Harris, who later became Harris Dean, took a job as a domestic just long enough to earn five dollars for food and a used baby buggy. After loading up the buggy with pig feet and hog maws –…
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The Strange and Somber Vocabulary of 2020
Grief held us in its grip. But words are what fueled our fears. A Super Spreader? KN95Masks? Shelter in Place? Nothing about the jargon of 2020 felt appropriate or seemed to make any sense. Yet it crawled into our minds, made itself at home on our lips. And, as the anxiety surrounding COVID-19 slowly sank in, it became our agonizing new normal. The world was in crisis. We had to adjust. That meant altering our behavior and navigating a maze of confusing psychobabble. It meant playing a waiting game. While scientists and researchers retreated to laboratories to synthesize a vaccine,…
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AS DISDAIN FOR THE MEDIA RISES, POLICE MISCONDUCT SOARS
In early October, a pregnant black woman was tossed around like a rag doll and nearly crushed under the knees of a violent Kansas City Police officer. When I read about the ordeal, I was gripped by waves of despair. I also had a flashback. Between 1994 and 1996, I worked as a reporter for the Kansas City Star newspaper. Back then, KC was sort of a small, quaint town and some of the police officers reminded me of the bumbling-yet-cocky Barney Fife from Mayberry. One of those overzealous cops stopped me one night because my license plate was positioned…
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My Brother Was the “Other.” This Is His Story.
When my youngest brother died our family had to print two separate obituaries. On the cover of one, he wore a tie. Long, rope-like dreadlocks framed his smiling face. But he wasn’t smiling on the second obit. In fact, he was not a “he” at all. The pensive eyes of a young woman stared from the page. Tendrils of long black hair were swept back, away from her delicate forehead and cheeks. Raymond was undergoing a sex change but not everyone knew it until that rainy morning in January 1996 when we all walked into an ornate, Buddhist temple to…
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THE UNSUNG VALOR OF BLACK MEN
They don’t look like heroes. They have doe eyes and baby-fat faces. Their smiles are shy, their expressions nonchalant. They seem like any other awkwardly innocent middle-schoolers on the brink of puberty. But these kids have quite a story to tell. On September 21, 2017, 13-year-old Devonte Cafferkey, 14-year-old Sammy Farah and 12-year-old Shawn Young spotted a stranger teetering on the edge of a London overpass. Yelling “it’s not worth it,” they raced to his side and grabbed him, holding on until a passerby helped them pull the man to safety. Not a typical feat for a trio of black…
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MOTHER NATURE’S CLASSROOM
Trees crave attention. What else explains the clownish way their leaves behave each Fall, spinning like Ferris Wheels as they coast to the ground? Why else would they drown themselves in golden make up or wear fiery masks of red? I believe they’re trying to teach us something. As the trees transform, it might seem like they’re just showing off — rattling limbs and boasting new colors while undergoing their annual, ritualistic prep for winter. But look closer. There, lost in the theatrics of the changing season, is a profound lesson. It’s called the art of surrender: The simple…
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At Aretha’s Funeral, A Late Poet Sighs
We remember the hat. Nearly everyone who attended or tuned in to Aretha Franklin’s televised funeral on August 31, admired, discussed or wondered about the umbrella of ruffles that arched over the brow and sloped around the cheeks of African-American actress, Cicely Tyson. In the process, they may have missed the historical significance of the tribute she gave to one of America’s greatest 19th century poets. Paul Laurence Dunbar. When the regal Tyson performed before the worldwide audience (estimated at well over 10 million viewers), she did more than honor Franklin. She gave a down-home salute of “R.E.S.P.E.C.T” to a…
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