In Honor of Martin Luther King Jr.

My roots and Southern soil are irrevocably entwined. Atlanta is where my mom was born, seven years before Martin Luther King Jr. came into the world in that same city, which has grown so wide since those days. I never saw the strange fruit on the trees but the ghosts of it were around. I think they're still around, glimpses, hints, muffled sounds.
But today, I want to express my gratitude, from that girl from the South, and from this woman and mother, now in the North, to Martin Luther King Jr. and all those who marched with him, and all whose shoulders they stood upon.

The sound of Martin Luther King's voice made me feel proud and at home, a well-educated Black man speaking with the cadence, the intelligence and the intensity of my People. His eyes, those striking deep black pools, could envision the bold, the need for justice to keep rising up to find its place, to insist. His eyes, onyx gems, could witness the brutality and offer his vulnerability as strength. With his voice, his vision and his actions he inspired others to bring forward their power to resist injustice, to use what they had, their feet, their bodies. I didn't like that he led people into being beaten. Malcolm's stance appealed to me much more, yet I respected King for his unwillingness to wait and his courage.

They are faceless, the women and men who walked miles to work day in and out, refusing a degrading bus ride. But because of them, I ride Metro North and no white person can tell me to give up my seat when the crowded train does not afford them one. I thank those Montgomery elders. I thank everyone who walked in fear, in terror, holding onto each other and faith in bringing about change, Black and White. But I am especially indebted to the Blacks because for the most part they lived in that Southern belly, and most of the Whites came from elsewhere. They could leave, though Goodman, Schwerner, and Viola did not. But the local Blacks who marched had to keep breathing through the terror that went on after the marching and voter registration. Sadly, the names of those Birmingham girls bombed to death are not committed to memory even though Spike has remembered them in film. But I thank them and their families for the sacrifice they did not offer but made. To Emmett and his mother, who insisted the world see what happened to her son, I say the same.

I thank all those who surrounded Martin Luther King, his inner circle of Jessie, Andrew, Ralph, Coretta, John and any others who held him up. I thank all those who lost jobs, their minds, their lives in the face of the Civil Rights movement, and their descendants who bear this legacy.

At the time of his murder, Martin Luther King had begun to broaden his focus to challenge economic injustice and war in addition to racial oppression. In one of his not well-known speeches he began to conceive of ghettos as colonies. He had to die. But I thank you Martin for standing up and aspiring to bring living at the highest level of humanity into being.

For Colored Girls

It's been two weeks since two female friends and I went to see Tyler Perry's movie make of Ntozake's play For Colored Girls Who've Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf. Few men were in the audience, no surprise, I admit.

I am thrilled that Perry brought this work of art from the 1970's into the consciousness of a new generation of women and I hope it will encourage many of both genders to read the original work. I certainly feel the need to do so, unlike when I saw the play on Broadway, years ago. I'm not sure why that is, since I don't recall much about it except when I heard the poetry out of Loretta Devine's mouth...the "trying to take my stuff" lines. That divine poetry resonated where the rest was lost, raising its melodic memory of splendor and sorrow.

Ntozake's play is a sisterspeak. Sisters' wounding and re-wounding in their relationships with men, with each other, and with themselves is where the lens is aimed. It is wide angled to include the tremendous power and majesty of sisterhood. Is it socially just to frame the story here without ensuring that black men are represented more favorably or balanced? I have come to the answer of 'yes' for the most part. Yes, we do not need to have every story of a black woman or man represent the entire complexity of our experience. We do not need to shut down or disparage artistic voices in our community out of fear or concern about how outside voices will respond or make use of material. Dominant outsiders will do what they do. What do we do? I say we look and listen to the stories that come out of the artists in our community and try to address the places of injury and injustice among us, as we also celebrate the beauty that flowers in our midst. I say we cannot afford to look away from the sexual and physical abuse that goes on in our community with claims that its stereotyping to raise it. I say we need to be able to hold to the outrageous magnificence that exists as we also seek to address and redress the places where we fall excruciatingly short. We will not escape it otherwise. Except as a temporary one, a Walt Disney of the mind.

And finally, the acting in Perry's film was phenomenal. It came from talent for sure, but also I believe, from love.

The Costs of Winning

The Monday morning news just a week ago included a segment on 'a weekend of rough hits' in the NFL, and the story of a Rutgers player who has been left paralyzed from the neck down after a game that Saturday. Footage revealed him down on the ground, but more painful to watch were the clips of some of the NFL hits -- the sudden, hard-hitting attack, the heads whipping back, the bodies flattened, frozen. Men doing their jobs. Making effective hits, apparently illegal (using helmets). Taking opponents out with their adrenaline high, their pumping testosterone, that driving mentality to win, dominate. I guess that's why they get paid. But not the Rutgers student.

Eric LeGrand is a 20 year-old junior, and his injury occurred in the process of tackling an opponent, not brutally, but one where the position of his head at the time of impact coupled with their speed and weight left no cushion for his spinal column. An accident of sorts. Just like that, with little more that 5 minutes left in the game, his life as he's known it is yanked. Even if he is able to walk again. Eric's story, and all the others I've heard in recent years involving severe injuries of college football players, move me to pray that these young men and their families are carried by Spirit and the loving support of others through this heartbreak.

I am also filled with gratitude, once again, for my son's decision to give up playing football after his post-high school year of playing. He was an offensive and defensive player, and that year, after scoring two touchdowns, a tackle on him broke his leg. He felt it was a 'dirty' tackle, though I never really understand the logistics of that, but it cost him. Both his dad and I were at that game, watching as he was taken off the field on a stretcher. But he was moving. He never said outright why he decided to forgo the interest of several colleges interested in his playing football for them, but I imagine that the idea of hitting and being hit by beefier guys had no appeal. And I'm sure he did not want to chance being sidelined again during basketball season because of an injury. His decision to give up football did not come easy for him. He took criticism from his dad over it, which hurt him, but he held his ground, followed his own wisdom. I was and am proud of him, as is his dad. I was also relieved.

I am a huge fan of collegiate sports, mostly basketball. At times I may have been too avid in my cheering at my son's basketball, softball, and football games over the years. Once an athlete myself, I am not opposed to competitive play, and understand that risk of injuries is part of playing a sport. But the growing evidence about the long term impact of the concussions that NFL players endure, often with disastrous endings, requires rethinking the practices and policies that encourage men to 'man up' and play with injuries, to 'take out' opponents with brutal hits, or abuse steroids. It requires those of us who fill up stadiums and rock TV network ratings during game time to re-think our participation in keeping these practices going. Money goes far, but only so far when you're left with a damaged brain, a broken body,and millions of spectators who've long forgotten your name.

I watched a recent interview of Eric on his final day of training camp. He was excited about the upcoming season and a couple days of being home with his family. He was looking forward to salmon and rice, a favorite home cooked meal of his mom's. His mom was at the game that day. I pray for a miracle and change.

Photo courtesy of Star Ledger

Thoughts of Omar Thornton and the Families

Omar Thornton, a 34 year old black man who drove a beer delivery truck for a living, drew a line this week that cost the lives of nine people, including his own. It cost more than that because every one, I believe they were all men, had families, who now share in the pain. Omar's pain. Now Omar's pain has inevitably bled into theirs, whether they recognize it or not. His family surely knows that their pain comes from his as well as that caused by his actions. For surely that's how he got to drawing this line in murder. I have not heard from his family of origin, only his girlfriend, who happens to be white, who happens to confirm reports of his racial harassment. Does her skin color make her a more credible witness than say his black relatives?

Earlier today I read a piece on Salon about Omar and comments, http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2010/08/05/racism_connecticut_shootings/index.html. Most of them discounted the racism issue and preferred to see Omar as simply "a nut," an ungrateful thief, or a disgruntled employee. They seem to reflect reports from the management of his company that in essence indicate they have no knowledge of any racial "insensitivities." Union officials' indication that they received no complaints of racial harrassment seem to bolster the denial. It is reported that Omar killed the person representing him at the disciplinary meeting, whom I presume was an union official.

It is extraordinarily tragic that so many lives were destroyed and families maimed by the rage in his body, the fingers that fired the 9 mm trigger again and again. The pain beneath that rage does not justify Omar's actions. And yet, even if he did steal the beer, does it preclude the occurrence of racial intimidation and devaluation? It may be hard for some to wrap their minds around how things such as the n word or display of 'nooses" and other provocative gestures/comments could lead to such horrific actions, but it is not difficult for me. People get tired of the microaggressions and many of these racial provocations are triggers to a long legacy of cruelty and subjugation that we as African-Americans have inherited. And if you also live with a long history of being on the edge of a financial cliff you are even more tired. You have even less power to change things. You feel like people keep f___ing with you, and you just get to the place where you are going to take control, or so it seems, you are going to go down f___ them up to the max -- that final line in the dirt. It is a lose lose place to be.

I am sorry that Omar arrived at that place. I am sorry that so much destruction of life and family went down that day. But I hope we all open our minds and our hearts to the fact that racism is an assault, it is a trauma, and rage and despair are often a response to it, especially when there are other assaults coming at you as well. Add in the presence of guns and...

May the sacrifice of these lives give rise to some higher good in our minds, hearts, and in our practices.

Photo courtesy of Facebook

None More Invisible -- Native Americans

Before the Iroquois' recent catapault into local news, I'm not even sure it made it to the national realm, when is the last time I heard anything about any Native American in this land?

Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man surely captured the experience of African-Americans in his day and in new forms today. But there is simply no competition in invisibility when it comes to the Native populations. It is astounding. Not once in my graduate or undergraduate studies, my teaching of graduate and post-graduate trainees have I encountered a Native American, or one identifying her/him self that way. Where are Native American students? The next to last time I heard something on the news about Native Americans it had to do with them taking revenue from New York State because they sell tax-free cigarettes on their reservations. We do have ads about Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun casinos but the Native American association is not particularly, if at all, visibible. And how informative would that be, if it appeared?

The recent news story involving the Iroquois lacross team centered on the use of their tribal documents as their passports. Though they are apparently granted American citizenship by virtue of being born in the U.S. they and the land they occupy are considered sovereign. Lacrosse is a game that originated with Native Americans and the Iroquois lacross team was set to go to England to participate in an international competition. However, England would not accept their Iroquois passports, even though the U.S. issued a special waiver that recognized them as valid for travel. The Iroquois are quoted as saying it is a matter of identity, and they did not go. They would not barter with it.

Who knows when we'll hear again about them or any other Native group living in NY State or any state for that matter.
Sure, we have the Cleveland Indians, the Atlanta Braves, Kansas City Chiefs, but these are mere holdovers of relegating a group of people to team mascots. No honor.

How many Native American creative writers do I know? One, Sherman Alexie.

How many Native Americans do I know, period? Two, a Hopi/Havasupai colleague in the mental health profession, also one of the 13 indigenous Grandmothers, and a good friend who is Native and African-American. Though I have Native blood running down from three generations back I don't identify as Native. I do feel a connection though, to the suffering, to the collaboration on survival in our histories, to the beauty of their understanding and reverence for Mother Earth and to the artistic craftsman/womanship they continue to pass down through the winters of the generations.

Keeping Native Americans invisible means that we do not have to face the way the trauma of genocide has decimated so many, the way that many reservations are populated with high numbers of suicidal teenagers, drunken men, victims of sexual abuse, and diabetics. Keeping Native Americans invisible means that our Nation does not have to face its own shame. But denial and amnesia will not make it go away from the soul of this country. We need to remember and to see the legacy that lives and dies among us.

If we remain silent, we collude in the invisibility. So, let's ask where the Native American students are in unviersities, diversity programs, theories of psychology and family functioning. Let's ask about Native Americans in mental health, morbidity, life span, college graduation statistics. Let's learn about the Native American tribes that live in our state and invite them to speak to us of their lives, their concerns. Let's ask our government about its current policies in regard to Native Americans, how it is meeting its accountability. Let's stop using the term 'caught red-handed' to refer to discovering someone in the act of malfesance. Let's talk about the history and present of oppression. Let's change.

South Africa and Soccer

Millions probably learned more about South Africa in the last few days than they ever knew, as a result of the coverage of the World Cup. I myself never knew they had a Youth Day, a holiday to commemorate the students who protested apartheid, and their inferior (Bantu) education in particular, including the many who lost their lives as a result. I'm not a soccer fan but the footage of the buoyant South African faces, the colorful attire of Zulu women with their signature hat crowns, and the design of the South African flag itself have been captivating.

I don't wish to be in that stadium mashed in with all the people and melting into the buzzing sound of those horns, the vuvuzelas, but I want to visit South Africa. I want to witness what was brought into being in that land through struggle, sacrifice, and generosity of spirit. I want to witness the beauty of Capetown's landscape as well as the shanty towns that still exist. I want to be on that soil and pay homage. I will never forget the day I stood for 7 hrs, along with my daughter, along with hundreds of other black folks in Harlem to see Nelson Mandela. What a moment! There was an amazing electricity of connection in the crowd, a love voltage, a feeling of being joined with and validated by his freedom.

How sad that his joy at having the World Cup held in his land has been stolen by the tragic loss of his great granddaughter. Divine timing is hard to understand at times. How unbearable for her mother, who wrote such a lovely piece about her daughter, saying in essence that she should have allowed her to wear all the make up she wanted to wear, let her sleep later when she said she was tired because maybe if she had her daughter would come back to her so that she could hold her one more time.

But that does seem to be the nature of life, grief and joy, horror and grandeur, dry and soaked side by side, even as it seems like one does not leave room for the other, and yet there they both are, time after time. I've enjoyed seeing the locks on some of the soccer players, the natural hairstyle of Graca Machel, Mandela's wife, the young people teaching the soccer dance, and hearing the melody of the South African national anthem. I didn't see Desmond Tutu dance but I can imagine so well this expressive man who calls out what needs to be called, who bent over with grief during the Truth & Reconciliation Commission at hearing the inhumanity of man. Such greatness abounds!

And yet one thing I'm tired of in the coverage is the repeated message of African teams unable to win even as the hosting continent for the World Cup. It has been difficult to see the losses, especially the two games South Africa played. I was rooting for them to win, for themselves, their country and the continent. And that very yearning is what I see as the subtext to all the commentary of the reported "heartbreak" of the African teams. You might host the World Cup but you're still inferior. Maybe that's just my imagination, or a reflection of my own woundedness from the historic shaming of Africa. But if I know that I have more healing to do, then it's likely that others do too. This legacy of shame is not like baby oil on the skin that leaves its mark as a sheen on the surface, it's more like BP oil in the Gulf that's coloring the ocean's surface and the depths you cannot see from sailing. A fishing boat with deep net, maybe.

Prayer and Kindness for the Vulnerable

This past week I've been tuned into the vulnerability that comes with illness, the heightened sensitivity one has to being alone or to how present and loving our caregivers are in responding to our vulnerability. In neither the case of my friend nor me is the down time permanent or due to any severe condition, and still the emotionality is there. Even temporary helplessness or constriction in our ability to function can be hard to adjust to, along with the increased need for others to do for us or fill in for us. That's why kindness is especially meaningful, even healing,for patients in the hospital.

One such patient in a nursing home came on the local late night news. It sent shudders through me. If not for the cameras in that facility, it would likely not have come to light. A middle-aged black women who look pretty weathered in her mug shot (she has been arrested) was caught on video wheeling a patient's wheelchair around so hard that the woman was thrown out of it onto the floor. The aide ignored her and proceeded on with whatever she was doing and then left the area. The patient, an 85 year old woman, laid there helpless for minutes before another aide discovered her and got help. The patient's hip was fractured.

The things that people can do to the vulnerable are unimaginable. I thought of my own mother who time and again made clear she never wanted to go to a nursing home. I felt grateful again that she made her transition in her own bed at home, having received extraordinary and loving care in her last weeks. I thought of the 85 y.o. patient with a hip fracture that will probably never mend, her utter helplessness, and how her family must feel knowing of her treatment.

With all the news about the oil in the Gulf coast, I've been thinking about all the marine life that somehow seem more helpless than the humans facing loss of livelihood. I am thankful for all those who are lending their expertise to help.

A Native American sent around an urgent call for prayer for all of nature suffering in the Gulf Coast. I join in that prayer, and add in every single living being and expression of nature that is in a state of acute vulnerability. I am also reminded that vulnerability can come in small every day forms, children in the face of adults, women in the face of men, clients seeking mental health services, people in low status occupations, and how a little kindness can be protective and affirming of all humanity, the vulnerable and those more powerful.

And I pray for that aide in the nursing home, for the healing she needs to address the wound that could lead her into such inhumanity -- some vulnerability of her own.

Please join me in this prayer if you are so moved.