Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul

Aretha and I have a relationship. She has been there for me, been there with me, for my entire life. I loved Aretha, but not in a romantic way.

Aretha had an uncanny physical resemblance to my sister, which made it impossible for me to think of her in sexual terms. I reserved those feelings for her sister Carolyn, who sang back-up for her. What I loved about Aretha was her style, her playfulness, her sense of humor. I loved her songs, and the way she sang them. But more than anything else, I loved her voice, that amazing, powerful, beautiful sound that she created from within. Nobody. Nobody could sing like Aretha.

I was not surprised when I heard that Aretha died today. It was common knowledge that her condition was grave, her family was present, and her death was imminent. I thought I was prepared for it. But when I saw her standing on the portico of the nation’s Capital, dressed like my mother dressed on Sunday mornings, singing “My Country Tis of Thee” as only she could and would, my heart began to ache. As I saw President Obama sitting behind her waiting to be sworn in as President of the United States, and the incredible throng of people crowded into the National Mall for as far as the eye could see, I could feel my emotions as they rose from the pit of my stomach, rising inexorably through my chest, my throat, searching for an outlet through my quickly moistening eyes. I knew what would happen next, but I did not want to cry, so I quickly turned the television off.

I knew that there were other ways to remember Aretha, so I reached for my phone and went straight to the playlist called simply “Aretha”. That playlist has 28 of my all-time favorite Aretha Franklin songs, and I turned it on… loud, clear, and strong. The first song to play was “Dr. Feelgood”, and my God, she sounded so good.

As I sat and listened, it felt as if I was experiencing a mosaic of my life. “Ain’t No Way” recalled a love affair gone wrong. I remembered walking to the record store after saving my lunch money for a week, so I could buy “Chain of Fools” for 98 cents. “Rock Steady” brought back the parties. “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman” reminded me of Carole King, my friends in the Marine Corps, and my realization that white people could write beautiful, soulful songs too. “Until You Come Back to Me” made me think of Stevie Wonder. “If Ever a Love There Was” made me think of Levi Stubbs, the late, great lead singer for the Four Tops. This was the first duet that I heard Aretha do, and it is filled with the love and admiration they had for each other. “Oh, Me Oh My (I’m A Fool For You)” … took me back to college at Auburn. “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, “Call Me”, “Day Dreaming”. The songs and the memories just kept coming. For a while, it was comforting. There were times when I found myself smiling. My thoughts were almost centered on how fortunate I was to have shared this life with such a prodigious talent.

But then I heard Aretha say;

“I got a call the other day
It was my sister, Carolyn, sayin
Aretha, come by when you can
I've got somethin' that I want to say
And when I got there she said
You know rather than go through a long drawn out thing,
I think the melody on the box, will help me explain”

The song is called “Angel”. Out of all the Aretha Franklin songs that I love so much, this one is my favorite.

As Aretha began to sing;

“Gotta find me an angel, to fly away with me …”

The emotion came flooding back. I stopped thinking about my life and started thinking about hers. I started to wonder about the joy and pain that all of us endure. I thought about her family, her allegiance to the church, and wondered if she found comfort there. I remembered her triumphs, and the countless awards and accolades she received during her life. I thought about the relentless scourge we call pancreatic cancer and wondered how the knowledge of what she would be forced to endure affected her mentally.

I will never know the answer to any of these things, but I do pray that Aretha found peace and happiness then, as I am sure she has found those things now. I feel this way because I love her. And love, is when the happiness of another, is essential to your own.

Aretha made my life better. Aretha made the world better.

Her job is done. May God Bless her forever.

The Prayer

           More than twenty years ago a friend of mine asked me to attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It was a meeting that they had been encouraged to bring a friend, and I never considered not going. The meeting was held in the basement of a local church. I was impressed by the sincerity of everyone involved. There was an atmosphere of empathy, humility, and honesty that was more than palpable. The group included males and females, old, young and middle-aged. Blacks, Latino, and whites.

          I listened to stories of strength and weakness, success and failure. I witnessed smiles, hugs, laughter and tears. But, the thing that I noticed above all else… the thing that invaded my consciousness and attached itself to my soul to this very moment, was the prayer. They said it in unison to start the meeting. They said it in unison to end the meeting.

          I have been saying and listening to prayer my entire life, but none had felt as true, relevant, inspirational, and life-changing as this one. I was thinking of the prayer when I left the meeting, and I found myself thinking of it in the days and weeks that followed. Each time I thought of it, regardless of the situation I may have found myself in at the time, the words of the prayer seemed instructive, comforting, and inspirational. As the years went by, the prayer proved to be the prayer for all seasons.

          One day more than ten years ago I was wandering through the local mall when I saw the prayer engraved on a wooden plaque. I snatched it up immediately. I had only recently been named Principal of a notorious high school in Prince George’s County, Maryland, and I knew exactly where I would mount it. The prayer would spend the next nine years mounted directly behind the desk in my office. I could not sit at my desk without seeing it, and no one could face me in my office without seeing it either.

“God, Grant Me the Serenity, to Accept the Things I Cannot Change…”

          I have always had a quiet, calm, demeanor. I don’t normally yell or scream about anything. However, being Principal of a large high school would try the patience of anyone. Nevertheless, the successful Principal must be the eye of the storm, and I eventually began to notice how often students, staff, parents, and community members marveled at how calm I always seemed to be. Serenity is a blessing, but it is impossible to achieve if you cannot accept those things that you have neither the power or influence to change. The prayer on my wall reminded me of that. Every. Single. Day. Every time I sat at my desk, either consciously or subconsciously, I asked God to help me to accept my limitations.

          Today, that has not changed. As my country struggles to deal with unprecedented challenges, as children are slaughtered in their classrooms with weapons designed for the battlefield, as our public officials allow themselves to be stained by the bigotry, racism, xenophobia, and misogyny emanating from the White House, the prayer is more necessary than ever. 

          If I could remove every military-style weapon from every civilian, If I could outlaw their future sales and impose debilitating fines and lifetime jail sentences for violating that law, I would. If I could remove Donald Trump from the presidency, if I could imprison every person involved in anyway with selling our democracy to the Russians, I would do that.

          It pisses me off that I can’t do those things. Some might yell, scream, or break something. I don’t do that. The prayer gives me Serenity.

“Courage to Change the Things I Can…”

          How much courage does it take to integrate a high school in Alabama in 1967? To join the Marine Corps during the Viet Nam War? How about integrating a major University in Alabama in 1973? I really don’t know, but I did it. A lot of the people I knew at the time thought I was showing more stupidity than courage. I do not know if my life has been what one would call a profile in courage, but I can say with great confidence that I have consistently been different.

          It takes courage to be different. I told my students this all the time. It takes courage to make great grades when your friends don’t care. It takes courage to go to college when your friends go to prison. I told my teachers this all the time. It takes courage to show up everyday when your co-workers stay home at will and still gets paid. It takes courage to be prepared with exciting, relevant, and innovative lesson plans when other teachers wing it… getting paid the same or more than you.

          I did many things as a Principal that other Principals did not do. I did some things I was not instructed to do. I did not do some of the things I was instructed to do.

          No one doubted that I was willing to change those things I could change. Every time anyone sat down in my office they saw it in writing, right behind my desk. Today, I search for those things that I can do to make my country a better place. As I discover those things, I will continue to use the prayer, to find the courage to act.

“And the Wisdom to Know the Difference…”

          I never knew my biological father, but I was told that he was an alcoholic. He died at the age of 53. I have never been a heavy drinker. I have never been a smoker. I have never used drugs. My stepfather was a minister. I grew up in the church, hearing countless sermons, countless prayers. I remember none of them.

          Fortunately, a friend invited me to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Fortunately, I went. I heard a prayer that moved me, inspired me, and became my guiding light.

          Thank God, and my friend.

“Amen…”

Waiting to Exhale

My best friend and I argue about many things. I think he enjoys it. There are times when I am sure that he takes a position on a certain topic for no other reason than he knows that I feel differently about it. He calls it “poking the bear”, and it works… We fight about football, baseball, basketball, golf, guns, movies, books, food, history, politics, and a thousand other things. One of our more memorable arguments was about the causes of the American Civil War.

We both have read extensively about the war, and visited the battlefields together. We agree that the Civil War was the pivotal event in American history, an existential threat to the nation itself. I have always believed that the reason for the war was slavery. He insisted that the cause was “states’ rights”. For years, he used that argument as the proverbial stick to “poke the bear”. It worked every time. Every time he brought it up he would truly piss me off, and he knew it. Eventually, we decided to agree that the root cause of the Civil War was the Confederate States’ insistence on their “right” to own slaves.

Imagine that. Our nation split in two. State against State. Brother against Brother, Neighbor against Neighbor. We went to war against each other, because one half of the nation, convinced of its racial superiority, insisted it had the right to own Black people as slaves. By the time the war was over, more than 620,000 men would lose their lives in the line of duty, more than World War I, World War II, Korea, and Viet Nam, combined.   

That is the power of racism. It is a human defect that has been present within us since the beginning of time.

The Civil War began in 1860. Four score and four years after the Declaration of Independence. One hundred years later, in 1960, the nation found itself engaged in another existential struggle caused by racism. The Civil War had resulted in three amendments to the United States Constitution. The Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery. The Fourteenth Amendment granted citizenship rights to African Americans and former slaves. The Fifteenth Amendment granted the right to vote to African Americans and former slaves. Nevertheless, one hundred years later, in 1960, none of the rights granted by the war and these amendments were reality.

The Civil Rights Movement was required to ensure that the 620,000 lives sacrificed during the Civil War were not given in vain. The movement ensured that the majestic words enshrined in the Lincoln Memorial were not meaningless. More sacrifices would be required. More blood would have to be shed. More tears would have to fall, but once again, the scourge of racism would be forced to retreat, and America would move ever closer to the promise of its creed.

Forty-eight years later, America would elect its first African American President.

Many thought that the election of Barack Obama was clear evidence of a post-racial society. Many thought that his election was proof-positive that American racism was a thing of the past. They were wrong. Racism is not an American problem. Racism is not a Southern problem. It is a human problem, and the election of a Black man as President of the United States was more than most racists could stand.

On Tuesday, November 8, 2016 (just two days away), America will elect a President to succeed Barack Obama. In many ways, Obama’s successor will be more fortunate than he was. They will inherit a nation with few of the problems Obama faced on his first day in office. The worst financial crises since the Great Depression is no more. Interest rates are at record lows, inflation is non-existent, unemployment is 4.9%, and the country has enjoyed 72 consecutive months of job growth, the longest consecutive streak since 1939! Last year, the country had the largest increase in median household income since 1968! And, the number of Americans without health insurance has reached a record low. Not to mention the two wars (Afghanistan and Iraq) that were raging are no longer claiming American lives.

I believe that Hillary Clinton will be elected President of the United States, but I’m not absolutely sure. Donald Trump could win, and that scares me. After watching and listening to Trump for the past year, I am astounded that 40% of American voters are willing to make him President. There have been so many times when he has said and done things that embarrassed me as an American because I know the world is watching, I know that impressionable children are watching. How can tens of millions of American citizens believe that this man should be the leader of the free world? I have asked myself, “is racism that powerful?” “Is ignorance that pervasive?”

I have heard the arguments that all of this is a manifestation of “economic populism”. I listen to the people on television who are paid to say intelligent stuff talking about how all the manufacturing jobs are gone because of “immigration” and “bad trade deals.”

But then I think about the changes that have occurred since the Civil Rights Movement, how the racial caste system was finally destroyed and how the legal barriers to minority achievement have begun to level the economic playing field for minorities. Perhaps that is why minorities are overwhelmingly Democrats, despite the fact that economically and socially they are still suffering more than white Americans.

I hear the pundits talking about how the jobs that only required muscle are gone overseas (where wages are lower). They talk about our “21^st Century” economy that places an emphasis on education. Today, educated minorities are visibly more successful than uneducated whites. Their once “superior” status, which was based simply on being white, is a thing of the past. Many of them still live in towns that have been adversely affected by these fundamental changes.

Is this what they mean when they say they want to “take our country back”?

When Trump says, he will “Make America Great Again” is he talking about before all of this happened? Before the Civil Rights Movement? Before the Civil War?

Who will he take the country back from? The Latinos? The Jews? The Muslims? The African American in the White House?

My best friend and I argue about a lot of things, but we agree on Trump. He is an existential threat to the United States and civilization itself. His appeal is rooted in racist appeals and bigotry. Many of his supporters are victims of an evolving economic system that demands more than they have to give. This is a problem that could, and should be addressed. America has solved bigger problems before, but this one will require Democrats and Republicans working together.

Abraham Lincoln, when facing the nation’s first great existential threat, said “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature”.

It seems as if I have been holding my breath, waiting for this election to end. I pray that this threat to our nation, the “last great hope of mankind”, shall soon pass.

Ali! Ali! Ali!

I was afraid that Muhammad Ali was going to die. It was a Tuesday, October 29, 1974, and I was

really afraid he would be killed. I had watched in horror as George Foreman had brutalized Joe Frazier in Jamaica the year before, knocking him down SIX times in less than two rounds before the fight was mercifully stopped. Frazier had been the only person to defeat Ali, and now Ali would face the menacing killing machine that was the new heavyweight champion of the world. This was a strange and terrifying feeling for me. This was the first time I had had any doubt that Muhammad Ali would win a fight. But not only did I doubt his ability to win, I questioned his ability to survive. I was acutely aware of his confidence. I was too aware of his pride. No one alive questioned his courage. I knew he would never quit. All of those characteristics that were such tremendous assets, now seemed to be even more reasons that Foreman could kill him.

There have been two people in my life that were heroes to me. They were Martin Luther King Jr., and Muhammad Ali. One was a Baptist preacher devoted to non-violent social change. The other was a brash, trash-talking fighter that said louder than anybody else that he was Black, and proud. When Ali defeated the fearsome Sonny Liston to win the heavyweight boxing championship in 1964, he was 22 years old. I was 11. I liked him immediately because he was fast, smooth, handsome, and funny. He was cool, articulate, and man, could he fight! He would pick the round that a fight would end, and then damn! if he didn’t go out and do exactly what he said he would do.

He was easily the most charismatic athlete in the world, and I was fascinated by him.

However, as we both matured, as the turbulent decade of the 60’s continued, choices had to be made. Black people had to decide if they would stand up for their freedom, stand up for their dignity and humanity, or sit idly by and let others fight the fight for them. Ali chose to fight. That is when he convinced me and so many others that he was worthy of being not only an athletic icon, but an American hero.

Muhammad Ali and Martin Luther King Jr. shared many characteristics and virtues, but the most important thing they shared in my eyes was courage.  The courage Ali displayed in the boxing ring was obvious, but the courage he displayed in refusing to go to Viet Nam was mesmerizing to me. The fact that his stand would result in five years’ imprisonment and a $10,000 fine did not deter him. The fact that he would lose his ability to continue his career as a boxer did not deter him. I am sure that there were many people that were focused on the millions of dollars that he stood to lose as the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world, but that did not deter him.

He defied the United States Government, and inspired me.

It was 1967. He was 25 years old. I was 14. For the next four years, Ali would not fight. His attorneys would appeal his conviction during that time, and Ali would spend that time lecturing on college campuses. He was as electrifying on stage as he was in the ring. College students loved to listen to him as he would seamlessly go from sermon to rap to poetry.

 I was amazed by his ability to articulate truth to power, and his courage to do so.

In 1971, the Supreme Court of the United States overturned Ali’s conviction unanimously. Finally, he was free to fight again. Now, he was 29 years old. I was 18, and just graduating from high school. Later that year Muhammad Ali would fight the fearsome Joe Frazier in New York’s Madison Square Garden. They called it “The Fight of the Century”. It probably was. Frazier had been crowned Champion during Ali’s government imposed exile. Ali insisted Joe’s title was bogus, stolen, and promised to take back what was rightfully his. The fight went the full 15 rounds. Frazier won a decision, knocking Ali down in the fifteenth round. I was crushed, until I listened to what Ali said and the way in which he said it after the fight. He was kind, and gracious. He was poised. He displayed class. There was no bitterness, and the disdain that he had poured all over Frazier before the fight was replaced with respect and dignity.

Once again, I was inspired.

Muhammad Ali would continue to fight until 1981. He would win the Heavyweight Championship three separate times, the only person to do so. He would fight Joe Frazier three times, winning the last two. He would have 61 total fights, winning 56. He would lose three of his last four fights. He would often shout to whoever would listen, “I am the Greatest of All Time”!!! In the beginning, many would laugh or scoff at what they considered the braggadocius wit of the young fighter, but as time went by many would come to agree.

In retirement, Ali would fall victim to Parkinson’s Disease. Eventually the disease would eliminate his ability to speak. The smooth, athletic grace with which he once moved would disappear.

 In the Summer of 1996 in Atlanta, Georgia, the world waited in anticipation to see who America would choose to light the Olympic torch over The Olympic stadium. When Ali magically appeared to receive the flame from the brilliant young swimmer Janet Evans, the spectators in the stadium, Olympic fans all over the world, and me, exclaimed in unison, Ali! As he took the flame, his arms trembling from the effects of the disease, I could feel the tears welling in my eyes in tandem with the emotion-fueled pride that I felt inside. It took tremendous courage for him to be there, to represent all of us and everything our country stands for when the entire world was watching. It took that same athletic arrogance to believe that he could accomplish the feat despite the ravages of Parkinson’s, despite the pressure and consequences of catastrophic failure on such a conspicuous stage.

Nevertheless, he did it, and I was proud… of him, and my country.

On that October night in 1974 I was in Montgomery, Alabama. The only way that the fight could be seen was on closed circuit television in a public venue. In Montgomery, the place was Garrett Coliseum, and the place was full. If my man was going to die, I wanted to be there, and I was. Most of the Black people there were Ali fans. Most of the white people were rooting for Foreman. During the first few rounds we were almost frantic as Ali allowed Foreman to pin him against the ropes and unleash furious fusillades of punches to his head and body. Ali would simply lean against the ropes and urge George to keep punching. Meanwhile most of us were screaming at the screen imploring our hero to get the hell off those ropes and dance! Curiously, it seemed that during the last few seconds of each round Ali would punch his way off the ropes, backing Foreman off, and we would freak out. By the end of the seventh round it was obvious Foreman was done. Ali knocked him out in the eighth round and the Africans in the stadium in Zaire started shouting “Ali Bombaye”! “Ali Bombaye”! Which means, “Ali Kill Him”! As for us in Montgomery, we were yelling at the top of our lungs... “Ali, Ali, Ali”!!! We yelled it in the auditorium. We yelled it in the streets. We yelled it in our cars on the way home.

Muhammad Ali did not die in Kinshasa, Zaire as I thought he might. Instead, he was king of the world… again.

History will say that Muhammad Ali died on June 3, 2016. History will be wrong.

“The Greatest of All Times” will never die.   

Coach Lee

I met Charles Lee when I was fourteen years old. He was the head football coach at Benjamin Russell High School in Alexander City, Alabama.

The year was 1967, and I was caught in the middle. I was caught between white people and Black people, integration and segregation, childhood and manhood, the religious and the secular, education and ignorance. I had decided to become one of a few Black kids to integrate Benjamin Russell, and Coach Lee would very soon become one of the most important people in my life.

I am not an easy person to know. Not then, not now. It takes a little effort. It takes courage, maybe even determination. I will not willingly share my innermost thoughts. I will not easily or quickly trust anyone.  Gullibility does not exist within me. I can walk away from anything and anyone. I have no fear of acting or being alone.

Coach Lee is a legendary figure in Alabama high school sports. His wrestling teams dominated the state for more than a decade. His football teams were consistent winners as well. Before retiring, he was also an athletic director, high school Principal, and selected to the Alabama High School Athletic Hall of Fame. As an incoming freshman athlete from the Black school across town, Coach Lee had a special interest in me. As the gate-keeper for the dream I had of playing varsity football at Benjamin Russell High, I had a special interest in him. Coach did not spend a lot of time with freshmen, we had our own coach and played our own games, but I noticed him watching us carefully, especially when we scrimmaged against the varsity.

My relationship with my father was non-existent, because I did not know who he was. I grew up under the impression that my step-father was my dad, which illustrates the kind of relationship I had with my mother. Obviously, today, I’m done with anyone that lies to me. However, when I was fourteen none of this was known to me. Like most children of that age, if my father couldn’t stand the sight of me, and my mother was ambivalent, it had to be my fault, right? My mother did not admit to me the truth about my parentage until I was 27 years old. Of course, by that time my real father was dead, and the psychological portrait was complete.

Coach Lee was a very organized man. Everything we did during practice had a purpose. We had a routine that became ingrained in all of us, so that by the time we were seniors, we could practice without the coaches. We always had short term and long term goals, Coach Lee inspired us, motivated us, and made us laugh. We learned to work together, he emphasized how all eleven players had a role to play on every play, and success depended on everybody doing their individual job. Coach Lee despised a quitter. To him that was the worst thing anybody could be. Every year during Spring practice he would push us to our physical and mental limits, to find out who the quitters were, so we could get rid of them before the season started in the fall. It was Coach Lee who instilled in me the importance of not dropping the ball. He made it clear that everybody on the team were working to gain possession of that ball and to move it across the goal line, and to simply drop it, and give it back to the other team was simply unacceptable.

I will always remember the way he talked to us before, during, and after games. He helped me understand the symbolic importance of wearing our uniform, representing our school, city, parents, alumni, and friends. I learned to accept that responsibility. I learned it wasn’t just about me. In later years, I realized how important it was that coach would chew us out, embarrass us even, in the locker room, but never, ever in public.

Prior to the 1969-1970 school year, I was tempted to leave Benjamin Russell High and go back to the Black school I had come from. After the tumultuous year of 1968, most of the Black people I knew were encouraging me to do that. Martin Luther King had been killed. The Black Power protests had occurred at the Olympic Games in Mexico City. The Black Panthers were prominent, Robert Kennedy had been killed, the inner cities were burning from rioting, and the Viet Nam war was raging. Some of the people that I called friends were telling me if I stayed at Russell I was an Uncle Tom. I was 16 years old, and I didn’t know what to do, so I asked Coach Lee. When I told him what was going on, he told me I should stay. He then told me something no one on my side of town knew at the time. A decision had been made to close the Black school for the 1970-1971 school year. If I left, I would have to come back after one year anyway. He then reminded me that I had shown the courage to start something in 1967, and I needed to find the courage to finish it now. He told me he knew I was not a quitter, that I had never disappointed him before, and not to start now. I stayed.

I had another memorable conversation with Coach Lee after my senior year. I had been offered a scholarship to play football at Alabama State University, an HBCU (Historically Black College/University) in Montgomery, Alabama. When I talked to Coach Lee about it he said, “Charlie, why don’t you go to Auburn”? The thought of going to Auburn had not occurred to me before that moment. That question changed my life. That question also encapsulates what Coach Lee thought of me. He made it clear to me that he thought I was as capable of success as anybody else. He made it clear that he believed in me.

Today I realize that so many of the things that Coach Lee instilled in me I have tried to instill in others. I have repeated many of the same words he said to us in Alabama to my teachers and students in Maryland. He has had a profound effect on me professionally and personally. I realize now that so many of the things he taught me and showed me were the things that every son needs to get from his father.

For some reason, I have been thinking of my football coach often lately. Coach Lee died on a Friday, May 28, 2010. I will always love him.

He was the father…… I never had.   

Appreciating Jimmy Carter

The first bumper sticker I ever put on my car was a “Jimmy Carter for President” sticker. I was a senior in college, he was running against Gerald Ford, who had become President when Richard Nixon resigned. Those were the days before I decided I was a Democrat.

In fact, I had voted for Nixon in the previous election in 1972. It took me a little time to decide to support the peanut-farming governor from Georgia. Instinctively, I had doubts about a governor whose lieutenant governor was the avowed segregationist Lester Maddox. But there was something different about this guy with the “Pepsodent” smile. The more I listened to him, the more I came to appreciate a fundamental honesty, sincerity, and pragmatism that was severely lacking in other politicians. Even then, I felt that this was someone whom I could trust.

There are many people in America that consider themselves Christians (70% according to the Huffington Post). A relative few however, live the kind of life that justifies the title. Jimmy Carter has. I don’t know a lot of people that “do unto others, as they would have others do unto them”, EVERYDAY. I can’t imagine Jesus Christ insisting that every person in America should have unlimited access to any kind of gun they might desire, (like so many of his critics do). Somehow, I can picture a modern day Jesus negotiating peace among warring nations (like he does), building homes for those without housing all over the world (like he does), and advocating healthcare for everybody (like he does). I can literally see Jesus Christ teaching Sunday School in a little-bitty church in Georgia every Sunday morning (like he does). And, I can imagine people travelling from all over the world and sleeping in front of the church to attend one of those Sunday School sessions, just like they do in Plains, Georgia today.

On Thursday, August 20, 2015, President Jimmy Carter held a press conference in Atlanta, Georgia. He had recently undergone surgery to remove a tumor from his liver. It was determined to be cancerous, and the doctors informed him it had spread to his brain. During his press conference, he said that at first he thought he had only a few weeks left to live, but surprisingly, he felt at ease. Who among us could face such a diagnosis with such grace and good humor? The 90 year-old former President said “I have had a wonderful life…. I’m ready for anything and I’m looking forward to new adventure”. With his trademark smile, he would simply say, “It is in the hands of God, whom I worship”. I was inspired by his faith, and reminded of my own.

Some of today’s politicians like to make fun of President Carter and his presidency. Many of them spend a lot of time espousing their own Christianity. They don’t mention Carter was the first evangelical Christian elected President. They don’t mention his extensive knowledge of nuclear physics or his service as a senior officer on America’s second nuclear submarine (most of his critics never served at all). They never talk about the 28 books he has written, the peace treaty he brokered between Egypt and Israel, or his Nobel Peace Prize. Nobody ever mentions the promise he made (and kept) to the American people. He told us he would never lie to us, and after Richard Nixon, that was a hell of a promise. Those that like to denigrate President Carter, would prefer to deify Ronald Reagan.

In our modern world, it is difficult to imagine an honest, God-fearing, truth-telling, kind, compassionate, incorruptible, humble person running for and winning the Presidency. But that’s what Jimmy Carter was, and that’s what he did.

The consensus among historians when it comes to the Carter presidency is that it was average at best when compared to other administrations. However his post-presidential years have been universally praised. He established the Carter Center in 1982 with the goal of advancing human rights. Since that time he has travelled all over the world brokering peace agreements between nations, serving as an observer to ensure free and fair elections, and working to eradicate infectious diseases in developing nations. He has also become synonymous with “Habitat for Humanity”, physically building homes for the less fortunate in the United States as well as other nations.

When he told the world that he had brain cancer, and mentioned that he had “a wonderful life”, it was an understatement. I was so impressed by his total lack of self-pity. I was so encouraged by his light-heartedness. What remarkable faith must be required to face one’s impending demise in such a way. What a testament to one’s own faith in the way a life has been lived. As I sat and watched him laugh and joke with the reporters, yet expressing in intimate detail the seriousness of the situation, I was inspired to be able to live my own life that way, to be able to face my own death in the same way.

When I put that bumper sticker on my car in 1976, the green and white sticker promoting “Jimmy Carter for President”, I did not know what kind of man he really was. There was just something about him, something that made me believe that he would do the right thing. I have never put another bumper sticker on a car.

I probably never will.

The Sin of Doubt

I hope that to sometimes doubt the teachings of world religions is a pardonable sin. I am inclined to believe it is. If by chance it isn’t, all of us are doomed to eternal damnation. Too often I am overwhelmed with doubt when I think of the pain and suffering so many people all over the world endure each day. Too often I doubt that anything can or will be done about it. There are times when the grief from the loss of a loved one is incredibly painful, and the temptation to wonder if the salvation that we read about, and the resurrection the preachers preach about is really, really there. Over and over again, I have retreated to my reservoir of faith, and yes, I have wondered if someday I will go there and find it empty.

Who among us have not wondered if God is really there? Surely, at least once in your life, you have wondered if the atheists are right, and all that we behold is some kind of crazy cosmic coincidence. Did somebody make it all up to explain the unexplainable? Do we need religion to maintain our mental health when those we love die? Do we need it to justify and enforce our preferred standards of social and moral conduct?

I recently read a book called “Who’s Who in the Bible”. It was produced by National Geographic and is a beautiful, leather-bound volume that is the best explanation of what is going on in the bible that I have ever seen. It explains the events chronologically, provides excellent maps to pinpoint geographically where events took place, provides biographical information for major characters, and provides a historical context that allows the reader to understand the culture of the times in which the events took place. I have been going to church since the day I was born. Despite all of the sermons, bible studies, prayer meetings, and casual discussions with friends, I was never aware of the tales of violence, sex, deception, indiscretion, conniving, conspiracy, and outright evil-doing that can be found throughout this incredible book. The reality is that the people depicted in the bible were very similar to us. They had similar fears and desires, the same vices and virtues, they lived and they died, loved and fought wars, just as we do. They too, had their doubts.

Samuel Johnson once said that “Courage is the greatest of all virtues, because if you haven’t courage, you may not have an opportunity to use any of the others.” It takes great courage to have faith in God when you are consumed by grief. Only courage brings one back from the precipice of surrender. It takes courage to recover from a broken heart. Courage allows us to march on when faced with fear and despair.

What I have come to realize is that faith cannot erase all doubt. Perhaps it is a good thing that it does not. Most educators would agree that doubt is the foundation of inquiry, which is the foundation of learning. On the other hand, ignorance is fed by certainty, and that very lack of doubt creates the intolerance that causes so many of the problems in our modern society.

One of the questions that I have struggled with for most of my life remains unanswered. I have always wondered if Christianity is the only pathway to salvation, to resurrection, to heaven…. Then what happened to all of the good people that lived and died before the birth of Jesus Christ? What about all of the people that lived and died on the other side of the world and were not aware of the Christian movement at all? What about the countless good people of the world that are and were faithful practitioners of other religions?

As Jesus was being crucified on the Cross, he is believed to have cried out in anguish, “My God, My God, why has thou forsaken me?” I have always wondered if Jesus himself had doubt. Why didn’t he smile? Why didn’t he calmly anticipate the heavenly reward he was surely due for the life he had led on earth?

If doubt is a sin, I am guilty.  

But who among us can legitimately claim to understand it all? If our intellect is finite, how can it hope to comprehend the infinitesimal? Every time I find myself attending the funeral of someone I love, I search for comfort in the mysticism of it all.

Now, I realize that I really don’t have to figure it out. I will find out soon enough.

Selma

I was moved by the movie “Selma”. As I sat there in the theater watching the credits roll I took stock of my emotions and came to the conclusion that this was a great movie. This was an educational movie. This was a memorable movie. I remember thinking that every American should see this movie. I realized that this powerful piece of art had the power to educate the ignorant, motivate the reluctant, and serve as a catalyst for fundamental changes in how we relate to each other as a society. I could not imagine another movie being declared “Best Picture” of the year. 

In subsequent weeks, I became angry and disgusted with what seemed like the coordinated attacks on the movie, including the accuracy of how “Selma” depicted Dr. King’s relationship with President Johnson. I had assumed that “Selma” would dominate the Academy Awards. I had anticipated awards for “Best Picture”, “Best Director”, “Best Actor”, and “Best Original Song”. Slowly, I began to realize that wasn’t going to happen. Eventually, I began to ask myself why the “Oscars” were so important.

Why did I give a damn?

The first Academy Awards were presented in 1929. In 1971, I was a Marine stationed at the Marine Corps Base at 29 Palms, California. I watched the Academy Awards with my best friend, a white Marine from Ohio. Together, we watched Isaac Hayes perform the “Theme from Shaft”, and I will never forget it. America had never seen anything like it. Isaac Hayes became a household name that night, my friend became an Isaac Hayes fan for life, and I felt as proud as one human can possibly feel. The Oscar went to Ike that night, and from that moment on, the Academy Awards has been important to me.

But why should African-Americans place so much importance and emotional capital into something that we have so little control and influence over? The short answer is we shouldn’t.

But that doesn’t explain why we do.

The fact is, we have proportional control and influence over very few things in our lives, but the desire to receive approval and recognition from others is a powerful human characteristic. Whether we control it or not, it still feels good when those that do control something recognize that we are the best at doing it.

The moment of triumph in 1971 remains fresh in my mind not only for Isaac Hayes. I still retain high definition mental images of Denzel Washington in 2001 (Training Day), Jamie Foxx in 2004 (Ray), and Forest Whitaker in 2006 (The Last King of Scotland). They all won for “Best Actor”.

 Halle Berry in 2001 (Monster’s Ball), was the first and only Black woman to win for “Best Actress”

 Louis Gossett in 1982 (An Officer and a Gentleman), Denzel Washington in 1989 (Glory), Cuba Gooding, Jr. in 1996 (Jerry Maguire), Morgan Freeman in 2004 (Million Dollar Baby), all won the “Oscar” for “Best Supporting Actor”.

Whoopi Goldberg in 1990 (Ghost), Jennifer Hudson in 2006 (Dreamgirls), Mo’Nique in 2009 (Precious), Octavia Spencer in 2011 (The Help), and Lupita Nyong’o in 2013 (12 Years a Slave), took home the gold statue for “Best Supporting Actress".

 Prince in 1984 (Purple Rain), Herbie Hancock in 1986 (Round Midnight), Stevie Wonder in 1984 (The Woman in Red), Lionel Ritchie in 1985 (White Nights), and Juicy J, Frayser Boy, DJ Paul in 2005 (Hustle and Flow), won “Oscars” for “Best Original Song”.

 Steve McQueen in 2013 (12 Years a Slave) is the only Black to win a “Best Picture” Oscar.

I remember watching each of them stride to the stage as the world watched. I remember the dignity of Morgan Freeman, Halle Berry’s tears, Cuba Gooding Jr.’s enthusiasm, and Prince’s purple tuxedo. I remember all of them and their collective pride and humility. I was proud of them and their demonstrated excellence in their art. I knew that they were powerful role models for so many African American children that are so desperately in need of them.

As a child I spent a lot of time in Montgomery, Alabama. Half of my family lived there, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Montgomery is only 50 miles from Selma, less than an hour’s drive. In 1965 I was 12 years old. I was very much aware of the march from Selma to Montgomery. I was very familiar with Dexter Avenue and the State Capitol Building it led to. I was familiar with the department stores on Dexter Avenue that would not allow us to try on the shoes or clothes we might want to buy. I have vivid memories of Viola Liuzzo being killed by the Ku Klux Klan as she drove several Blacks to the Montgomery airport after the march was over. I thought about all of these things as I sat in the theater after seeing “Selma”, watching the credits roll.

By almost any measure, I am a well-educated man. I attended a very good high school, an outstanding university, and I hold a Master’s degree as well. But not once, (despite having a history major) not in a single class was I taught what happened in Selma and Montgomery in 1965. It is probably safe to say that few Americans were. The events there made the “Voting Rights Act” a reality. The Voting Rights Act made America what it is today.

I was flabbergasted when the director of this incredible movie did not receive a nomination for “Best Director”. However, that may have been pre-ordained. Since 1929, only three Black directors have been nominated for “Best Director”. None have won.  

The director of “Selma”, Ava DuVernay, and the movie’s producers did the world a solid with their powerful depiction of those historic events. They deserve to be recognized before the world for their achievement. I would love to see Ms. DuVernay stride to the stage and accept her industry’s most coveted award. I want to share her pride, admire her dignity, and bask in the glory of it all.

Maybe that’s why I give a damn.

“Selma” will not win the “Academy Award” for “Best Picture”.

“Selma” was the best movie I have ever seen.

Burned Alive

On December 24, 2014 Jordanian Lieutenant Moaz Youssef al-Kasasbeh was captured by ISIS after his plane crashed during an airstrike over Syria. On February 3, 2015 ISIS (Islamic State of Iraq and Syria) released a video showing the Jordanian pilot being burned alive.

The reaction from around the world was almost universal condemnation. From world leaders to men and women on the streets of the world, the barbarity and unspeakable cruelty of the execution of the Jordanian pilot was expressed repeatedly. The State of Jordan has vowed revenge on ISIS.

When I was a college student at Auburn University I worked for the campus radio station as a radio announcer. One of my programs was a talk show called “The Black Experience”. The program was inspired by another radio program that featured Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis that was called “The Story Hour”. On “The Black Experience”, me and my co-host Sylvia Little was given tremendous freedom to explore and discuss the full range of the Black Experience in America. When I heard about what ISIS had done to the Jordanian pilot I immediately thought about a program that we did at Auburn almost forty years ago. Sylvia read a poem by Richard Wright entitled “Between the World and Me”. It is an unforgettable, haunting poem that is a first person description of a Black man being lynched and burned to death.

Between 1865 and 1965 more than three thousand Black men and women were lynched in the United States. Some of them were hung, some were beaten to death, some were shot, and many were burned alive. None of them were waging war against their captors. They were simply victimized for being Black. There was no international condemnation of their murders, in fact there was no legal consequences at all. Their deaths were simply local entertainment.

Despite the fact that I had graduated from high school and was a senior in college, I was blissfully ignorant of these horrific crimes that had occurred in my own country for a hundred years. Not until I really listened to “Between the World and Me” was I able to internalize the enormity of the crime of burning another human being to death. For the last forty years I have carried the mental images created by Richard Wright in my subconscious mind. Last week, ISIS brought them back.

Sylvia read the poem slowly, purposefully, powerfully. I invite you to do the same…

And one morning while in the woods I stumbled
    suddenly upon the thing,
Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly
    oaks and elms
And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting
    themselves between the world and me....

There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly
    upon a cushion of ashes.
There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt
    finger accusingly at the sky.
There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and
    a scorched coil of greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat,
    and a pair of trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches,
    butt-ends of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a
    drained gin-flask, and a whore's lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the
    lingering smell of gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun poured yellow
    surprise into the eye sockets of the stony skull....

And while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity
    for the life that was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by
    icy walls of fear--
The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the
    grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees; the woods
    poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds; the
    darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves
    into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into
    my flesh.

The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and
    cigarettes glowed, the whore smeared lipstick red
    upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that
    my life be burned....

And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth
    into my throat till I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my
    black wet body slipped and rolled in their hands as
    they bound me to the sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from
    me in limp patches.
And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into
    my raw flesh, and I moaned in my agony.
Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a
    baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs
Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot
    sides of death.
Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in
    yellow surprise at the sun....

More than three thousand times in a hundred years… that scene played itself out in the United States of America. I don’t know if the world was unaware, or if the world didn’t care.

I am glad that this time the world said NO. This is not ok. This is not entertainment. This will not be tolerated. This is not acceptable in our world.

Thank God.

A Wonderful Life

On the morning of the fourth day after Christmas, in the year 2014, my friend, Kathy McCormick passed away.

We had known each other for more than ten years. We worked together for more than eight years. I was the Principal, she was an Assistant Principal. She battled cancer for almost five years. I was inspired by her courage and her determination to keep working in spite of the surgeries and evils of chemotherapy.

This morning when I received the first of many phone calls and text messages informing me of her life having passed away, my heart skipped a beat as I reacted and adjusted to what I was being told. I thought of her husband and her children, and all of the many other people that loved her so much. But I have spent a lot of time thinking about death. I have spent a lot of time thinking of my own death, and it is no longer something that I fear. It is not something that I dread. I realize that dying is something that all of us will eventually do. Death is simply the inevitable conclusion to either a life well lived or one that has been wasted. As I thought of the many hours, days, weeks, and years Kathy and I spent working together, I managed a smile. She will surely be missed, but her’s was a life well lived.

Each year during the Christmas Holidays I take the time to watch Frank Capra’s classic movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”, starring Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed. It is a simple but poignant story of a bright young man (Stewart) who defers most of his dreams and ambitions and winds up living what to many might seem a “simple” life. He takes over his father’s savings and loan business when his father dies and saves it from dissolution during the Great Depression. He can’t serve in the World War due to deafness in one ear he received when he saved his younger brother from drowning when they were children. He misses out on a huge business opportunity because he is tied to the family business. He gets married but never goes on a honeymoon because he has to use all of his money to save the savings and loan during the depression.

As the years go by, the savings and loan does relatively well, until Stewart’s uncle loses a large deposit. Stewart realizes that he will be held responsible during a coming audit and will probably go to jail. He becomes so distraught over the prospect that he is on the verge of committing suicide by jumping into a river until an angel on a mission to earn his wings intervenes to save him. The angel convinces Stewart to appreciate life by showing him what the world would be like if his life had not occurred as it had.

George (Stewart’s character) soon realizes his brother would have died as a young boy if he had not saved his life. His brother went on to win the Medal of Honor when he saved the lives of 200 men on a transport ship. The small town of Bedford Falls would have been totally different without the homes that were built with loans from his family’s savings and loan. His wife would have been an old maid. His uncle would have been in an insane asylum. His children would not exist.

Once he realized all of these things, George rushed back home prepared to accept the consequences of the situation, but when he arrived he discovered that his wife had informed his friends about his predicament and the house was soon filled with friends that piled money on a table until the missing money was totally replaced. Of course, this all happened on Christmas Eve, and the angel (Clarence) got his wings.

Each time I watch this movie I have to hold back the tears during the final scene. For some reason, seeing this man realize the importance of his life, how he had made a positive impact on so many people and the town he lived in, and seeing so many people express their love and appreciation for him is personally affirmative. If he had jumped in the river and died, I would not feel the urge to cry. The end of life does not compare to the drama and emotion of the life that precedes it.

Kathy McCormick was an incredible lady. She was dedicated, dependable, loyal, kind, determined, small, and tough. It comforted me to know that she would tell me if she disagreed with me, but she would always do it privately. Sometimes she would convince me to change my mind, but regardless of the outcome, I knew that when she left my office or I left hers, she would do whatever it was I asked her to do to the best of her ability.

Kathy had tremendous integrity. She did not, would not lie or deceive. She cared for and took good care of her students, teachers, and parents. She took care of her Principal.

During the eight years we worked together I never wondered if she would be where she was supposed to be, when she was supposed to be there. During her first year as an administrator I gave her responsibility for the Freshman Class. For the next four years she did everything a parent would do to prepare them for life after high school, and then she graduated them. I immediately gave her the next group of freshmen, and for the next four years, she did the same thing again. I do not know where those 750 young adults are today, but wherever they go, and whatever they do they will always think of Ms. McCormick.

On the day that Kathy told me she had cancer, she was afraid. So was I. I didn’t know what to say. But that was okay. There is a time to speak, and a time to listen. This was a time to listen, so I kept my mouth shut and let her talk. She told me what she would have to do, and what I could expect. We hugged each other. We cried together. I told her she could have all the time off she wanted, but she didn’t want any time off. She wanted to work. As the days, weeks, and months went by, Kathy kept coming to work. I was amazed by her courage and her determination. There were days she would have chemo in the morning and come to work in the afternoon. There were days when I could look at her and see how sick she was, but she kept coming to work. There were times she would walk so unsteadily that I would want to pick her up and carry her to a chair or couch to get her off of her feet, but I knew her well enough to only follow close behind just in case.

I am not immune to grief. Perhaps a moment will occur one day when I will think of Kathy and cry my heart out. I know I will miss her, I already do. I feel great sadness for her children, and her husband too. But I hope that they, like me, will be thankful for the opportunity we had to spend so much time with such a beautiful, loving person.

Now is the time that I am thankful for my faith in God. Now is the time when I am comforted by his grace and inspired by his mercifulness. Go with God, Kathy. When my time has come and gone, I will be happy to testify, that you lived… A wonderful life.