Category — By Hope Alone

In celebration of Juneteenth, I wish I had the ability to express the wave of powerful emotions that washed over me and brought scalding tears to my eyes when I thought about writing this article. My mind flashed on my grandmother who was born in 1865, the year the slaves were “freed,” wearing her long white apron in Louisiana. I saw the fields of cotton my fiance took me to see in 2003 in California because I had never seen similar places down south where my people had labored during slavery.

In my mind’s eye I saw pictures of my black sisters and brothers being attacked with water hoses, dogs, Billy clubs and savagery. Then like fast forward, my mind brought me back to sitting in my bed and a blank sheet of paper, but the pain lingered.

I am a person who does not like black rhetoric, in fact I hate it; particularly when we linger and wallow in our ex-slave misery, using it as an excuse not to perform on the level we are capable of; we meaning black folks. But then I remember those who were left behind when the flight to white neighborhoods and a “better life” lured away our teachers, doctors, business people, ministers, and others of higher status and education after civil rights laws were mandated.

I don’t blame them. When my ex-husband and I bought our first home in 1976, it was in a new development with only one other black family. So I can relate to the desire to live the “American dream,” but what about all those who couldn’t leave and escape their stifling environment? What about all those who had menial jobs, but were decent, God-fearing folks who marched, and were beaten and spat on, but were left behind?

They are those on whose shoulders and graves so many of us black folks stand on today, and the generations they spawned are the people we now call the black Underclass. They are that group of low-income, barely educated, unsophisticated, crude people that many of us now avert our eyes from rather than notice or acknowledge. The ones many blacks and others from various ethnic groups are employed to serve because we are teachers, social workers, government employees, preachers, doctors, lawyers, police officers, prison staff, counselors, etc. etc. They are also the ones none of us can seem to accept as fellow human beings. We denigrate them to cases and files, numbers without faces or souls, but characters who are certainly not like us.

To proper society the Underclass are welfare mothers, drug-addicted or incarcerated or absent fathers, low-lifers, irresponsible, criminal, stupid, crazy, less-than-human wastes of time. And we wonder where they came from, or call them “refugees” as they were labeled in New Orleans after Katrina. We can take their children because they are poor and give them to others without a look back or a thought about their feelings. We can make them wait for hours while we take breaks or talk on the phone, thinking they have nothing else to do, and they need us to give them equity of food, clothing and shelter.

But the Underclass are none of these things, and without them many of us wouldn’t have jobs, or be able to live in our comfort zones. But primarily, we should consider that they are the products of the same stock of people from which many of us have come. They are the descendants of the bridges over which many of us have crossed, and they only want what we all want…to be loved and understood. But primarily, we should consider that they are the offspring of the people who were simply left behind.

For seven years after the child-abuse case I had been involve in was closed and my children restored to me, I worked with parents involved in child abuse. As an advocate who believed Child Protective Services (CPS) removes an excessive number of children from their homes, including mine, struggling with other parents charged with child abuse was the most discouraging. I soon realized why parents were generally ignored during the processing of their situations or their parental rights were removed entirely.

Even my own co-parent became a problem in my effort to reunite our family. He continued to declare that “no one can tell me how to raise my children,” although our children were removed from school without our knowledge and put in out-of-home placement. After our cases were separated, I was able to move more smoothly and quickly through the system.

The day after my children were restored to me, I launched a child-abuse prevention program called “American Family Alliance.” It was a not-for-profit, boot-strap collection of volunteers funded entirely by our welfare, retirement and disability checks. When we began, we were full of great intentions and willingness, but had no idea of the challenges which lay ahead, nor of the struggles we would encounter with CPS and the parents.

The first adventure into our outreach efforts was a questionnaire we handed out at a church picnic. My associate and I had very carefully chosen the wording for what we thought would fit the educational level of our target clientele. To our dismay, when we retrieved the questionnaires, the forms were all blank. We found out that none of the people could read or they had very limited ability! The lesson we learned that day was very important and our expectations were colored by our being more sensitive to the status of most of the people with which we would be working.

I am not implying that all parents involved in child abuse are illiterate. To the contrary, there is no profile to which “child abusers” can be limited. Those who are determined to be inappropriate or dysfunctional regarding the care of their children fall into every social status. But because we chose to work primarily with parents who were determined by CPS as members of the “Underclass,” or those on the lowest social rung, our experiences were colored by that designation.

Nevertheless, in our work we found that the greatest stumbling block to achieving our goals of helping parents recover their children was in the parents’ attitudes. They were either very scared and submissive, and not willing to confront “the system;” or belligerent and stubborn. The latter were not open to any change which would facilitate restoration of their parenting privileges and the release of their children from foster care.

Many parents simply gave up under the weight of CPS because of its ability to use the courts, police, media and other elements of authority and influence to seek out and destroy their resolve to recover their children. This was true particularly of parents who are not aware of their rights. Unfortunately, those parents would often hinder their efforts, as well as ours, by standing in their own way.

In one of my earlier posts, I said I had some regrets for decisions I’d made in my past. I would like to rescind that today. Last night I was having a conversation with one of my sons who lived through a very traumatic portion of my life with me, and knows first hand of some of my decisions. He spoke of my having regret, but without thinking about how I felt in the past, I said to him, “No, I don’t have any regrets about anything I’ve done.”

He thought my leaving home and relocating to a different state should have been viewed by me as regrettable. The fact that I left my children behind with their father was his most fault-finding reason, but to me I made the decision to leave and it was the best thing I could do for myself at the time. I’m not apologizing for my actions, but perhaps a little explanation is necessary.

I was married at 19 to my first boyfriend, who was a blind date for my senior prom. That should say something about my social and life experience. My parents approved of my now ex-husband, and we were married a year after I graduated from high school. Right away we had two sons, and on the day our second son was born, my husband conceived another son with someone else, in my home, in my bed.

For someone who had a childlike mentality of playing house as a wife, and was still reading fairy tales which all ended in “happily ever-after,” my world was turned completely upside down. Unknown to everyone in my family, I kept my husband’s secret for 13 years, and we had two more children, our daughters.

But after suffering in silence and telling myself for those 13 years that, “One day I will get away,” I did. The mental and emotional abuse of his continuing infidelity became more than overwhelming and I escaped with the first offer of freedom that came along. My family encouraged me to stay and my father told me, “It doesn’t matter if he has 2 or 3 old women lying around. Stay there anyway.”

But taking my father’s example of relocating our family from Louisiana to California years before, I left my family and moved from San Francisco to Atlanta believing I could make an untroubled life for me and my children. My actions, however, were seen as tantamount to heresy because I was a “mother.” My son, family and many others think I should feel regret for doing what I did (although he and his brother would never have been born if I hadn’t.) Why is it that men seldom feel the need to explain or regret? To me it is a classic example of sexism. What are your views?

One of the things I appreciate most about getting older is learning to relax and allow life to happen. When you’re young everything seems to be an emergency, a tragedy or a disaster. Young people are in constant struggle mode. All events become mountains. But when you get older, the challenges of life are like bumps in the road and the solutions are expected to be just over the horizon.

Recently, the subject of using one’s expertise to form a monetized business has been very prevalent in many of the social network sites to which I belong. The writers of those blogs and articles have turned their skill of giving advice into businesses of encouraging others to do the same. They are calling themselves coaches or consultants. As I have lived for 67 years and find myself safely on the other side of many of life’s challenges, perhaps my experiences have become my expertise.

I tell my special someone all the time that when I make my final transition this time, I will not be coming back as there is not too much of life I haven’t already lived through. So whether I make money or not by sharing my experiences, I feel that the matters of life I learned will be of benefit to someone, and I welcome the chance to share them.

Prior to becoming a blogger, I decided to make recordings for my children and grandchildren about things I felt they might need to help on their journeys. These tidbits of “wisdom” were paid for with many tears, sleepless nights, confusion and faulty decisions. But there were also flashes of pure joy, pleasure, fun, laughter, satisfaction and love. To say the good outweighed or outnumbered the bad is one of the reasons I am still standing and happy today. So the first and most important “fully-lived” matters of life aspect, barring extreme physical or mental disability, is the balance of experiences.

Another very important matter of life is that time takes care of many things. Time must always be weighed whether things are going good or bad, as everything is temporary…and I do mean everything! Taking time into consideration, we should be totally engaged in enjoying life’s good times, and detached when involved in the bad.

Detaching yourself from a negative situation does not mean to neglect your duty or give up. Detaching means to take responsibility for the part you played, but to use the experience to learn a lesson. You should forgive yourself and any others involved, and do whatever is necessary to solve the problem. “There is nothing new under the sun,” and you are not the first or last who has made the same or worse mistake. Asking for help and responding as quickly as possible are also important steps in the process.

Remember that time will alleviate some of the pressure, but your emotional state during the course of action will determine success or failure. Others will understand and allow you to move on if the situation requires remorse and restitution, and you are willing to give both. Doing your part to fix or rebuild the relationship or problem will help you mature and become stronger when the next problems come, and they always will.

In her song, Each Tear, Mary J. Blige sings:

“In each tear there’s a lesson.
Makes you wiser than before.
Makes you stronger than you know.
Each tear brings you closer to your dreams.
No mistake, no heartbreak can take away what you’re meant to be.”

In the next installment we’ll examine these factors again along with others, but remember, in matters of life, the good outweighs the bad, all things happen in time, attitude makes or breaks a situation, and the responsibility of living a good life is yours.
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As I get older I spend more and more time thinking about the past. On this particular occasion I am remembering how many historical moments I’ve witnessed, either being personally involved, or as a spectator in front of my T.V. screen. And although I might have been many miles away, all of the events had an effect on me as I can still remember where I was, but more particularly, how I felt about them.

My first memory is that of my father coming home after World War II. I was 3 years old. I was awaken very early by this handsome smiling man in an Army uniform. Until his death in 1983, he steered me through segregation in Louisiana, then relocated our family to San Francisco where we shared visions of the civil right demonstrations and man’s first steps on the moon from our living room.

Among the most memorable historical event is the bombing of the Twin Towers. I remember, because I was rushing around getting ready for work, turned the T.V. on, and saw the first building with smoke pouring out. I awoke my son and joked about someone flying into the building…then the plane hit the second building and life changed for real, not like the imagined panic we expected with Y2K.

Many, many hours I watched the O. J. trial, and stood with him awaiting the verdict, but I lost respect for him totally when he took that victory we all cheered for and wiped his ass with it.

On a lighter note, I remember the day Paris Hilton was born. The newspaper announcement made me smile as it does now…at last, there was another girl named “Paris.”

Princess Di’s wedding and funeral; Rodney King’s beating and the ensuing riot; the assassinations of M. L. King, John and Robert Kennedy, and Malcolm X; the murders of the Mayor and Supervisor in San Francisco; the Jim Jones massacre; Patty Hearst being on the run; the fire-bombing of the MOVE group in Philly; the Columbine killings; and Viet Nam held a grip on my heart for many years. People leaving under suspicious, awful, very painful circumstances became all too familiar.

Totally unfamiliar was the pain of losing my oldest son, Tracy, age 41, in December of 2004. He was just here one day, and gone the next. Since then I’ve lost two infant grandsons. What I’ve accepted is that we all have a time to go. This knowledge has surprisingly given me some comfort, and helped me prepare for my own transition.

Most of the 60s is unfortunately foggy as I was a “hippy“ more or less on the weekends, but I remember dancing all night to disco music in the 70s, and eventually evolving spiritually. The 80s seemed to release much of the pressure I had been experiencing for years as I became a senior and, for awhile, a Republican. In 1988 I suffered the tumult of a toxic relationship and became involved in a child abuse case.

In the 90s I ran a non-profit child abuse prevention organization; saw cotton for the first time; and got divorced. The new century brought a return to school and a much-desired A.A. degree. I got engaged, and retired. But life and its history making activity hasn’t slowed one bit. In the last few years, I’ve become a published author, an avid online networker, and been diagnosed with breast and bone cancer.

Michael and so many others I loved have died. The tsunami, the San Francisco and Haiti earthquakes caused devastation and death, and no one can remember weather like we’re having, but all is not gloom and doom. The cell phone and world wide web have changed so many things forever. The release of Nelson Mandela, and the election of President Barack Obama have given many of us hope that the future in many instances will be brighter.

When my youngest grandchild, who is 9 months old, grows older and looks back on her historical moments, I hope they are not dominated by tragedy and madness, but rather positive advancements, stimulating ingenuity, greater understanding and lasting peace. Still, I wouldn’t have missed this life’s human experience for anything in the world, and I believe that when I leave this time, there will be no need to ever return; so lets just hope it won’t be soon.

What would the world be like without diversity? In a recent Sacramento Bee article regarding hospitals putting in meditation spaces, the negative comments in response were stuck on non-traditional religious groups having access. The proposed purpose of the rooms, according to the hospitals, was to offer places for patients, doctors, workers and others to seek spiritual encouragement and strength, or just quiet spaces for contemplation.

In the comments, however, the focus turned the spaces into battlegrounds. The nature of different religious groups and their day-to-day interaction became the focal point rather than an attempt to respect the needs of others to participate in their spiritual beliefs.

The United States of America touts itself as the champion of personal and religious freedoms, but as soon as an opportunity to express those freedom becomes available, the ugly head of negativity and discrimination still too often pops up.

If we would simply open our eyes and minds, we would see that along with all other species of plants and animals, humans also fit into the criteria of diversity. Whether we adhere to creationism or evolution, the world and everything in it consists of variety.

Those who are placing so much importance on how someone else worships, should consider the briefness of the human lifespan. Within approximately 100 years, everyone alive today will be gone, along with all their prejudice, animosity, distrust, anger, malice and hatred.

Rather than see meditation rooms as another war zone, perhaps we can declare them neutral territories in which to manifest peace, understanding and healing.

“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Henry de Bracton, an English Jurist born in 1268, gave us that wise saying for whatever reason, and the truth of it has lasted since he spoke or wrote the words. In fields of medicine, manufacturing, space exploration, and many more, the practice of prevention is an important step in the process. So I ask why, if it means so much to protect products and services in so many areas, would it be ignored when it comes to the life of a child?

The death of more children is being reported in our local newspaper, The Sacramento Bee. Some children have died at the hands of their parents or caregivers, but too many have perished in the care of their supposed “protectors,” the Child Protective Services (CPS).

Admittedly, removing children from their homes is sometimes necessary, but placing them in far worse situations is unjustifiable. With all the available educated minds of doctors, counselors, lawyers, therapists, social workers, judges and others trained in the doctrine of acting in “the best interest of the child,” how is it possible that an attempt at prevention rather than restoration and preservation has eluded them for so long?

The best time to begin providing services to families is at the beginning; when a serious enough condition warrants the attention of some official concerning the welfare of a child. Another adage, “where there’s smoke there’s fire,” should be a red flag of warning. Parents whose care-taking has become questionable should be given services right away to avoid possible removal of their children or prevent further injury either at their hands or while in shelter. This intervention may also prove more effective and less costly. In addition, teaching the parents to “fish” would give the family many more long-term benefits and may cause less trauma to the child.

Until and unless CPS takes a more critical look at their current methods of handling the protection of children, the toll of death and destruction of families will continue to rise. The pound of cure is an ever increasing burden and cost that the ounce of prevention may far outweigh and out-achieve in the life and future of those children who are the most vulnerable.

It’s Sunday morning. I hear many voices  and step out onto my patio to see hundreds of marchers coming from the Capitol building up the street. I live in Sacramento, the capitol city of California. The marchers are wearing colorful tees emblazoned with captions and names…Ed and Sue, etc. They are marching to raise money for cancer research. Having recently been diagnosed with breast and bone cancer, their symbolic walking for a hopeful cure took my mind back, as I have a tendency to do lately, to other Sundays before all this.  

I was born in 1943 in Shreveport, Louisiana and Sundays were always days buzzing with activity. We lived in a small “shotgun” house. Its three rooms lined up one behind the other. Mama and Daddy slept in the front room. 

Mama was always the first to arise. She would pass through our room, my two sisters’ and mine, hastily putting on her apron headed to the kitchen, where brother slept, to start the coffee. Soon the strong aroma and Mama’s persistent urgings would pull us from our beds, wiping sleep from our eyes. 

Without indoor plumbing, running hot water, or the privacy and convenience of a bathroom, we were nevertheless soon washed, combed and dressed. Breakfast  was served and eaten, and Daddy’s putting on his hat was  the signal to proceed from the comfort of our home to walk the several blocks to Shiloh Baptist Church to hear Rev. James bring the sermon. 

With a smile, my mind returns to my patio and I think how so long ago that was, and how everything is so much different today. Mama and Daddy are long gone, and my siblings are grandparents and I’m a great-grandparent. When we talk on the phone, because now we live distances apart, we discuss our health issues mostly. But sometimes we go back into the vaults of our memories and take out a precious event like my Sunday morning remembrance and share a laugh or two. As we remember it, despite our circumstances, life was good then; and even with all the changes, we end up agreeing that life is also still pretty good now.

As an entrepreneur, how do you measure success? Is it measured by the amount of money you’re able to generate? Is it the ability to duplicate your idea or get the greatest acclaim? Can it be your staying power in the marketplace or your brand building? I believe there are as many different ways of measurement as there are entrepreneurs, and success is an individual determination. 

For me, having dabbled in the game of self-generated income, I am reconsidering my idea of success, as my current situation is causing me to feel some conflict. Although I have had the ability to be self-supportive from revenues garnered from my gifts and talents through the years, I have not been able to sustain nor excel to the point of what others may think is success for too long. 

Many ideas, time and effort have come and gone. My interest was piqued for while, but eventually waned and I moved on to something else. Nevertheless the time I’d spent and the pleasure derived from my performance of the activity was thought of by me as positive measures of my success. 

When I published my first book after waiting 18 years for the pleasure, the congratulations and love shown me by my family, friends and business associates made me feel on top of the world. Before I sold one copy, I felt like a success. I had accomplished a great part of my mission. But the work to sell the book is ongoing and difficult, and sells have slowed. Do I measure my success, not in selling books, but in having a book to sell? 

The conflict I am having is in trying to gather the same level of enthusiasm and excitement into marketing my product as I had in getting it made. I am in a new arena and a new game in which the measure of success is different. I am wondering if making money is the most concrete, important evidence of a successful entrepreneur. 

Some of the elements of entrepreneurship I’ve decided to consider are: how willing am I to risk being a failure? Am I learning things of importance as I go? How much more do I know about business or life? How much personal growth can I claim? Have my values changed, or do I view my products or customers or my responsibility to my customers in a different light? Is my attitude or my level of patience or consistency to my expression of quality the same? Do I feel that I am doing and being the best that I can be at what I do? 

For me and others struggling with our definition of success or feeling disappointed in not being what and where we think we should be, perhaps we should consider using another yardstick of measurement. I’d like to read any comments on the subject you care to share.

I wish I had the ability to express the wave of powerful emotions that washed over me and brought scalding tears to my eyes when I thought about writing this article. My mind flashed on my grandmother wearing her long white apron in Louisiana who was born in 1865, the year the slaves were “freed.” I saw the fields of cotton my fiance took me to see in 2003 in California because I had never seen similar places down south where my people had labored during slavery. 

In my mind’s eye I saw pictures of my sisters and brothers being attacked with water hoses, dogs, Billy clubs and savagery. Then like fast forward, my mind brought me back to sitting in my bed and a blank sheet of paper, but the pain lingered. 

I am a person who does not like black rhetoric, in fact I hate it; particularly when we linger and wallow in our ex-slave misery, using it as an excuse not to perform on the level we are capable of; we meaning black folks. But then I remember those who were left behind when the flight to white neighborhoods and a “better life” took away our teachers, doctors, business people, ministers, and others of higher status and education after civil rights were mandated. 

I don’t blame them. When my ex-husband and I bought our first home in 1976, it was in a new development with only one other black family. So I can relate to the desire to live the “American dream,” but what about all those who couldn’t leave and were left behind? What about all those who had menial jobs, but were decent, God-fearing folks who marched, and were beaten and spat on, but were left behind? 

Those are whose shoulders and graves so many of us stand on today, and the generations they spawned are the people we now call the black Underclass. They are that group of low-income, barely educated, unsophisticated, crude people that many of us now avert our eyes from rather than notice or acknowledge. The ones many of us are employed to serve because we are teachers, social workers, government employees, preachers, doctors, lawyers, police officers, prison staff, counselors, etc. etc. They are also the ones we can’t stand as fellow human beings. We denigrate them to cases and files, numbers without faces or souls, but characters who are certainly not like us. 

To us they are welfare mothers, drug-addicted or incarcerated or absent fathers, low-lifers, irresponsible, criminal, stupid, crazy, less-than-human wastes of time. And we wonder where they came from, or call them “refugees” as they were labeled in New Orleans after Katrina. We can take their children because they are poor and give them to others without a look back or a thought about their feelings. We can make them wait for hours while we take breaks or talk on the phone, thinking they have nothing else to do, and they need us to give them food, clothing and shelter. 

But they are none of these things, and without them we wouldn’t have jobs, or be able to live in our comfort zones. But primarily, we should consider that they are the products of the same stock of people from which we all have come. They are the descendants of the bridges over which many of us have crossed, and they only want what we all want…to be loved and understood. But primarily, we should consider that they are simply the offspring of the people who were left behind.