That racially profiling black men is as American as Starbucks and apple pie. And that America is largely deaf to our cries.
Whatever the dilemma, the play’s message: “Jesus can work it out.”
Clear to me still, even after all these years, is the greatness of a man who chose to stay and fight for children too often discarded.
I understood that my reporter’s I.D. could not protect me from the perceptions and hate triggered by my black face.
And our future and posterity never depended upon the one with the church key but on how we treat each other. On how I love you and how you love me.
The idea that friends could find solace in something so simple, even as time and life stake their claim.
A grand man who taught me by example to stand. Without fanfare. Without pretension. Without raucous bravado.
The recent brouhaha at Loyola University, where a “Black History Month” dining hall meal was served, has left me scratching my head.
So, dear son, embrace your greatness. Never apologize for it. Stand. Shine. Achieve. Your destiny is in your hands.
“You can’t stop dreaming or you start to die.” Grandmother’s words jarred me like smelling salts.
“You must be a bad dude in the kitchen, man,” I responded proudly.
So I ask myself: “Ain’t black men also the sheep of his pasture?”
If Dr. King stood at the corner of Emmitt Till Road and King Drive, would he see the fruit of the Civil Rights movement’s blood and sacrifice?
To fail to see my color is to fail to truly see “me.”
The warm voice of a British man with a a British accent thick like syrup greets me.