It’s always “stop whining” when attempting to whitewash, diminish or else suggest that black folk develop amnesia about discrimination.
That’s the church I was born into. The church I still love even as I long for the church I once knew.
It is clear in my mind that they don’t really care about us. They do not live in our neighborhoods. Nor attend our houses of worship.
Through the snow, the cold and rain. In sickness and in health. Upon the Thursday morning light, they arrive. The men. My brothers.
Why has my dissent to respectfully kneel and not to stand now become America’s line drawn in the sand? It is oppression’s hand. Same old plan.
Our prayers were driven by the realities that not even a truckload of money could ever solve all of our problems.
And yet, we stand proudly, pledging allegiance. Embracing the contradiction amid democracy’s malfeasance.
If the Lord pointed out within the House of God — the absence of brotherly love, the presence of cronyism, classism, racism, sexism — would He be crit
Everybody knew Jim — the tall, bespectacled gentleman with white hair who climbed out of his silver Cadillac DeVille with a friendly, “Good morning.”
I used to lift my right hand while attempting to summon a taxi in a kind of bourgeois flick intended to signal that I am a “safe” fare.
Learn to laugh, even in the direst circumstance. Search for the silver lining in the dark clouds, even when the storm is unrelenting and raging.
No inanimate statue of stone ever maimed or castrated us. Never lynched a black man. Didn’t kill Emmett Till.
I have found country richer, deeper. A blend of storytelling and a salve to my urban-fried nerves.
As little boys trotted around the bases, basking in the glory, it was clear that baseball in Ford Heights has made a comeback.
I believe in God. The God I see in the serenity of a new golden sun, rising above a rippling blue lake as a cool, late-summer wind blows.