Speaking on Our Thoughts...

it happened again last night.

the other night, i was tired, really tired, driving home after stopping off at the store on the way home and i got followed by a cop. all the way from west end through charlotte and all the way to within a block of the theater where i work.

i was pissed.

so last night, when i was leaving our kid's program and another at Fisk, i saw 3 cop cars that had pulled over some young brothers. they had them sitting on the sidewalk as 4 of them searched the trunk. i watched the scenario from a parking lot, saw them find nothing, then saw them watch the car drive off. the young bros were pissed, but they couldn't say anything.

i drove by the scenario and headed toward the house. two blocks later, i saw one of the cops in my rear view. i flashed back to the other night, but stayed calm. maybe it was just a quota thing. didn't want to get upset again, unnecessarily so. so i kept the limit right, and he drove around and looked at me. i didn't even glance. he passed me and then started to slow down. i turned on the street that leads to the theater.

i saw his brake lights.

damn it. not AGAIN?!

so i drove, as planned, to the theater to put up the parking guards in the driveways (keeps people from using the circular drive as a turnaround). i drove past a few cats doing corner deals, some women who were actively seeking customers for the use of their worn out bodies, and a couple of late night loud mouths. our block's pretty good, but sometimes the area is challenging at the late hour. i spoke to the neighbors at the housing unit across the street and began to leave. as i was about to pull out into the street, i noticed a car whip up at the stop sign at the corner.

5-0.

i didn't pull out. i waited. so did he. it was THAT cop. he'd been rushing through the back roads looking for me.

i turned my car around. he pulled out and zipped past the theater and turned down the side street. i saw him turning around.

that was all i could take.

being reminded, as all young black boys are, that even though police are charged to "protect and serve," you must always be mindful that you have to bow and scrape in some sense to avoid confrontations. as a teen, you learn to show police always that you are not a threat, that you're not going to talk back or be assertive. it's a manhood-breaking societal exercise for sure. i recalled, having attended school with several affluent white kids, how doting the police could be when a drunken underage white kid cursed them out, spitting at them at times, only to receive a ride home to their parent's home; and i recalled how the brothas among us would look at each other with wide eyes, secretly communicating the understanding that there may never be a time in our lives when we would receive such treatment.

those memories of helplessness pissed me off even more. no, Black men don't in general walk around in a constant state of pisstification--contrary to popular opinion--but i will say that there are constantly obstacles around you that threaten to pour piss in your spirit on any given day. but you think of your kids, and your family, and all the people who could use another role model of normalcy to counter the stereotypes. and you realize you are, once again, at the mercy of the boys in blue, at quota time, in the hood. not much you can do.

unless you decide to flip the script.

quickly, i pulled around the back drive of the theater, drove into the circular drive and backed the end of the car into the front steps of the theater. i exited the car and walked around to the front of it, flipping on the voice recorder on my iphone--just in case i got accused of being uppity and gotten mercilessly dragged around just for a life lesson (as i had been once at 18 years old in downtown Nashville), i'd have at least an audio record. i had just crossed my arms and leaned back onto the grill of my car when he swooped over to the sidewalk in front of me. he was white (not that it mattered to me at this point), and his hair was gone, skinned to the head. he slowly popped on a blinding spotlight and aimed it, in a familial sense, dead into my face.

i didn't even blink.

"What's going on?" patronizing.

"waiting for you." calmness.

"Waiting for me?" surprise.

"yes, officer. i'm waiting for you." affirmation

"I don't understand. why you waiting for me?" confusion.

i started to walk toward him, but then, quickly remembering my inner notes from the unpublished Black Man's Survival Manual, particularly the chapter "Avoiding Justifiable Homicide," i put my hands up and backed away.

the chatter across the street subsided.

i went on to ask him if he was patrolling in his sector. he wasn't, but told me that he generally just covers most of the city. i then went on to explain how the last few nights, i've been followed, some of my artist friends have been followed, and that we were all law abiding citizens, but that it was good to know the police were on duty. i then pointed out that, as he was following me, he drove through several stretches of terrain where illegality rules in various forms.

he turned off the spotlight.

i asked his name. he told me. i introduced myself and pointed back at the lit letters on the Amun Ra Theatre Playhouse, my tall form framed squarely in front of the donated stone facade. i proceeded to tell him that i helped a lot of people build this shining beacon, and i--and all those hardworking souls--would appreciate the police partnering up with us to keep the amazing transformation we have sparked going in the right direction. i told him we work with children, and we do plays, and we keep kids from getting into the wrong lifestyle.

"yes, i noticed the building. it's really a great addition to the neighborhood." respectful tone.

i pointed to the corners where the bad stuff could happen. his response? "yeah, i know. i know. everyone in the neighborhood knows me. i'm around a lot."

oh, so let me get this right: you KNOW where the bad things are happening; you KNOW the people doing them, but you're following ME? (of course, THAT dialogue was in my mind).

i ended the conversation by telling him we want the police to come around. we want them to be a part of the good things. we want them to indeed, protect and serve.

he assured me that they would and wished me a good night.

my neighbors were stunned. silent. i don't know if they'd ever seen anything like that before. i know i hadn't. and i know that there was, still, a fifty-fifty chance that it could've gone the other way. but it didn't. i thank God for that.

maybe i'll get some help now, i thought, as i drove home. or maybe, i'll just get harassed more. only time will tell. either way, i felt some peace.

and i was feeling now, until 30 seconds ago. as i was typing this on my front porch, a little black lady slowed at my stopsign and pulled off. seconds later, a cop rounded the corner and put on the blue lights. his car had the number 1619 on it.

how ironic, huh?

and since i've typed these last 2 paragraphs, two more cars have pulled over and put on the blue lights. that's 3 cars to one little lady. i'm gonna grab my video camera, iphone, and walk down the block.

DAMN. Make that FOUR CARS now...gotta go...

Death.

Dying.

End.

Passing.

Quietus.

the last several weeks have left any and all of we who call ourselves scribes falling over our thoughts to compose fitting epitaphs for giants among us. oh, how we have suffered losses of late. from broken hearts to strange twists of fate. all along, our songs of lamentation have arisen throughout the nation, from the hills of Tennessee to those of Cali. Shall we meditate--or shall i--on the meaning in this madness; this morphing mechanism most meted: mortality.

i don't know Michael Jackson, but i loved his music. i only met Steve McNair twice in life, but i loved his gamesmanship. i did know Jenise Smith though, and that is precisely why i loved her. and so, i pen some thoughts to help me understand what i may never know: the elusive "Secret of Life" my auto-didactic father so pursued with long gazes across vast waterfronts and wooded hills whenever he could steal a break from a life of hard labor. He made it to 78.

none of the above did.

Michael Jackson

poor MJ, gifted with talent beyond his years that would both bless and haunt him before and up to the grave; i gather, based on hearing the pundits speak of him now that the haunting will continue--fittingly--even after the grave, although in this case, turnabout is far from fair play.

lines have been drawn and criticism leveled--at MJ's life, his lifestyle, his upbringing. debates will continue for hundreds of years over whether he was a product of Nature or Nurture; whether the man we know as "Joseph" was a cruel and greedy taskmaster who used his childrens' gifts to create a family fortune, or a visionary who recognized that talent alone would serve no one well without discipline, focus, and family values. that debate won't be resolved here, in these few words, so i shall stick close to the things that are, in my own small mind, not debatable.

Michael Jackson was one of the greatest creative visionaries in the history of humankind.

take a breath. i know you're reeling, because you were expecting to state the obvious: that he was the "King of Pop," or the "greatest performer of the modern era." that would suffice most who would not look deeper and ask the profound questions of the lasting impact of his legacy:

-The highest grossing album(s) in the history of recorded music. This feat may never be topped.

-Hit songs in virtually EVERY genre of music known to man. Pop, Rock, Soul, Dance, R&B, Inspirational

-Multi-generation impact. MJ songs have been sung by grandparents down to their grandchildren. each new generation that is exposed to music dating back to his childhood falls in love and connects to it.

-Multi-Cultural impact. The Beatles were popular in Europe, then America, a few places abroad as a curiosity; Elvis had his Southern foundation and found interest and appeal with diehard fans and impersonators. Michael Jackson had hundreds of thousands of people in every corner of the known world, of every race and ethnicity adoring his music.

we have witnessed greatness in our lifetime here, especially when one takes into account that he wrote and/or produced most of his body of work and owned his master recordings. MJ was a slave to no man creatively, and that is why, perhaps he appeared "odd" to us. he heard things that were not yet born into this world, and it was his task to give them voice.

because of that, he left us a magic we may not ever witness again. we may all find ourselves telling our grandkids, if we are blessed to live to see them, that we actually SAW Michael Jackson perform while living--a fact that will indeed mystify them and give us our own mystique.

Steve "Air" McNair

the field general and general heart of the Tennessee Titans, a man who singlehandedly put Alcorn State University on the national map by proving that a man with a gunner's arm and killer instinct for victory could rule the NFL after pitching his tent at an Historically Black University. that is significant in itself because prior to Integration, there was no measured tradition with majority universities. true, there were rituals, rocks to rub, tunnels to run through, Gippers to win one for and the like, but when you roll back the footage of history, one must admit that perhaps my 14 year old daughter could have excelled on most major college football fields against that exclusionary competition that feared and refused to play the HBCU or black players.

enter: Integration.

enter: Dis-integration of HBCU traditions.

gone were the stories of Big John Merritts and Eddie Robinsons, Claude Humphries and Too Tall Jones', replaced with Bear Bryants and Joe Patermos and whoever else could pull all the talent away from those small schools in small towns with giant talent. one person stayed behind.

his name was Steve.

Steve brought the intangible to the football field that most of these pundits miss when judging talent. speak to anyone who has played on that level and they will tell you that it is not the greatest arm, the best form, the most polished technique that makes a champion. it's the heart.

and by heart, i don't mean what Steve showed us: the sacrifice of his body on a regular basis to show our fickle Tennessee fans that he really deserved to wear that number 9. by heart i mean that thing that lives in the eyes of a leader, that makes them be able to walk into a huddle (battleground, battallion, flank, ranks) look every man in the eye and convince them--through insurmountable odds--that they will do everything except fail.

that cannot be taught. you either have it or not, and Steve had it.

his death was tragic, and to us, very premature. we're still sorting through all the details, many of which we'll never know. the "righteous" among us continue to point at the splinter in the eye of McNair's sense of fidelity while ignoring the plank of judgment in their own small visions. i choose not to cast a judgment one way or the other on his personal life. i wasn't there to live it, and it's between him and God now.

Jenise Smith

who? you mean, you didn't know Jenise "Niecy" Smith? a phenomenal songstress and seamstress who was one of the most creative and loving souls to ever walk the earth in Nashville, Tennessee?

well let me tell you about her.

first, she also died too soon for us all. as a worker of cloth, she made the majority of the costumes that put Amun Ra Theatre on the map of cultural history as one of the leaders of the modern black theater movement nation-wide. with little or no money or time, she pressed her will into her fingers and produced jaw-dropping creations that earned her a living working in stage, television, film, and the music industry.

many of the stars of gospel music begged for her creations; organizations like Fisk University, Tennessee State, and Salama Ministries kept her on speed dial for her magic.

and her voice?

a soaring Soprano with range from classical opera to modern gospel, she rocked stages ranging from the Ryman to the Schermerhorn, with bands and backups and symphony orchestra. a former Miss Pearl High ('80), she had the best of beauty and brains.

and she had cancer.

and she fought it.

and she won.

and it returned.

and she transitioned.

and we mourned because of all she was to us. and because of all she is. you see, it is because of Jenise, we have something to look forward to.

as a matter of fact, it is because of Michael, Steve, and Jenise, we all have something to look forward to:

our own lives.

we all now stand at a crossroads, asking the question: what legacy will i leave behind? will men and women debate our greatness or will we not even be a footnote in history? will there be two didactical sides to choose from because we left behind works that were so layered they were almost incomprehensible in scope and impact? or will we be as important to the world and those around us as a wrapper from a drinking straw discarded over the course of a holiday weekend?

i know, inside, that we all cannot do what these individuals do. as a Doctor of Divinty, a Teacher of sorts (more often a student), a coach and "motivational speaker," i'm supposed to say we all are capable of these highest heights. the truth is: although we all may be capable, many of us will not seize the opportunity and embrace the tools needed to shape and mold that greatness from our common raw potential.

so as we weep and mourn and reflect and refract on our shared heroes, let us also turn within and seek that elusive knowledge we may never be able to embrace until the second past our last earthly breath, a fact that should not deter us in the quest for the knowledge itself. let us find our light within us.

and let it shine.

Labels: Jenise Smith, Michael Jackson, Steve McNair