Two Thumbs Up

People often ask me how my brother is and the truth is… I have no idea.

It’s been years since I’ve seen or spoken to him. We do not talk, text, or tweet. We do not visit each other or send cards on holidays. We aren’t even Facebook friends. Mike does not exist in my world anymore than I in his.

Growing up we were exceptionally close. Being that there is only 17mths difference in our age meant we were one grade apart in school and one size apart in clothing. I was always trying to steal his Duckhead shirts. They were all the rage.

Once upon a time, we were inseparable, and my brother was my best friend for many a year.

When Mike turned 18, he chose to enlist in the Coast Guard and was stationed to San Pedro, California (a subdivision of Los Angeles). I missed a week of high school to go on an epic road trip across the country with him. For 3,000 miles we ate junk food from gas stations, slept at Super 8 Motels, and sang along with George Straight as we rode through Amarillo, Texas. True story.

Our trip included several stops to some of our nation’s most historical landmarks. He threatened to leave me at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and I wanted to push him over the Hoover Dam. Siblings are like that.

After miles and miles of never-ending desert, we ended up in Las Vegas. Despite both of us being underage, we managed to gamble away some of Mike’s money. I lost five bucks at the slots inside the Pink Flamingo and he won ten. Ten dollars looks like a lot of money when it all comes out in nickels.

We stood in awe of the Luxor Sphinx, wandered the Roman floors of Caesars Palace, and witnessed Lance Burton perform magic at the Mirage. Las Vegas was unlike anything either of us had ever seen and I began contemplating a career path in statistics.

Finally we made it to L.A., but there was no time for sightseeing. He had to report for duty asap, and I had school waiting for me at home. It was surreal to say goodbye to him back then, and now I won’t even say hello.

I gave my brother an ultimatum. I explained that as long as he is actively involved in our biological father’s life, then he is unwelcome in mine. Maybe Mike’s belief in forgiveness supersedes my own, but he has his own reasons for befriending our father and they are not for me to question or understand.

Was it wrong of me to make him choose? Probably. But I make no apologies for it, nor will I waiver in my decision.

I received a call the other day and learned Mike had gotten hurt. He was in Alaska on a commercial fishing boat when one of its large wire cables snapped due to the frigid temperatures. Apparently the metal chord missed his head but snagged his thumb, severing it completely from his hand.

It was a long and arduous process for the authorities to retrieve him from the middle of the Bering Sea. He had to wait for hours on end with a makeshift bandage as his only comfort.  Eventually, he was airlifted to Washington State where the doctors there attempted to repair his mangled hand.  But his thumb was too damaged and they were unable to salvage it.

Last week Mike celebrated his 39^th birthday. I don’t know if he had cake and ice cream. I don’t know if he opened presents, or if he was embarrassed by singing waiters. I would hope so.

And today our biological mother celebrates her birthday (she’s 29 again). I know there is nothing in this world she wants more than for Mike and I to be family again.

But I am stubborn and steadfast in my reasoning.

However, as a present to her, I can send this message of love out into the virtual world to let my brother know he is thought of regardless of circumstances.

Happy Birthday Mom. For a moment, may you feel as though your children are friends again. And Happy Birthday to my Big Brother who will always get two thumbs up from me.

                                                                                     

Meeting Muhammad

In the winter of 96’ my high school newspaper class took an educational trip to Chicago. One of the eatery’s we visited (that wasn’t the educational part) while in the Windy City was Michael Jordan’s Restaurant.

Various items of sports memorabilia decorated the walls and lined along some of the shelving units were a slew of autographed basketballs. Athletes, actors, musicians, and all sorts of celebrities had penned their names across the Air Jordan basketballs placed throughout the restaurant.

Due to the size of our school group, we were placed on the top level and seated directly in the center of the floor. It didn’t take long for me to choose a menu option. I decided on the cheapest burger because I wanted to spend my money at FAO Schwarz- that also wasn’t the educational part of the trip.

Shortly after ordering, I noticed two beefy men walk up to a nondescript door off to the side of the dinning room. They gave a brief set of knocks and were allowed entry by an equally tall, gargantuan man and my interest was piqued.

Had I not seen the permanent markers they were holding, I probably would have dismissed them as members of management. However, seeing the large amount of autographed items plastered around the restaurant, my investigative reporter senses were on high alert in the hopes of a celebrity sighting. I just wish my common sense senses had also been on high alert. I also wish there was such a thing as common sense senses.

 I kept my eyes peeled on that door for a solid 8 minutes, and then… out stepped The Greatest. He was flanked by three massive body guards and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. So naturally in the middle of the restaurant, I stood, pointed, and very loudly exclaimed: “Look everyone, it’s Muhammad Ali!!!”

 Not cool, Char. Not cool.

Realization of my idiocy struck and I sunk to my chair wanting to crawl under the table from embarrassment. But Mr. Ali took it completely in stride, crooked his finger, and directed me to join his entourage while the restaurant watched.

I walked towards this imposing figure with both awe and trepidation. Here was a man, a legend I had only known through social-studies books and television clips standing before me. I had always found him fascinating for his boxing accolades, strong convictions, and personal triumphs. So for me it was like standing before a piece of living, breathing, African-American history.

I wanted to ask him a million questions. Unfortunately, Parkinson’s had made it difficult for him to speak, but it did not prevent him from putting me into a well deserved headlock!

He was indeed there to sign a basketball for the restaurant but took a few moments to joke around, feign anger, and throw pretend punches with me. He even posed for pictures with some of my classmates and placed bunny rabbit ears on their heads.

I will always remember Mr. Ali for his kindness and humor that day. 

For a man who built so much of his legacy stinging like a bee, I only found the beautiful flight of a butterfly.

#RIPMuhammad

Perspective and Sweet Tea

My biggest grievance today was that the cashier at Bojangles’ gave me unsweet tea at the drive-thru window. Y’all Southerners understand this travesty.

And then life was put into perspective. At the next stoplight there sat a man in filthy, worn- out fatigues holding a small scrap of cardboard. The words were too faded on the sign to be legible, but one can assume the message they held.

Without thought or hesitation, I handed him everything in my wallet- $1.

I apologized profusely for not having more to give but his reply was most unexpected and heartbreaking. “At least you thought of me.”

He was unconcerned with the amount. He only wanted to be seen, to be recognized, and to be heard as a human instead of what some would call an eyesore interwoven within the landscape of our city. So with no one behind me, I sat through two red lights and listened to his story.

“Ron” had completed several tours in Iraq but came back home to unexpected challenges. He stated: “I had to do some things over there. Terrible things. And it messed me up in the head. My wife left me but I don’t blame her. She didn’t know how to deal with it. I wish there was more help for someone like me who comes back from war and wants to be a part of society. But I don’t know how. I don’t know where to go.”

Sadly, I had no answers.

Eventually the light turned green once more and I had to leave. I went straight to a chain store to purchase items for a care package and then to an ATM for some extra cash hoping he could at least get a hotel room for the night. But when I went back to the stoplight he was no longer there. I drove around the area thinking he may have switched corners but I couldn’t find him.

I’m not concerned with the validity of his story. I don’t care if he hopped into a Cadillac after I left. And I wouldn’t mind one bit if he used the dollar bill I gave him to buy an airplane bottle of liquor. If you see someone in need, then you help them. If they turn out to be anything other than what they present, then that is on their conscious.

I will keep looking for him.

And I’ll never be ungrateful for unsweet tea again.

Side Note-

Example Care Package placed in a gallon zip-lock baggie that you can keep in your car for when you see a homeless individual. Most items can be travel size to help minimize the portability factor.

Toothpaste/brush

Mouthwash

Deodorant

Hand sanitizer

Band-aids

Chapstick

Feminine products

Tissues/hand-wipes

Lightweight snacks/Granola bars/Peanut butter crackers

Socks

Poncho/sunscreen/handwarmers

Cash or Gift Card

Tag, You're It

Yesterday I was tagged in a post on Facebook. But this wasn’t one of those lovely memes that tell you to tag someone you think is awesome. No, this was ugly family drama. Because where else but social media should you post your dirty laundry?

My biological grandpa is 77, a Pentecostal Holiness preacher, and the proud owner of at least three Member’s Only jackets. He can actually rock them tho.

Needless to say when it comes to anything religious, we view things differently. That’s mostly because I’m an Atheist homosexual. 

Now, someone decided to post a biblical scripture meme on my grandpa’s wall that was displaying the LGBT community in a negative light. My grandpa didn’t even know it was on his wall until another relative decided to hatefully point it out to him. Because fighting bigotry with bigotry is always the best policy??

My grandpa immediately deleted the post and even apologized to the offended individual publicly on their page. And that is what I have a problem with. He owes no one an apology.

Let’s ignore the fact for a minute that someone else took the liberty to post the meme. My grandpa has every right to post what he wants because it is HIS wall. He is entitled to his beliefs just as I am to mine.

But this is the thing: My partner and I have always had a place at my grandpa’s table. He has never once told us we were living in sin, going to Hell or that we should attend church. Not ONCE. In fact, I was even allowed to carve the turkey at Thanksgiving. It wasn’t pretty, but still.  

My grandpa is a man of humility, compassion, and peace. He’s like a hippie but without the drug use or Birkenstocks. Although, if he did wear sandals he’d put them on with black socks.

And while I am not a Christian, he has shown me what a true Christian should be. He’s just a man that keeps his door open and welcomes all.

So Grandpa Epps, please see this as an open love letter to you. I have no idea why I was tagged in someone else’s disrespectful rant, but know that I would never condone a harsh word directed towards you. Continue to post, like, and share without hesitancy because I am more concerned with what your heart displays than what appears on your Facebook wall.

A Fowl Situation

The idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong with the world. 

Paul Farmer

We all know why the chicken crossed the road, but why did the duck freak out in the street?


On our Sunday morning donut run, Tina and I drove past a frantic looking fowl that was continuously running back and forth between the curbside and out into oncoming traffic. I thought for sure duck a l'orange was going to be on the roadkill menu.

Sugar-coated cravings- for the donuts, not the duck- were tossed out the window as we turned around and pulled over to check on the distressed creature. Approaching closer, we could hear a chorus of tiny quacks but their source went unseen. Following the faint sound led us to a ditch drain along the sidewalk and upon further inspection, we could see ten fuzzy little coal colored heads looking skyward, crying out their confusion.

Immediately, Tina laid on the ground and stuck her arm through the rusted grate, trying in earnest to reach them. But the drop was at least 5ft below, making it impossible to even touch the ducklings.
Hoping to obtain the assistance of Animal Control, I dialed 411. However, because it was Sunday, my call was rolled over to the local police department. I quickly explained the situation to the lady dispatcher and simply asked if she knew of a telephone number I might contact for our predicament.

She informed me that even if Animal Control had been open, they would not have helped me since they will only deal with domesticated animals. So she gave me the number for Raleigh's Wildlife Services. Their location is approximately 3hrs away, but I assumed they would put me in touch with someone local.

Thanking her, I hung up and promptly called the 919 number only to be greeted by a gruff voice telling me he knew nothing of wildlife, but did know that I had interrupted is morning sleep-in.

Meanwhile, a few kind strangers had stopped and were all brainstorming rescue plans for the ducklings. One lady parked her van in the middle of the road to slow down traffic since the mother duck was constantly waddling into the street. A gentleman had purchased a 2x4 at the nearby hardware store thinking the babies could use it as a ramp out of the hole, and another lady helped by physically lifting the cast iron grate (she was hella-strong!) so that Tina could slide her body down into the concrete tunnel.

After several other 411 searches, and having zero luck on the phone, I finally called the police department back in hopes of obtaining a proper number for the Wildlife Services. Once again, the same lady answered and I conveyed to her my dilemma, asking if by chance there was an alternate number I could try.

Instead of double checking the number, she began a tirade, vehemently explaining that she had given me the only number she had, that it was the number the police department had been giving out for twenty years, and that it was correct. (I thought that in the time it took for her to say all of that, she could have just repeated the number).

At the end of her defensively toned spiel, she finally gave me the number again, which by the way was different as she has transposed two of the digits. Then she proceeds to tell me that the police department had "real emergencies" to deal with.

I was also very impolitely told that every single squad car and emergency resource available to the city was in current use due to a highly important phone call waiting on the other line. Now, I did not ask for a squad car, a police officer, a fire truck, or even a security guard. All I asked for was a telephone number. A correct telephone number.

Not once did she ask for my name, location, or even my cell because I would hate to think she might actually say something like, "I can't offer you any assistance at the moment, but I may be able to find out something later and call you back at a more convenient time." I guess it's asking to much for common courtesy or civility these days while searching for help.

The ironic thing is while she is describing this supposed apocalyptic, highly important phone call holding on line 2, an actual city police cruiser drives by us. He slows down to a crawl, observes the chaos, but ultimately does not stop. Granted, I am no cop, but one would surmise seeing three vehicles (one parked in the middle of the street), a man with a 2x4, a woman lifting a grate, another woman with half her body inside of a drainage ditch, and a large duck weaving in out of traffic, would at least warrant a "Is everything ok here?" sort of question.

We would also learn later that not 30ft  from us atop the hill, sat two police officers playing on their iphones while watching runners go by for a charity 5k in the neighborhood. God help whoever is holding on line 2.

Dialing the correct wildlife number led to an endless menu of options that all ended with, "Our hours of operation are..." So yeah, they were closed.

Finally, the grate was removed completely which allowed Tina to jump fully down into the tunnel. She managed to capture one of the ducklings, but the others waddled away further into the drainage system.

Not to be deterred, Tina knew there had to be an outlet somewhere within the stone-walled labyrinth. Finding her way to a briar-covered culvert, Tina placed the rescued duckling at the above ground exit, using it as bait to coax the mama duck to her.

From this vantage point, the mama duck called out to her babies in a series of quacks. We all held our breath, but slowly a steady procession of nine fluffy heads appeared, making their way through the briars and into the winged embrace of their mother. The victorious reunion was cloaked in elation, and in that moment all was right with the world.

While I was flummoxed by the behavior of the dispatcher and officer, I can still easily believe in the humanity of strangers.

 A huge thank you goes out to the man who spent money on an unused board, to the lady who was late for work because she stopped traffic, to the woman with super human strength opening a way, and to the couples that pulled over checking on us, worried we were broke down.

A feathered family of 11 was saved that day. It may not seem significant to most or even to the eco-system, but I have no doubt in the importance of people working collectively.

The cry for help, no matter how small, should always be answered. If two separate species can come together, then surely those of the same cannot be indifferent.

Shoes and Gum

This past week was Teacher Appreciation Week, and like how most of my assignments were in school, this blog is late.

There are educators that give 110% of themselves to their students every single day, but I honestly believe that I got the ones that gave 120%. I have written about a few of them before, but in honor of the week, I would like to highlight one more.
  
Mrs. Barbara Williams- 8th Grade Social Studies


Mrs. Williams was the first teacher to ever give me in-school suspension. Yep, I was chewing bubble gum. Tough kid, hard-core stuff. But rules were rules, and one had to adhere to them.

I still have the signed yellow detention slip, dated 2/11/93. I use it as a reminder that a person is only as good as their word. Mrs. Williams had said that if anyone- apparently that meant me too- was caught chewing gum, then they would be assigned ISS. No exceptions, no excuses.

Evidently gum was making the rounds onto too many places- desks, floors, walls- basically everywhere except for where it belonged. It was for the best really because I would have been mortified if my gum had ended up on the sole of her Prada pumps. I honestly don't know if she wore Prada, but she looked like it. She was the epitome of sophistication who internalized a quiet strength, and could easily be called a figurehead for compassion. 

Always elegant in both her attire and composure, Mrs. Williams held court in anything but a stately classroom. We were at an old country school without air conditioning, and we had those radiators that every teacher said we'd crack our heads on if we didn't stop leaning back in our chairs. But Mrs. Williams believed that room to be the segue to greatness, and thus we did too. It was instilled on a daily basis that us, her handful of students, could and would change the world. She continuously encouraged us to blaze new trails, become leaders, and to live out our dreams. With every history lesson, we were reminded that it only took one person to make a difference.

Myself, along with a few others, were chosen by her to participate in a living history day at the local county museum. And while we were clothed in the costume of early colonial settlers, we were also draped by her devotion to make us believe that one day we would be just as important as those we were impersonating.

In my yearbook she wrote: "Madam President, Just remember me when you get elected to some high office. I appreciate your interest in politics and history. Additionally, you know how to speak your mind and offer your opinion in a nice way. I'm glad you came back to Cool Spring! Sincerely, Mrs. Williams."
See what I mean? 

I am undoubtedly a massive dork, so you can only imagine how that nerdiness drifted into my apparel. I had one earring, huge glasses, and always wore two different colored socks. On the day of graduation, Mrs. Williams pulled me to the side and pointed down to her shoes. Initially I was terrified that she had stepped in gum. But no. Instead, she had on two different colored shoes! She proceeded to give me the largest grin I'd ever seen from her and said, "I did this for you."

Now, a part of me can't help but think that she put her shoes on in the dark that morning, but a larger part of me wants to believe that she really did do that just for me. Either way, no one will ever be able to fill her shoes. She is retired now and I grieve for the kids who will never pretend to cross the Delaware, never participate in a mock Presidential debate, or never chew gum in her class.

This coming week when you send your kids off to school, how about sending along a simple note of thanks to their teacher? And if you are lucky enough to still be in contact with your own former educators, send them a note too (or a pair of mismatched shoes).

Three Truths

"Atticus-" said Jem bleakly.
He turned in the doorway. "What, son?"
"How could they do it, how could they?"
"I don’t know, but they did it. They’ve done it before and they did it tonight and they’ll do it again and when they do it- seems that only children weep. Good night."

                                                           -To Kill A Mockingbird

When I saw this excerpt making the rounds in regards to the activity in Ferguson, I felt it to be the most profound of all passages. Unlike Jem who was completely blameless, Michael Brown was not. The young man made some extremely poor decisions and those led to his untimely and most unfortunate demise.
But what struck me was that the same themes of a book published 54 years ago about a story occurring 78 years ago, are still very much prevalent in this particular situation.
The more I have read, listened, examined, and studied the details that have been released in regards to this horrific ordeal, I am concerned.
I am concerned by the system of checks and balances.
I am concerned by the intense racial divide that still exists.
I am concerned that both social and professional media are so quick to speak of unfounded truths. That they would so willingly fan the flames of  "supposed reports" to sensationalize a tragedy in return for views, hits, attention, and ratings.
I cannot imagine the weight of the blue uniform of those who pledge to protect and serve no more than I can imagine the burden of the stigma placed upon black males.
There are only two people that will ever know the accurate events of that day. One will live with his actions, while the other will rest with his.
This incident has left me with more questions than answers but the only things that I do know is that 1) Not all African-Americans are criminals. 2) Not all cops are bad. 3) Not all whites are racist.
And it is in those three truths that I find hope.