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.