Tuesday, May 21, 2013
He left before the people had a chance to say goodbye. Members at the congregation, where he served as pastor since 1992, are still crying after the decision was made to reassign him to a historic church in San Francisco. His departure was swift.
Sort of like a thief in the night.
Reverend Philip R. Cousin, Jr. ended his tenure as pastor of St. Joseph AME Church last week. He immediately took the reign at Bethel AME Church, San Francisco’s oldest black church, founded in 1852. His departure from Durham ends a long season of faithful service to the church and broader community.
Some will remember Cousin as the son a great bishop. His father once served as the pastor of the same church. Many remembered Phil Jr. before he grew up to become a minister. He was a child of the church he served. His faith was nurtured within a community raised under the powerful teachings of his father.
“They say a prophet is no honor in his own home,” Cousin says. “I’ve been able to receive honor in my own home. I received honor as pastor in the church I grew up, and I was able to lead in the city where I grew up.”
Cousin was educated in the Durham Public School System before attending the University of North Carolina – Chapel Hill. From there, Cousin attended divinity school at Duke – back to Durham. It always felt like Durham was the place he belonged.
“I will continue to keep my house here,” Cousin says. “I’m going, but I’m not leaving.”
Cousin wasn’t able to say goodbye to the members at St. Joseph AME before he left. The church celebrated their annual pastor appreciation before heading to the conference on his first Sunday in San Francisco. Pastors in the AME tradition never get a chance to say goodbye. While they celebrated their pastor back in Durham, he was saying hello to his new congregation.
Maybe it helps that Cousin plans to return someday.
“70 is looking more attractive,” Cousin said when asked when he would retire. “My wife says I may make it to 75.”
Cousin said he felt like a visitor after preaching his first sermon at Bethel AME. Time will change all of that. It always does. He preached from II Kings 4 about leaving one place to develop new relationships.
Cousin says San Francisco is Durham on a larger scale. The area surrounding the church has transformed from a community once populated by mostly blacks to a blend of blacks, Hispanics, Asians and Russians.
“For the church to survive it must look like the community where it lives,” Cousin says.
Cousin has watched Durham grow and change. He served as a member of the Board of Education and as a member of the Board of County Commissioners. His departure leaves vacant his position as chairman of the Durham Committee on the Affairs of Black People. Cousin says the DCABP will be left in good hands.
“The real work of the DCABP is with the subcommittees,” Cousin says. “If the general body will not get in the way and bind down and micromanage the subcommittees, the change will be fine.”
“Durham is the best place to live in the entire world,” Cousin says. “I’ve watched it grow with the DPAC coming in and the emergence of the Hayti Center. Durham will continue to grow.”
Phil Cousin, Jr. came to St. Joseph AME as the son of a man who would become a bishop. He learned to serve without the support of the family that helped him grow up. Along the way, he ran and won seats on both the Board of Education and Board of County Commissioners.
“The people at St. Joseph allowed me to lead. The people of Durham allowed me to lead in public office,” Cousin says. Both are gifts he cherishes. “I thank everyone for allowing me to lead.”
Cousin wasn’t allowed to say goodbye. He never has. Bethel AME is the seventh church he has been called to lead. He has never said goodbye. It seems different this time.
It’s not goodbye. It’s more like we will see you later. Durham is home. It always will be.
Cousin has a house in Durham to prove his love for the place that will always be home sweet home.
We’ll see you later Rev.
Monday, May 20, 2013
They call Shaquille O’Neal a “Blue Fly”. It’s the label given those who support the police. Shaq has a reputation for wanting to be a police officer. He has offered his services as a volunteer police officer, and once jammed a suspects head down a toilet. He’s also a honorary member of the Fraternal Order of the Police (FOP).
Supporters of the Oakland Teachers for Mumia, the Labor Action Committee to Free Mumia, and the Transport Workers Solidarity Committee joined forces at the Oracle Arena, the home of the Golden State Warriors, during an NBA playoff game to protest the actions of “Shaq”. The group claims “The Big Diesel” has taken his “Bly Fly” status too far.
The documentary Mumia – Long Distance Revolutionary, was set to show at a movie theater in Newark, New Jersey before being cancelled at the last minute. Protesters claim the plug was pulled after “Shaq”, who co-owns the Newark Theater, flew into town to meet with staff. Supporters of Mumia Abu-Jamal are protesting “Shaq’s censorship of the important movie.
Mumia Abu-Jamal, born Wesley Cook, is serving a life sentence for the 1981 murder of Philadelphia police officer Daniel Faulkner. His was sentenced to death after his 1982 trail. That sentence was commuted to life imprisonment in 2012. Since his conviction, Abu-Jamal has become the most influential voice from death-row.
His conviction has polarized the nation. Members of FOP have criticized efforts to promote Abu-Jamal as a model from his prison cell. A street is named after Abu-Jamal in France. Calls to release Abu-Jamal are heard around the world. Supporters of Abu-Jamal cite Philadelphia’s historically racist police regime as the culprit behind Abu-Jamal’s conviction.
People believe he’s innocent.
The cry for justice has been heard since a trial spiked with dubious management. The legal case of Abu-Jamal is one thing. The censorship of a movie about his life is another. Not only was the movie cancelled in Newark, the manager responsible for arranging the showing was fired.
Sorry “Shaq”, that type of censorship goes against the principles that make America a nation that celebrates freedom. The practice of censorship is downright unconstitutional. Yes, it’s problematic when business interests interfere with freedom of speech.
The documentary has been received with sold out performances in New York, Los Angeles, Oakland, as well as showing in 23other cities. “Shaq” and the other owners of the theater may have felt pressured to cancel the documentary after the recent decision to place Assata Shakur on the Most Wanted Terrorist List. Shakur was convicted of the murder of a Newark, New Jersey police officer before escaping to Cuba where she remains in political exile.
It’s meaningful that the protest took place in Oakland, CA, the home of the Black Panther Party. The arrests and convictions of both Abu-Jamal and Assata Shakur, the fight to tell their stories, and the protests on Oakland, unveil a part of American history that many want censored. It’s a history they would rather see go away.
History is complicated. America’s grappling with race is difficult to hearken when juxtaposed against the unjust ways of the American criminal justice system. Maybe it’s puzzling to face the cruelty of a system that functioned with separate rules to manage order – one for black people, and another for the rest.
Maybe that’s a truth that people aren’t prepared to face.
Censorship is a way to make it all go away. Censorship binds all that hypocrisy and deep seeded racism that drove a generation of black people to fight the power in ways that questioned the authority of the police. Yes, it’s a complex matter. It’s deeper than black and white, and, yes, there’s enough wrong to expose everyone involved. The wrong has to be exposed. You must tell the untold story, even when it brings to the forefront problems with the police.
The censorship of Mumia – Long Distance Revolutionary in Newark, NJ transcends a former basketball player with enough money to purchase a theater. At issue is the telling of America’s untold stories. It is about how the telling of those stories is often compromised by business interests. It is also about how those business interest whitewash the intent of our constitution.
When power, money and political interest come against the telling of a story, we no longer exist in a free nation. The telling of truths can’t be limited to those who stand on the side of power and money. If so, America becomes less of a free nation.
You may not like Abu-Jamal’s story, but, in America, we don’t censor the rights of those to tell their point of view.Contact your local theater about showing Mumia – Long Distance Revolutionary
Sign petition to free Mumia:http://www.change.org/petitions/release-mumia-abu-jamal
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Every turn he took they said he was too small. They said he was too small to play college football. He excelled. He was much too small to make it in the NFL. He played 13 seasons.
Leo Lewis III wasn’t heavily recruited out of high school after winning the state championship for Columbia Hickman High School in 1974. He didn’t get drafted after playing football for the University of Missouri. He’s only 5-foot-7. When he played he only weighed 167 pounds.
It’s hard to measure the size of a person’s heart.
Maybe it’s something in the gene pool. Leo Lewis, Jr., his father, is a legend of the Canadian Football League. He was a running back with the Winnipeg Bombers and was named All-Pro six times and earned a spot in the Canadian Football Hall of Fame in 1973. The older Leo had an 11-year career and rushed for 8,861 yards, and averaged 29.1 as a kickoff returner.
Pops has another son, Marc Lewis, who played professionally for the USFL Denver Gold and the CFL’s Oakland Invaders. All three were too small to play. All three have big hearts and a determination not to be ruled by the narrow limits people use to measure possibilities.
Leo III was cut or released five times – three times by the Vikings and one each by the St. Louis Cardinals and the Cleveland Brown. He returned each season to play for the Vikings. When he retired in 1991, he had played in more games than any Viking wide receiver and was the team’s all-time leader in punt returns. He outlasted three head coaches.
He kept coming back. He also kept going back to school.
“I took classes every year after leaving Missouri,” the younger Leo told me. In 1985, he obtained a Master of Science degree from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville.
He knew his stay in the NFL would be short. Younger, faster athletes kept vying for his spot on the team.
“You have to prepare for life after the NFL,” Lewis says. “It can end anytime.”
He now holds a Ph.D.
In 1997, Lewis earned his Ph.D. in Kinesiology from the University of Minnesota. His work focused on the social and psychological dimensions of sports.
Lewis was appointed the Director of Player Development for the Vikings in 1992. He managed the team’s personal and career development programs that included encouraging personal growth in the areas of continuing education, financial management, alternative career exploration, and family assistance. In 2000, the program was awarded the most outstanding in the NFL.
In 2006, he was appointed associate director of athletics and student athlete development at the University of Minnesota. Lewis prepares student/athletes for the realities that face professional athletes. He preaches the message that life must continue after the helmet, shoulder pads and cleats are placed in the locker the last time.
Lewis teaches his own story.
“Things are much harder for athletes today,” Lewis says. “They have so much more expected of them than when I played.”
There’s more time spent preparing to play. There’s more time spent in the classroom. There’s more time spent on the road. Today’s athletes are expected to do so much more.
“We have to stress the importance of academics,” Lewis says. “It’s what keeps so many from being unable to play.”
Athletes come to college with a variety of needs. Lewis is developing a program that tailors the student/athlete. It’s a holistic approach that keeps many from falling through the cracks. Some enter college prepared for the transition. Others lack the tools needed to conform to the expectations of college life.
Then there’s the influence of parents. Lewis says his parents stressed the importance of academics. It’s what kept him going back to take classes - one summer at a time, until he was ready to write his dissertation.
“I had people in my life that steered me in the right direction. I had parents who reminded me of the importance of education. It’s important to have people to guide you through making the right decisions,” Lewis says.
Lewis was the little Viking that refused to go away. He was too small to play. He had just enough to play. Just enough to keep coming back.
Maybe it’s because Lewis understand life is more than a game. Maybe it’s the balance between the field and the books that makes for the rearing of a man. Maybe it’s there within the balance that true strength emerges above the rest.
Lewis said no to limitations. He also said no to compromise. He kept coming back, every off season, until he walked across the stage one last time. He walked as a man defined by his own will to rise above the fame of football.
There are few better suited to teach young men what it takes to become a man.
Way to go Dr. Leo Lewis III.
Monday, May 13, 2013
“Say that we should protest just to get arrested. That goes against all my hustling ethics,” those lines from Lupe Fiasco’s song Around My Way (Freedom Ain’t Free) keep ringing in my head.
The thought came to me as I watched young people march near North Carolina’s legislative building. They demanded being arrested. They refused to leave until police fastened plastic handcuffs behind their backs and placed them in the paddy wagon with the words division of prison inmates on the side.
Five young people were arrested on May Day to protest state cut backs in education. It was two days after a group led by Rev. William Barber, state president of the NAACP, and Tim Tyson, history professor at Duke University, were sent to the can.
The group keeps coming back to be arrested. It’s worn like a badge of honor. It’s their way of protesting a list of injustices handed down by North Carolina legislators. That list includes a voter identification law that will impact minorities, young people and senior citizens. It also includes the passage of the unemployment insurance reform bill, which Gov. Pat McCrory signed in February. The bill reduces the amount of weekly benefits those unemployed in North Carolina can receive, and the number of weeks benefits can be paid.
Those protestors keep coming back on Monday afternoons. They’re willing to keep coming back until real change comes. More willing to spend time in jail are showing up to exercise civil disobedience. Jail time, in their minds, will somehow lead to change.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m willing to spend some time in jail for the old home team. I’m also old enough to recognize the difference between being forced in the paddy wagon today versus the former days when being pushed in jail followed water hoses, beatings and getting chased by a German Shepard.
It’s not the same. That’s not to minimize the importance of protest. People need to show up singing old protest songs while holding signs demanding change. Doing so comes with taking responsibility. People my age understand the consequences related to a few hours behind bars. Go for it. Make your point. Yes, fight the power.
With that being said, I worry about the young people signing up to go to jail. I appreciate their passion for the cause. I support their efforts to stand up and connect with a rich legacy of civil disobedience. What disturbs me is the potential burden they will face after graduating from school in hope of making a possible impact on society.
Will their time behind bars make it more difficult to measure up in a society oversaturated with people looking to find a job?
That’s the point of Lupe’s rap lyrics. “Say that we should protest just to get arrested. That goes against all my hustling ethics.”
If the goal is to hustle oneself into a good job, what good can come in protesting in a way that prevents you from getting that job?
This brings to the surface the bully politics that keeps people from protesting. Have we acculturated a generation of young people to fear speaking their minds? Has the power of activism been damaged by the consuming fear of repercussion connected to standing against those who compromise justice and peace?
What are the consequences of being perceived a radical? Can young people take that risk? Is there space within the marketplace to offer young people room to speak their mind devoid of permanent bad marks on their record?
Haven’t all of us needed the freedom to speak our mind? Sometimes that means coming against the wisdom of our parents. Sometimes it means granting young people the permission to yell loud enough to be heard.
I was given my space to yell. It felt good. I continue to yell against systems that negatively impact my understanding of what it means to be a melting pot nation.
Are we willing to give this generation of young people that same right? Or, will that box on the application prevent them from getting a good job?
Have you ever been arrested? Yes, but….
There’s no room for the but when judgment precedes the answer.
“Say that we should protest just to get arrested. That goes against all my hustling ethics.”
Fight the power young people. Just be prepared for what comes with that fight.
Welcome to the other side of reality.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
That man can’t be a hero. It can’t be true. Look at him. Listen closely. Nope. It can’t be true.
Ghetto is more than a zip code, it’s a mindset. The truth is ghetto thinking can transcend ones address. Ghetto is often found in the suburbs and shows up in places that have me shaking my head and rolling both eyes.
That’s the underlying message that jumps at me when I begin pondering the aftermath of the discovery of America’s newest hero – Charles Ramsey. He’s black. He uses colorful language. Some are quick to call Ramsey the epitome of all things ghetto.I hate that term.
Maybe it’s because the Nazis’ placed Jews in areas called ghettos to isolate them from the rest of society. Once World War II progressed, the ghettos became a transition area before sending the Jews off to be slaughtered.Ghetto is a place of isolation prepared by those in power to assure their existence devoid of those unruly misfits. It’s why I hate it when I hear a person of color glamorize being ghetto. I squirmed when listening to Jaheim sing Still Ghetto. The R&B crooner stirred the black citizenry to take pride for being relegated to life in the ghetto.
Ghetto is more than a zip code, it’s a mindset. The truth is ghetto thinking can transcend ones address. Ghetto is often found in the suburbs and shows up in places that have me shaking my head and rolling both eyes.
Ghetto is living entrapped by the mindset of those who place you in isolation. It’s an infrastructure and culture, established by white privilege and power, with the unspoken intent of keeping folks confined. The ghetto is more than language and a combination of rituals that brew in the forming of a culture. It’s a freaking waiting station.Yes, it’s a place created to keep certain people restrained before they are shipped off to die. It happens every day. Every day, all 365 of them, people prepare to leave the ghetto to head to court before being shipped to those concentration camps. We call them prisons.
The parallels between the ghettos of Nazi Germany and those of black and brown communities of today are startling. Each is designed to control those in the camps. Each is enforced by economic strangleholds rooted in a racist agenda.Although both are deliberate, the ghettos of today appear as the construction of the actions of those living in those ghettos. In other words, they deserve what they get. It’s their fault. Those poor, pathetic heathens need to pull themselves up from their own bootstraps.
That’s what power and privilege thinks.This is why the rhetoric surrounding the heroism of Charles Ramsey is so critical in probing and confronting the massive assumptions related to ghetto culture.
In the mind of those on the other side of the invisible fence dividing the ghetto, heroes can’t be nurtured over there. It’s counterintuitive to the claims of those invested in espousing the lore of ghetto culture.The traffic of dialogue embodies the fortification of the pigeonholes of black and brown folks. Presentations of ghetto folks singing, dancing, eating fried chicken, pork chops, ribs and watermelon while smoking weed and waiting for a place to rob fits authentic ghetto life.
Nope. They’re not heroes.So, expose the clown for who he really is, because that fool can’t be a hero. Find the dent in his armor. Follow his black behind long enough to unearth his ghetto ways. Shake the leaves and wait for a bunch of dead apples to fall off the tree.
Well surprise, surprise, surprise. Your ghetto hero has a criminal record. Yup! He belongs in the ghetto with the rest of those no count niggras who need to remain over there because they are a threat to fine outstanding citizens like you and me.Listen to the guards pulling Ramsey back into his ghetto space. Ramsey has a criminal record. He has a history of domestic abuse. They have exposed the ghetto hero as a repeat domestic abuser. He was arrested again while awaiting sentencing.
He served six months in jail and was placed on five years of probation. One of the gatekeepers pulled the file from 1997.Listen to the elitist choir singing – ghetto, thug, no count, worthless, piece of black trash. You’re no hero. You’re just like the rest of them!
Maybe I’m embellishing a bit much, but, well, are my comments really that far from the truth?“When a young, pretty white woman runs into the arms of a Black man you know something wrong,” Ramsey said in his interview with the Cleveland press.
Let me translate for those not familiar with the ghetto. “You don’t see white girls come to the hood. When you do, they run from men who look like me. Something ain’t right when they hug a black man. That don’t happen in the ghetto.”Got it? A black man from the ghetto can’t be a hero.
There’s one big problem with that assumption. Charles Ramsey kicked the door of the ghetto down and set three women free.
I call that a hero.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
I’m putting my foot down. This is not a Sweet Brown moment. I don’t want to see viral videos of Charles Ramsey talking about his rescue of three women from a Cleveland house.
By now, most of the nation has seen the news interview of Ramsey and heard the 911 audio after he helped Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus and Mchelle Knight escape after missing between 2002 and 2004.
In the words of Sweet Brown, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.” What’s that? This is not a time for mimicking Ramsey for his appearance. Nope. This is not time to ridicule him for his hair, his dress, his lack of dental care and his language during the 911 call.
Ain’t nobody got time for casting Ramsey as a racial stereotype. That’s what happened with Sweet Brown. Her fame is the result of a nations thirst to expose black people as obtuse caricatures from the other side of the tracks.
I ain’t got time for anyone laughing at Ramsey for being ill-equipped to make an acceptable presentation before the press. The truth is most people aren’t prepared to make a statement before a rolling camera. Give him credit. As much as Ramsey lacked in visual presence, he overcame with strong interviews.
He told the story with class. He told the truth. He shared what he knew. Ramsey shared angst with having a neighbor he ate ribs with and listened to salsa music without knowing the rest of the story. He told the nation he and his boys would have taken care of it long ago if they knew.
“When a young, pretty white woman runs into the arms of a Black man you know something wrong,” yes, he said that.
That’s the point where the reporter decided to end the interview. It’s the point where he kicks it back to the studio. I’m guessing the producer ain’t got no time for that.
What is that? Ramsey told the truth. It’s rare that a black man is met with hugs from a white woman. When it happens it leaves a brother knowing something is wrong. It’s not normal. Most white women are quick to flee when they see a man like Ramsey. Yes, Ramsey was correct to raise the issue, and the reporter was wrong to end the interview in the middle of a critical point in the story.
Maybe people ain’t got time for that. Again, what is that? Hmm. Check this out. If you want to hide three women abducted for over 10 years, place them in a black neighborhood. Hide them among folks like Ramsey. Why? Because the police may come and knock on the door, but it’s unlikely they will come back to check on things if no one answers the door.
That’s what happened at that house. The police had come before. A neighbor saw something suspicious. They came. They knocked. They left. They never came back.
We ain’t got time for that. Oh, there’s more.
I ain’t got time for Anderson Coopers suggestion that Ramsey desired compensation for his heroics. Cooper asked Ramsey if he would like a reward.
"I get a Paycheck. Give the reward to the girls they rescued," Ramsey responded while waving his check.
So, the black dude has to be framed as an opportunist. Why did you go there Anderson? Would you ask the same question to a white guy living on the other side of the tracks? Would you? Seriously. Would you?
By now, I’m certain readers are screaming at how this story has been framed within the context of race. Why would I do that? Why does it seem that everything is about race?
I’m not saying everything is about race. I’m simply warning you. Don’t go there. Don’t do it. Don’t remix Ramsey’s interviews. Don’t post them on YouTube with a series of rewinds with a line about eating ribs and listening to salsa.
I’m warning you. Don’t post pictures with quotes about dental care. Don’t make jokes about his hair. I ain’t got time for any of that.
Yes, Ramsey represents a segment of black life in America. He wasn’t wearing a suit and tie, but he rescued three women. That makes him a hero. Respect that!
Good job bruh.
Monday, May 6, 2013
“In 1963, Sam Cooke was in Durham, North performing at a concert after participating in a sit-in,” I began my speech last week at the Triangle May Day protest.
“He left the concert and ran to the tour bus. There, he penned the words to the song A Change Gonna Come. I’m still waiting for change.”
My speech followed an unforgettable ride to Raleigh, North Carolina with two members of The Raging Grannies. The two grandmas in the car with me told stories of being arrested for protesting wars. The image of grannies wearing handcuffs was enough to encourage me to do more for those fighting to be heard.
Our walk up the stairs leading to the Halifax Mall was met with the march of a group of men leaving a legislative building. They passed us like enraged warriors headed to a new battle.
“Good day,” I spoke as they passed in a line, two by two.
They kept marching devoid of smile or answer. The badges dangling from their jacket pockets served to identify their position. These were the dudes making those important decisions. They refused to speak. Their disdain for me and the two grannies left me wondering more about the integrity of those who made laws like their conclusions failed to impact real people.
I waited for the crowd of protestors to arrive. They were nearby brewed in a moment of civil disobedience. Most of them were college student’s intent on using the Constitutional right to protest cutbacks and other laws certain to amend their plans after receiving a college degree. Many wondered if the changes would impact their ability to return to school.
The word that five students had been arrested came back to the group at the Halifax Mall. My speech had ended. Only a few were gathered to hear my words that conjured memories of a song about pending change.
“I’m still waiting for change.” I barked in between pauses to give time for the Spanish translation.
“They make laws to take us back,” pause. “But they can’t define who we are,” pause. “We are not what they say we are. We are more than that,” another pause in between words to describe why we gathered that day.
“We are a community redefined by our common bond. We are more than groups defined by race, gender, economic struggle and sexual orientation. We are that change. That change has come. Those over there can’t take that away. We are here to say Hell no to their efforts to take that common bond away.”
The blood of those slaughtered to escort change fermented in my blood like momentum that refused to go back. The image of beaten youth and tired grandparents marching for truth attacked my spirit like a madman begging to be set free. Yes, I’m tired of this – too tired to turn back now.
I titled my head toward the clouds that introduced the fear of rain.
“Where is the sun God? Show me the sun. If not, bring forth the rainbow,” I whispered in hope of divine intervention.
The gathering of the youth led by drummers descended on the mall. Their youthful faces blended with determination.
“They are too young to know the struggles we faced,” I whispered. “We are too old to know the struggles they face.”
One last closing of my eyes before the storm of tears came rolling down my face.
“Why would the Governor sign a measure that cuts benefits for jobless workers by a third,” I whispered. “Why God? Why?”
“Why would the Governor sign a bill blocking Medicaid expansion? Why would be pass legislation that will leave 500,000 people with no coverage? Why God? Why?”
“Why would the North Carolina House pass a voter ID bill that will limit senior citizens and poor people from accessing the polls? Why God? Why?
My personal prayer intensified as the faces of youth took me back to the day a gang of white boys kicked me, spit on me, called me a Nigger and walked away.
“This feels like George Wallace all over again,” I whispered softer than before. “Is this Alabama all over again? Has the rage consumed those unwilling to feel the pain?”
I waited for the sun to come. Then I waited for the rain. Then I waited for the rainbow. Nothing. No sun. No rain. No rainbow.
Like bones in the valley, we waited for change. The police remained nearby to remind us of the venom camouflaged in politics. Like snakes skulking through the weeds, they patiently wait for openings to bite.
“You have a good evening. Thanks for what you do,” I said to a group of police as I left with the two grannies.
“Same to you,” one responded as the others nodded their heads.
I’m still waiting for that change. A change gotta come. It’s gotta come soon.