Parents of students at W. G. Pearson Magnet Middle School refuse to go away

Public schools aren’t what they used to be.  They were once the center of the neighborhood.  They were deeply rooted in tradition, and carried stories going back to our parent’s days.  Today they serve one purpose.  Teach em and move em out.

Those challenged with school administration are confronted with counting the beans and carrying eggs gently so they don’t drop.  That balance between counting beans and carrying eggs keeps Durham’s school board members in the middle of community outrage.  The most recent topic is the anticipated closure of W. G. Pearson Magnet Middle School.  Those proud of the history connected to the school, and the neighborhood surrounding it, are miffed that students will be sent far away.

What were they supposed to do?  “There is no space for an athletic field,” Natalie Beyer, member of the Board of Education, informed me after I posted a blog that shared the frustration of a parent. “Students feel disappointed when they travel to other places to attend sporting events.”

It’s one of those simple matters that many may not consider.  Beyer was one of the parents who pushed to transform W. G. Pearson into a magnet school.  The hope was to offer students a chance to explore their creative sides.  Two of her children completed middle school at W. G. Pearson.  With all the good at the school, the structure lacked the basics to substantiate keeping it open.

Sports matter to middle school students.  There was more to contend with.  The classrooms are too small.  The school system struggled with keeping the doors open beyond the two year window offered to give current students a chance to complete their middle school education at the school.

When the school opened as a magnet a waiver was granted for students living within the school’s zone.  The number of children within that zone declined when the Fayetteville Housing community was flattened to accommodate student housing for NCCU.  The Durham Housing Authority sold the land, but it has stood vacant with no indication of building on the site.  Many students who would have attended W. G. Pearson were forced to other parts of the city.

It’s part of a complicated history that reflects a series of decisions that obstructed the stability of the school and the community surrounding the school.  Part of it was the ruin of the old Hayti community.  Another part is the undermining of Rolling Hills and Southside.  There are efforts to fix all of that, but what happens to the school in the meantime is uncertain.

The promise of W. G. Pearson rapidly faded.  Those parents who came craving what the school pledge soon reneged on that commitment. “Many families at WG Middle Magnet School began to contact DPS about their dissatisfaction with their experience at the school,” say Heidi Carter, member of the Board of Education.  “Areas of concern included lack of facilities for middle school athletics, as well as numerous other complaints about the WG building being old and designed for elementary aged and sized students”

As enrollment declined, the Board of Education and school administrators were forced to contend with the swift decline in white student enrollment.  Due to the under-enrollment of schools, discussions were vital regarding how to restructure attendance lines.  Chewning Middle School had to be redesigned to offset declining attendance.

These changes leave parents feeling defenseless in addressing how they envision their children’s education.  For those who are black, it feels like some old demons reemerging from the grave of hate.  It feels like some plot to destroy black communities and to impede the development of those young minds. 

Something much deeper is at the core of all of this. 

The culprit is white flight from public education.  The truth is black families are also opting out for other options.  They, like white parents, are sold on the message that public schools are failing.  Parents have chosen to remove their children from the public education system to protect them from the madness.  Schools are being built to target parents on the edge of leaving the system.  They’re being built to offset the lure of Voyager Academy and the Central Park School. 

W. G. Pearson gets the chop for multiple reasons.  Board reasons say it is partly due to a lack of space to expand and inadequate classroom space.  That may be true, but, if it is, opening the new W. G. Pearson Magnet Middle School in 2006 was a big mistake.  It reflects a lack of forethought among those who made the decision to open the school knowing it lacked space for athletic facilities, and had classrooms too small to meet the needs of a middle school.  If there is to be criticism, and there should, it’s geared toward those who decided to open the school in the first place.

Now we are left with a new truth.  Those parents who love W. G. Pearson aren’t going anywhere.  They refuse to back off.  They demand being heard, and they will take this to the grave. Why? Because there is too much worth preserving to remain silent. 

The board has taken a new position on the building.  “Earlier this year Dr. Becoats and the DPS administration recommended that the WG Middle School program be discontinued and the building re-purposed,” Carter says. “I don’t think the intention is to close the building forever, but rather to study the community needs and wishes, then make decisions about if and how to use the facility, being sensitive to the historical significance of the building.” 

That’s good news for those fighting parents. Zelda Lockhart (see: http://rev-elution.blogspot.com/2012/05/closing-of-w-g-pearson-magnet-middle.html) has called a meeting to enact an action plan to keep W. G. Pearson open,  The meeting is scheduled for Thursday, May 24^th at 6:00 p.m.  It will be held at 819 Wilkerson Avenue. 

“It's time now to put our heads together on the facts, figures, logistics, legalities for keeping W.G. Pearson open in its neighborhood,” Lockhart says.  It's time for our proactive action plan.”

Something good should come out of the meeting.  If school board members are willing to listen, and people in the community are passionate about this school, a way can be found to keep everyone happy.

But, you know me.  I like to look at the glass as half-full.

Why Malcolm X matters



The plaza was submerged in black.  From the impromptu Soul Train lines to the reminders of black & white televisions with wire hangers dangling from the back, the Bimbe Festival highlighted what happens when old school ways hangs out with the new school.  Doug E Fresh pitched the point when toddlers stole the show when they hopped on stage to do the “Dougie”. They, along with the white dude who proved he can party like a rock star, brought smiles to thousands who came out to celebrate black culture.

Bimbe is unlike many of Durham’s cultural events.  The Blues Festival maintains its reign as the Queen of the outdoor events.  The Blues Festival is a gathering of all of Durham.  It highlights the rich diversity that makes the Bull City the most tolerant municipality in the nation.  Bimbe is different.  It brings out the folks not drawn to the blues or the offerings of other street festivals.  That’s what makes it special.

Bimbe is a pure display of black culture. You get the dress.  You get the dance moves.  You get the attitude and stories about what life was like back in the day when you had to get home before the street lights came on.  It makes you feel like you’re at a family reunion where the best and the worst in the family show up to party.  It’s a confirmation of the slogan “for better and for worse.”

Standing in the middle of it all reminded me of why I love my black family.  It’s important to say that because there is so much not to love.  Let’s be real about it.  How can you love low academic achievement, crime and economic disparity?  There is so much not to like, but that’s not about the people.  That’s about the struggle.  There is a special feeling that comes when surrounded by my people.  You can’t help but smile when the energy takes control.

Saturday was a special time.  It was about the music, the food and the vendors, but there was something else that roused my deep love for black people.  It was the date.  May 19.  I came to celebrate the day.  I do every year.  May 19th is the day Malcolm X was born.

El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz was born on May 19, 1925.  Out of respect, I use the name he was given after his journey to Mecca.  His life took on new meaning after he discovered the universality of Islam.  He could no longer minimize religion to a race.  His radical shift fractured his relationship with Elijah Muhammad, the leader of the Nation of Islam.  Three members of the Nation of Islam killed El-Shabazz as he prepared to address the Organization of Afro-American Unity in Manhattan’s Audubon Ballroom.

The power of his words did not die.  His strength and determination gave a people reason to see beyond how they are defined.  We aren’t what they say we are.  There is beauty in our look.  We are not less than those with blue eyes and the façade of power.  We claimed pride in our African heritage and found the power of collaboration.

He told us not to depend on others for opportunity.  He challenged us to create businesses to support a community historically decimated by neglect.  He told us not to wait on them or depend on them to fix what is within our own power to mend.  We no longer need the slave master to take care of us.  We don’t need to sit at their table to find meaning - we have our own table to eat. 

They brought us here and stripped us of our names.  They robbed us of our heritage by handing us an identity that didn’t belong to us.  They taught us to hate our own skin and to seek the affirmation of a people we will never look like.  They pitted black people against one another based on their complexion –lighter skin tone is better than dark.  We learned to hate our nappy hair and dark skin.  We were taught that white is better, and success is measured by an ability to be more like them.

He was killed on February 21, 1965.  He was only 39 when he died.  If alive he would be 87 years-old. What would he tell us? 

He would tell us that we are more than this.  We are more than our obsessions.  Our cravings are destroying our genius.  Why do we crave our own destruction?  Why do we desire intoxication more than books?  He would challenge us to rise above our own madness. 

Then he would chastise us for our dependence on others.  Why do we keep waiting for crumbs from the table?  Why haven’t we created our own economic strategy to elevate those overlooked by people unable to understand?  He would tell us that we should not blame white people, but the problem is ours to fix.  His message was not about hating white people.  It was more about defining how we arrived at this place, and what it takes to transcend it all.  His challenge was for self-determination.

Finally, El-Shabazz would ask us to ponder our self hatred.  He would attack the massive division among black people.  He would lead dialogue regarding ways to reconcile the gaps based on ideologies.  What are you doing? Why so much energy circulating around differences while the real issue is in finding a solution?

I stayed at Bimbe all day.  I waited to hear his name.  Have we forgotten him?  Maybe it’s because we have been taught to hate him.  Wasn’t his message about hatred toward white people?  Can we endorse the message of a man who wasn’t a Christian?  Is that why we failed to sing the birthday song?

I walked away disappointed.  There would be no Bimbe if not for El-Shabazz.  He changed the way we think about what it means to be black in America. 

 

"Look at yourselves. Some of you teenagers, students. How do you think I feel and I belong to a generation ahead of you - how do you think I feel to have to tell you, 'We, my generation, sat around like a knot on a wall while the whole world was fighting for its human rights - and you've got to be born into a society where you still have that same fight.' What did we do, who preceded you ? I'll tell you what we did. Nothing. And don't you make the same mistake we made...."

I hear you great teacher. Happy Birthday.

The closing of the W. G. Pearson Magnet Middle School draws attention to Durham's battle with disparities

I keep praying that we will get past the growing pains of school merger.  After all that fighting, and Bill Bell putting his political career on the chopping block, the deal was made in 1992.  It wasn’t easy convincing the black community to surrender control of the predominantly black city school system.  White parents feared what would come of the county school district once little black kids began attending their schools.

It was a nightmare waiting to unfold.  It’s been 20-years now, and those fears have become our reality.  The merging of the former Durham Public School and Durham County School systems continues to strain Durham’s public education.  The hope was to create a new district that reaped benefits from the strengths of the former systems.  It’s a work in progress.

Many parents are angry with how money fuels decisions.  Zelda Lockhart, 2010 Piedmont Laureate for Literature in her region of North Carolina, is among the parents refusing to remain silent. “My daughter has the right to be educated in her community, at a school that has historical significance for all people of Durham, and in a space where she can walk less than a block and continue her education at the library that is also part of her historical neighborhood, where her love for art and science are nurtured.,” she says in response to the closing of W.G. Pearson Magnet Middle School.

W. G. Pearson was touted for drawing gifted students interested in the arts.  It’s located in an historical black neighborhood where many residents remember the glory days before decay settled in to rob so many of their dreams.  The school represents more than a place to teach their children.  The building along with the youth who walked to school reminds residents of what could be there again. 

W. G. Pearson became expendable when the Lucas Middle School was built. The North Highlands neighborhood requested a middle school closer to their children.  The new school with state of the art technology will open in August. Treyburn in North Durham, is a neighborhood where the average home price is over $270,000.

 “The scenario is all too familiar to my own as a teenager,” Lockhart says. “I slipped through cracks of development in the City of St. Louis when many of the inner city schools were slowly closed in favor of county development, and by the time I was ready to attend high school the schools that remained open were on the other side of town and there was no transportation save for my bus pass.”

 Lockhart contends there is a deeper political issue surrounding the closing of W. G. Pearson’s successful program.  That is the closing a thriving institution that serves an underserved population to accommodate for the building of a new facility that will serve a privileged population.

“Problem solve for our children the way you problem solved for the children of upper income parents,” Lockhart says.  She wants the school board to redraw the district lines. “And make sure that you keep your promise to provide all students with an outstanding education that motivates them to reach their full potential and enables them to discover their interests and talents, pursue their goals and dreams, and succeed in college, in the workforce and as engaged citizens.”

“What is key in keeping that promise is that the W.G. Pearson children never again walk out of the school at the end of their day feeling like second class citizens because one school far north of their neighborhood will open with new technology, while their facility is left to fall apart and thus be closed because it has been ignored,” Lockhart says.

Rather than improve the school within walking distance of students, a new one is built far away. The assumption felt by children is the best schools are over there.  Why can’t the best schools be over here?

There’s an interesting twist to all of this merger talk.  Jeanne H. Lucas was the first African American female to serve as a state senator.  Prior to that, she worked with the Durham City School System.  The new school named in her honor is far away from the students she once taught.  I wonder what she would think about the closing of W.G. Pearson?

All in the name of merger.

Anita Daniels deserves the nod to replace Joe Bowser on the Board of County Commissioners

It’s only six months. Right? Selecting someone to complete the term vacated by Joe Bowser is no big deal. Right?  Members of the Durham Board of County Commissioners can easily make that decision. Right?

Hold on, wait a minute.  This is Durham, NC, and there is no such thing as an easy decision.  The last time members of the Board of County Commissioner were stuck with the same task they ended up picking Pam Karriker, a supporter of Amendment One.  Her short stint on the board is a reminder that not everyone living in Durham has tolerance oozing from their bones.

 Karriker, along with her four comrades, have been stuck with the charge of replacing Joe Bowser after he was taken to the wood shed and given an old fashion beat down during the primary.  Old Joe’s feelings were so hurt that he decided to take his toys and go home.

Picking a person to serve a six month term is a thorny task when placed within the context of Durham’s old school political culture.  The most heartbreaking part of how things get done in Durham is how virtually everything is tied to an antiquated system that fails to serve the average Jane and Joe citizen.  Those squeaky wheels get all of the attention, and, at the end of the day, what is best is often compromised to satisfy the interest of someone holding the perception of power.

That’s why the best person to replace Bowser – for six months – may get overlooked.  That person is Anita Daniels.

This six month term of duty is tied to a system that demands being fed bits of morsels from the table of power.  On that table are old names that represent, in the minds of those holding power, the essence of credibility.  Only a few are allowed to sit at the table.  It’s a system that feeds on its own while frustrating the growth within footsteps of actualization.

The characters at the table are few.  Fred Foster, Jr., who placed near the top among those receiving votes in the primary election, is the favorite among Bill Bell and others who have chimed in on Bowser’s replacement.  Foster’s showing during the primary, combined with Wendy Jacob’s willingness to bow out of taking office early, is why it will be difficult for Commissioners to pass on his taking office.

Hold my mule.  That may be politically advantageous, but Daniels is the one for the job. Why?

I take serious issue with Foster taking office prior to relinquishing his role as President of the Durham NAACP.  There is nothing within the guidelines of the NAACP or with the Board of County Commissioners that negate his right to hold both offices; however, serving in both capacities reflect a lack of sensitivity to the potential of serious conflicts of interest.  The work of the NAACP will be compromised by having a President who can’t speak on behalf of the organization due to his role as a member of the Board of County Commissioners. 

There is also the matter of the November election.   It appears that Omar Beasley will be placed on the ballot along with the five Democrats who survived the primary.  Although Foster was on top of the heap among those who collected votes, the will of the people is still in question, and we can’t assume that Foster will survive in November.  By appointing Foster before the November election, Foster is granted footing over others who remain in the competition. 

Phil Cousins, chair of the Durham Committee on the Affairs of Black People, is a favorite among many.  Cousins is capable of entering the work with both feet on the ground due to having served as a County Commissioner.  He brings knowledge that will make for a smooth transition.  The problem with Cousins is his current role as Chair of the Durham Committee on the Affairs of Black People.  Although the Durham Committee’s Political Committee is not chaired by Cousins, serving the Board of County Commissioners would be a major conflict of interest due to the November election.  Not to mention that Cousins has a tough task in convincing people that Lavonia Allison isn’t pulling the strings of the organization. 

Another option would be to seek the service of another former commissioner.  The most likely choice would be Maryann Black, who currently serves on the staff at Duke Medicine.  Becky Heron, who resigned from the board last year, is another possibility, but don’t hold your breath.

The other option would be to select from the list of those who lost during the primary.  There are two who stand out: Anita Daniels and Elaine Hyman. Both have experience in county government as department heads.  Daniels, in addition to her experience as an executive with the United Way, has worked in city government. 

Daniels gets the nod over Hyman due to her strong showing during the primary.  Although it’s only six months, those at the table are passing on the one waving to get their attention.

In my opinion, it's the best move to make. But, who am I? I'm not at the freaking table.

Bowser's selfish decision could lead to another selfish decision

Joe Bowser’s abrupt resignation from the Board of County Commissioners has the remaining members scrambling to appoint his replacement.  The best word to describe Bowser’s decision to opt out of completing his term is selfish.  He leaves behind a board in flux, and loads of potential political maneuvering that could compromise the integrity of those left behind.

Many are asking why Bowser quit before the job was complete.  He says Commissioners have tough decision over the next few months, and it would be best for them to move without his input.  His argument fails to consent to the vow he took when taking office.  The deal was to fulfill his obligation through the end of the term, and it wasn’t conditioned on whether voters decided to give him the nod for another four years.

Left behind to muddle through the decision of replacing Bowser is Pam H. Karriker, who will step down at the end of her term, Ellen Reckhow, Brenda Howerton, and Michael Page. The task is complicated due to the ongoing battle to serve after the end of the current term.  Will Wilson, who placed fifth in the primary with 8.4 percent of the votes, could challenge Page in a runoff on June 26.  In addition, Omar Beasely has secured enough signatures to be placed on the ballot in November.

Beasley, a bails-bondsman and track coach with Carolina Elite, needed 7,000 signatures to be placed on the November ballot.  He plans to turn in 8,000 signatures to the Board of Elections at the end of June.    The runoff between Page and Wilson, combined with the election in the fall, makes the replacement of Bowser a matter soiled with political interest.

Wendy Jacobs and Fred Foster seem to be the frontrunners to replace Bowser.  Many have given the nod to Foster – a black man replacing a black man.  On the surface it appears as the logical move given the current state of racial politics in the city.  Jacobs and Foster were close behind Reckhow in the primary.  Commissioners have 60 days to replace Bowser, and Foster seems to have the necessary votes to begin his term six months early.

I’d recommend a pause before moving too fast on appointing Foster to replace Bowser.  There is one last matter of business that Foster needs to fix before stepping into office.  Will he resign as President of the Durham Chapter of the NAACP, or will he do as Bowser did before being strips of his office – hold both?

Foster indicated that he was stepping down from his duties as President of the NAACP when he announced his run for the Commission office.  He stated that he would do so until the end of the election.  It’s not quite clear what stepping down meant for Foster.  He continues to hold the title of President, and there is no clear indication that he has separated himself from the work of the NAACP. 

What is clear is Foster’s inability to consider the potential conflict of interest in maintaining both roles.  “I have not had time to consider my position with the NAACP, but when I make a decision, I will be happy to share that with the public,” he says.

“I would invite you to research the manual governing the NAACP. There are several county commissioners and state legislators serving in public office while holding office with the NAACP,” he says.  “I refer you to Skip Alston who is chair of the Guilford County Board of County Commissioner who served as NC State President of the NAACP just to give you an example.”

Foster is correct.  There are examples to support his claim to hold both offices.  Bowser made the same argument when he served on the Commission.  There is nothing the members of the Board of County Commissioners can do to minimize Foster’s role as President of the NAACP.  My challenge to Foster, and those who cling to all that power, is to consider the danger in serving two masters.  Why relegate the role of the NAACP by placing yourself in a position that compromises the voice of that office?

Who will serve as the spokesperson for the NAACP before the Board of County Commissioners?  Isn’t the power of social activism maintained by creating safe distance from the organizations that require scrutiny? What voice can you give to matters regarding county government when you are a member of the team impacting policy?  The conflict of interest leaves the NAACP vacant of leadership capable of bringing credible critique of the organization Foster has been elected to serve.

Upon mentioning the parallel with Bowser, Foster responded “I am not Joe Bowser.”  Foster may not be Bowser, but the lessons from Durham’s not so distant past should serve to enlighten us about the bad news that comes when there are conflicts of interest.

Bowser was stripped of his lifetime membership with the NAACP for passing out fliers on Election Day in 2004 that read: "Joe Bowser, DURHAM BRANCH NAACP PRESIDENT, Recommends for Your Vote the Following Candidates. NO STRAIGHT DEMOCRATIC TICKET VOTING."

Bowser represented Republican gubernatorial candidate Patrick Ballantine during the endorsement meeting of the Durham Committee. NAACP President and CEO Kweisi Mfume notified Bowser in writing that he was suspended as president and that his life membership was also suspended because he engaged in political campaigning using his position in the nonpartisan organization.

It was a selfish move that impacted Durham’s NAACP.  Resigning before the end of the term is selfish. 

Foster may not be Bowser, but if he holds on as President of the NAACP, that’s selfish.  If that happens, keep your eyes on the one who refuses to give up power for the state of a greater good.

Obama's position on same-gender marriage rekindles "Yes We Can"

I was grumpy the day after the primary election.  It felt like all hope in living in a country that truly protects the rights of all citizens vanished with one massive stroke.  Amendment One was a colossal blow to my communal vision.

The pain subsided the next day when President Obama said hell to the no to North Carolina’s conception of what it means to be America.  “It grew directly out of this difference in vision,” Obama explained.  “Are we a country that includes everybody and gives everybody a shot and treats everybody fairly?  Does that make us strong?”  Obama is correct to assert that support of same-gender marriage is an extension of what America is supposed to be.

Obama’s out of the closet political experience could not have come at a better time.  It was the much needed band-aid for those aching after the hillbillies in North Carolina defined marriage as a union between a man and a woman.  The issue has been a hot potato for politicians desiring to keep their liberal base while not miffing the Biblical literalist who believe God speaks in King James English.

Obama had to face the harsh reality of black folk’s homophobic ways.  Among those most prone to ride the Obama bus, support for same-gender marriage was like selling a ticket to a Klan rally.  As liberal as black people are on social matters, they are hardliners when it comes to the way they approach the Bible.  It’s a mystery among progressive minded ministers who take seriously the need to break through all forms of exclusion.

It took courage for Obama to rise above the madness and give the nod for same-gender marriage.  His failure to do just that had left former supporters on the fence about the upcoming election.  To vote, or not to vote – that was the question.  The lack of a courageous stance made it difficult for people to embrace the message of hope when it came with grim limits. Justice only applied when devoid of political suicide.

Many may ask, what took Obama so long.  At the end of the day, what matters is that we are finally here.  The result has been an outpouring of Obama love unlike anything we have seen since that cold day at his inauguration.  Most of what we have witnessed has been on a slippery slope.  From the Obama surrender of the one payer option during the heath care talks, to those corporate bailouts, that oozy feeling that had us screaming “Yes we can,” became a collective “what you doing?”

As much as we understood Obama’s scraps with those mean spirited tea baggers and Republicans, we wanted a more vicious Obama.  We wanted to see a black dude from the hood take them out like Bruce Lee did Han in “Enter the Dragon”.  We wanted to see Obama slap them silly and put them in their proper place for all the abuse we’ve felt from their injudicious policies. 

Commentators measured him up as weak and over his head.  Others saw Obama as the reincarnation of the old political diversion we were hoping would go away.  Yes, we can!  A black man will fight.  He understands how it feels to be on the bottom with no ladder to climb out from the whole.  That’s what we thought, but, but, but.

As a black man, I simply couldn’t keep the brother hanging.  I was rooting for him despite my concerns.  No, it isn’t all because he’s black, but it has more to do with understanding what it feels like to be a black man in a world with old white dudes who refuse to listen to what you have to say.  It has more to do with the double standard of judgment used to define success and failure, and the covert messages coming from those who label Obama a misfit and failure.

It hurts witnessing conservative Christian flaunting love for Mitt Romney after a century of tagging his faith a cult.  It is conceivable that they will support an elder of a group they consider outside the faith they claim over a man within the purview of their faith.  It reveals the hypocrisy of those who hide their racism with scriptures.  I can’t let my brother go down like that.  I know a bigot when I see a bigot, and it’s time for a slap down long overdue.

Ring the bell.  Let’s do this thing right.  Take off your façade and let’s be real about what this is all about.  Stop playing games with what irks you the most.  I’m sick of all of this pretension.  Call a spade a spade.  This has long been about how we define what this country means.  Tell me the truth!  You’re mad because a black man is in control.  You’re mad because he’s running the show, and you get even more irritated when he refuses to play by your rules.

That’s what makes this a new day.  Obama’s position on same-gender marriage takes the power out of the hands of those who strangle him with assumptions.  He is a liberal in the pocket of the gay community.  That’s what they have wanted to say.  No, that is what they have stated.  Good for you Mr. President!  Say it loud! Take the power away from them and tell them yes I am.

And now that you have stated it clearly – YES WE CAN!

The day after Amendment One: Diary of the depressed

It’s the day after the passage of Amendment One.  It’s 12:25 pm, and I’m sitting in my normal chair at the Bean Traders on Ninth Street.  I’m surrounded by people I love and respect. Being here makes it easier for me to unleash all the emotions coming after the passage of an amendment rooted in bigotry and ignorance.

North Carolina’s state constitution will define marriage as a union between a man and a woman.  After expending so much personal energy into defeating the amendment, I’m left drained, confused and overcome with a sense of loneliness.  This was a battle regarding theological claims.  It pitted the Biblical literalist against people like me – those willing to consider the actions of Jesus against the message of an apostle named Paul.

The clash has left me with massive battle wounds.  As an African American pastor of a Baptist congregation, I have challenged people to be more compassionate and loving when in the company of people who love a person of the same gender.  The way I function as a spiritual leader forces me to ponder what it means to love people beyond conditions.  I’ve asked readers of my blog and column to see the humanity in everyone they meet.  I’ve begged members of the congregations under my leadership to see the face of God in every face they see.

The passage of the amendment leaves me broken due to the assumptions of its passage.  If most people living in the state refuse to accept the possibility that people of the same gender can love one another in ways common to their own relationship, I’m left outside the normal culture.  In the minds of many, I’m a heretic of the Church.  My teachings are not endorsed by the majority within the state.  Sadly, many who share my hue agree with the passage of Amendment One.

It leaves me struggling to locate a people willing to consider an alternative to the message of exclusion. Where do you go when surrounded by people unwilling to consider the implications of the laws we create to sanction hatred?  How do I continue to function as a heterosexual offered privilege denied those I love?  How can I get married in good conscious while people I care about can’t do the same?  How do I stand and listen to messages regarding how we are created while people I love grapple with suggestions of how they are sinners viewed as deplorable in the eyes of God?  How do you listen?  How do you continue to serve?

The vote in favor of the amendment serves as North Carolina’s collective shout against people like me.  We are few in number.  We are black, heterosexual, ordained, part of a mainline tradition and forceful in spreading a message of love while standing in the fire of hatred. We have no community to endure with us as masses walk away. We have no rainbow love to hold hands with us after we’re forced out of work and cry because our calling is under attack.  We’re left alone.

But, does any of that matter?  Isn’t this what it means to walk in integrity?  Doesn’t leadership demand walking in the darkness with those who can’t find the light?

My ache is because we didn’t need this drama.  North Carolina didn’t need to vote on placing an amendment in the constitution to validate the homophobic ways of those who refuse to take the time to listen to the voice of God beyond what they assume is found in the Biblical text.  The need to make a point transcended the message of love.  We didn’t need this fight.  None of us needed to experience this trap of division.

That’s why I can’t stop crying. 

I’m reminded that my tears don’t belong to me.  This was not about my right to love and get married.  Wait a minute.  Maybe it was about me.  Maybe that’s what so many have lost in this discussion.  It’s about all of our rights to love and be free.  It’s about our right to stand free from the control of others.  My tears are stirred by something deeper than a vote.  They are about freedom.

For me, I seek a place to be free to express my spirituality in a way that lifts me beyond my own thoughts regarding what it means to be me.  I need to be connected to Gaea, the great Mother Earth.  I need messages that reflect how I am connected to a world beyond my knowing.  I require the love of my friend, Rabbi John Friedman, a Jew.  I need to be cradled by the strength of Joy Mickle-Walker, a Buddhist, and Naomi Quinn, an atheist.  I seek a world that bounces in the pride of a collective tune made possible by a desire to be more than what divides us.

I few tears began to flow.  “My generation gets it Carl,” my friend Laura Lazarus told me just before I took my seat to write.  “In 20 years, people will look back at this and laugh at us.”

Surrounded in the comfort of diversity, I exhaled.  New breath after the sting of isolation.  I’m not alone.

Shana, a barista at Bean Traders, says we should celebrate Durham in all of this.  Maybe she’s right.  We should seek love among those willing to be love.  My hope has always been to find unconditional love in the Church.  I’ve sought to teach love by being love. 

If I’m a heretic, I’ll continue to love all I meet.  Even if those in the Church reject the message of love.  In standing with those rejected, I become the rejected.  Isn’t that the message of the faith so many say forced them to vote in favor of the amendment?

If I have to stand alone I will carry this cross.  It reminds me of that song we sing during worship – “no cross, no crown”.  My cross is my love for those seeking freedom, my crown is the sprinkles of love they give when those in the Church turn their backs.

The victory is in the love.

Kerry Sutton's methods feel like a bad movie

I’ve  heard great things about Kerry Sutton.  I’m told she’s a top notch attorney who fights for folks who fall through the cracks of the judicial system.  It’s hard not to like a woman like that.  Single mom, smart.  There's so much I like about her.

Please pause the video before getting drawn into this movie.  Something is wrong with the script.

My gut is telling me to avoid the Kerry Sutton trap.  On three occasions she has thrown a few curve balls that leave me wondering about what’s ticking inside the woman competing with Mike Woodard for N.C. Senate District 22.  My gut tells me that Sutton’s campaign has been an effort to convince voters to give her the nod due to the failures of others, versus what she brings to the table.

It’s one of those things that vex my spirit.  It’s up there with unloading a fart while at the dinner table and picking your noise before shaking my hand.   I get an eerie feeling when a person has to draw attention to another person to validate their own merits.  I’d rather hear the strengths a person brings to the proverbial table than to market their worth based on the bags the competition is carrying.  It leaves me thinking, “I’m better than what’s his name, so give me a chance.”

The first hit at I’m better than the rest came when Sutton informed us that she should be elected because of a lack of female presence in the Senate.  I’m not disputing her point, and the big girl upstairs knows I’m all in when it comes to undoing the disparity among those who rule the land.  I’m fed up with a bunch of old, white dudes making policy that impacts people they would rather see move to another state. 

My problem with it then, and now, is the assumption that her gender alone was enough to convince us to give her the vote.  It takes more than being a minority to validate the endorsement of those tired and confused.  If gender was all it takes, then give me a little space to share my frustration involving the lack of black presence everywhere I look.  Exhibit one – take a look at any news room in the city nearest you.

I can forgive that faux pas.  No biggie.  I placed it in the same file with Obama sharing with the nation Trayvon Martin could have been his son and his spiking the ball on the anniversary of Ben Laden’s death.  It’s one of those tell the truth moments that we need to hear to keep us on track.  

Rewind the tape a few months prior to the announcement of her bid.  Sutton started the balls rolling to oust Tracey Cline as Durham’s District Attorney.

She filed the motion.  She pushed the case.  Some may call that setting things right.  It could be argued that Sutton was the only one with the guts to take a punch at Cline.  The big bad bully needed to go down, and she did.  My problem with Sutton’s role in removing Cline as Durham’s DA is the timing of it all.  She took her hit at Cline just in time to position her as one of Durham’s outstanding leaders.  It made her vital.  I’m not implying that she used the dysfunction in the DA office to get attention, but it does leave me with a nasty smell in the room.  Did somebody fart?

Next was the fart that took me over the edge.  It was like little Johnny playing the tattle tale on Jane in my third grade class.  “Mike Woodard has failed to comply with the ethics rules that require all candidates for the General Assembly to provide important economic disclosure forms,” Sutton stated in a press release on May 1. “A candidate’s failure to comply with such requirements can lead to serious penalties.  The State can fine a candidate $250 as a civil penalty.  Criminal penalties also can be enforced if a candidate is found to have provided false information.”

This is the message coming from the Sutton camp the week prior to the election.  Woodard could be fined $250.  Stop the presses.  It’s the scandal of the election! Really?  As important as meeting deadlines are, Sutton’s rant says more about her than it does about Woodard.  I’m better than him because I got my homework in on time.

I’m not suggesting that we minimize the importance of submitting the paperwork.  Woodard, and all other candidates, should comply with the rules of the game.  What bugs me is the work Sutton put into uncovering the mistake.  With all that it takes to get elected, shouldn’t more time be spent in proving to us that she deserves to win, rather than exposing why Woodard shouldn’t be elected.  If all she has is evidence that she is keen on uncovering other people’s mistakes. Well, you fill in the blank….

I need a Senator, not a private eye.  That’s my answer on top of the dots that make a line.

The confession of a Crystal Mangum supporter

It’s always the man’s fault.

In most cases that is true.  Men use the privilege of patriarchy to dominate the lives of women.  It’s a lesson I learned in a feminist class I took at the University of Missouri.  Men suck.

That lesson learned long ago has haunted me ever since.  Given I’m a black dude; I’m able to hide behind the wall of race whenever the roll call for injustice is made.  I’m forced from behind the wall of race to fess up to how black men have done black women wrong for as long as anyone can remember.  Fighting to overcome all of that is a real challenge.  That’s my confession.

It’s why I wanted to prove that Crystal Mangum wasn’t fibbing when she said she was raped by three white lacrosse players from Duke University.  I was one of the first to rise to the occasion by both writing and marching about the need for justice.  It was that rare story that forced a serious pondering related to my role as a journalist juxtaposed against my calling as a minister.

She had to be telling the truth.

My first response was disgust.  I placed all impartiality to the side due to the countless other women I know who have been raped and taken advantage of by men.  I was outraged and intent on standing in solidarity with Mangum.  Before I wrote, I had to make a personal statement. I took a trip to that house on Buchanan Street and took a piss near one of the windows.  I marked my bold protest.

I then took to writing. I spoke to other women who have endured rape.  I interviewed a former exotic dancer who shared the horror of working private functions like the one held by the lacrosse team.  I was inflamed with rage because of an assumption I made – no woman would lie about being raped.  It had to be true. 

I held my pen in one hand while marching with the crowd in protest.  It was hard to make that separation.  I carried the tears of my sister who was raped in high school. I held with each footstep the image of my father coming home to get his gun to find the man who violated his daughter.  I remembered standing in pride of the man who loved enough to take justice in his own hands.  I was too young to ponder what could have happened next.  Each step was for my sister.

Each beat of my heart considered my mother’s pain.  I knew the years of abuse she had overcome.  I knew the unyielding damage done after her mother died due to her birth.  I knew the violence of the men from her past and the tears often shed when she thought no one was listening.  Mangum had to be right.

It was the story to expose all of that pain.  Finally, I felt, black women’s burdens appeared on the front page.  I wrote and marched because they had finally overcome the avoidance of their pain.  This had to be true.  I wanted it to be true. There was no way for it not to be true.

After fighting for Mangum’s right to be heard, and believing something unspoken happened on that dreadful night when she came to take off her clothes, I have a confession.  I was wrong.  I jumped too soon on the bandwagon to tell the story of black women’s pain.  Mangum was set up to be their spokeswoman.  She was supposed to be the victim of a long legacy of race made worse by class and gender.  She was supposed to pave the way for others to be heard. 

It had to be true.

Years later, I’m forced to concede the truth.  Mangum is a victim.  She is the victim of her own image of victimization, and she is surrounded by people willing to cultivate her need to be the victim.

If we are to believe her now, men are behind all the bad that has come her way.  Three time now. Three, count them, three occasions were trouble befalls due to the ways of men.  That could be true, but, if it is, at the root of it all is how she places herself in positions that make her the victim.

Strike one was the accusation of rape.  I wrote that we should not judge her for being an exotic dancer.  I, along with so many others, brought to the forefront her academics.  We challenged people not to discount her humanity based on her profession.  We recorded instances of injustices that forced women like Mangum to lean on the cravings of men to provide for their children.  She claimed the men in that room took advantage of her.

Strike two.  She burned the clothes of her boyfriend in a bathtub and threatened to stab him.  She was charged with attempted first-degree murder, five counts of arson, assault and battery, communicating threats, three counts of misdemeanor child abuse, injury of personal property, identity theft and resisting an officer.  Her claim – it was his fault. She was convicted of child abuse, vandalism and resisting an officer.  Abuse was her defense. She claimed a need to defend herself after ongoing abuse.

Now it’s strike three.  This time it’s murder. She’s charged with the murder of Reginald Daye, 46.  Police found Daye with one stab wound in his torso April 3 at Mangum’s apartment.  Mangum was charged with murder after Daye died April 13.  She claims she stabbed Daye in self-defense after he punched her, dragged her by her hair, kicked her and continued to abuse her.

Each case declares the cruelty of men.  One strike, two strikes, three strikes, you’re out.  As sad as it is to consider the possibility of a person being abused over and over again, at some point those on the outside have to wonder about the judgment leading up to that cycle of pain.  Are we to assume that Mangum simply finds herself engrossed in bad situations, or can some of the blame be caused by her own dysfunctional ways?

Such is the life of the victim.  They repeatedly relive the same nightmare because they keep going back to the scene of the crime.  If you keep doing stupid things, the consequences of that stupidity will keep biting you in the ass.  We can’t discount the cries of the innumerable victims begging to be heard, but once heard we should challenge them to move past the limits of victimization.

Adding to the crisis of victimhood are those willing to take advantage of those too weak to see past what they have created.  The cast of characters following the Mangum case embody the tragic end for those needful of a stage to remain relevant.  Mangum’s tragic story becomes the centerpiece for a broader discussion related to how the juxtaposition of race, class and gender can impede the progress of those who go to battle with those who have all the toys.  Mangum is used as an example of how one can fall after attempting to expose the ruthless ways of white boys with more than enough money to fight.

It’s why we wanted it all to be true.  We needed for her to be raped.  Some refuse to accept that maybe it was all a lie.  In coming to Mangum’s defense they do more damage than good due to the methods used to make their point.  By continuing to make her case about what happened with those boys from Duke, she confronts the tragedy of having to prove the worth of that former claim.

By fighting her case during a press conference, Mangum’s supporters negatively impacted her defense in the murder case.  The Committee on Justice for Mike Nifong met with the press leading up to Mangum’s hearing.  Their press release exposed the claims of the defense. That “the medical examiner, prosecutor, or defense attorney, by respectively filing a fraudulent autopsy report, prosecuting baseless charges, and offering up no substantive defense, acted in good conscience and in the interest of justice,” the release stated.

The actions of the committee led Chris Shella, Mangum’s attorney, to withdraw from the case.  “These individuals have disclosed these documents to the general public along with the potential defense theory of the case,” Shella stated in his motion to be removed from the case.

Those prompted to support Mangum further led her into a more tragic state of victimhood.  Now she has to wait on a court appointed attorney.  It’s what happens to victims – one bad thing is followed by another, then another, and it keeps on going.  When does it come to an end?  What can we offer Mangum to support her in overcoming the demons in her head that drive her in making the same mistakes?

Mangum may be innocent of killing Daye.  It’s conceivable that his end was an act of self-defense.  It’s plausible that Mangum burned those clothes in the bathtub due to the rage correlated with abuse.  We could even assert the possibility that something happened that night when she took off her clothes.  One theme is consistent in each incident – Mangum placed herself in harm’s way.  No, I’m not blaming victims; I’m questioning the credibility of Mangum being the poster woman for other women grappling to overcome the clutch of patriarchy.

At the end of it all, it may be proven that Mangum needs more than what can be garnered in a criminal decision.  This may be about the trauma among those who endure rape and domestic violence.  Ways need to be found to help women like Mangum move past the life of victimization.  Otherwise, the cycle continues until there is nothing left to hope to change.

I needed it all to be true.  The truth would have paved the way for great work in the cause for women’s rights.  She was a victim, I thought.  I’m not sure that’s not true.

So, here’s my confession.  It’s possible that we too are the victims in this case.  Our quest for it all to be true leaves us frustrated that we can’t prove the validity of these claims.

The game of capitalism is like playing musical chairs

There’s nothing wrong with putting your money where your heart leans.  There’s nothing like a few bucks to solidify a person’s backing of a given agenda.  Isn’t that what it means to live in the good ole U. S. of A.?

The older I get the more I come to let go of those altruistic notions that guide many of my decisions.  Some things feel better when it comes with a stack of bills and a promise for more if you keep smiling.  Shucks, the most holy among us get tempted when baby needs a new pair of shoes and there’s not enough to pay the rent.

It’s a game so many play. Many play it safe by pretending they’re not in it for the cash, while others prance around like the dude who purchased the Eton shirt for $45,000. The shirt, encrusted with white diamond cufflinks and colored diamond studs, reminds me of the arrogance among those who contend their money makes them sovereign over penny pincers like me.

They gloat in the mound of cash vaulted away in a trust account bearing more annual interest than most make in a lifetime.  They stand over the rest of us like we’re pawns on that Monopoly board.  We get traded like the small red homes praying their number doesn’t show up in a crap shoot. Those with the big bucks play the game with ease because it really doesn’t matter if a bad day shows up in the middle of the match.  They keep rolling the dice because they have enough to take a risk.

Everything, and I mean everything, is for sell.  Love can be brought.  You can buy your child a gig with a smile, and you can purchase a few votes on the way to making more cash to secure the lives of your great, great, great grandchildren.  It’s a cycle that keeps the game moving.  The rich get richer and everyone else hopes they can play the game, and become like the people they hate so much.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m no player hater.  Hat’s off to anyone who plays the game well enough to build a stockpile of cash. I simply want to have a heart to heart about how this real life Monopoly game plays out among those with no more than a few dice to roll and a prayer.  Making it big takes enough money to absorb a few risks, and the big time players laugh at you when you come to the table with a few rolls and a dream that your gamble will pay big dividends.  You can play the game, but you are primarily at the table to amuse those who laugh at you behind your back for thinking you can hang with the big boys.

It’s the unraveling of that truth that has so many disparaging the assumptions of American capitalism.  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the i-s-m at the end ranks it in the same line with all the other misfits of dehumanization.  Given the mammoth misuse of capitalism of late, it belongs in the same room as racism, sexism, classism and all the cousin of insensitivity.

This is not a denunciation of the economic system.  This is a repudiation of the application of that system.  This is about how greed fuels corruption, and how rules get twisted to accommodate the advance toward achieving the desired goal.  This is about the power of influence, the assumptions of privilege and how money prompts change for those with enough money to get things done their way.

This is about how the game is played different among those with enough money to change minds.  It’s about the lies we tell as a nation – that our laws are created to protect each of us, despite race, creed, gender, age or gender orientation.  We affirm warmly that America is a colorblind nation.  It’s not.  The color of preference is green.

We operate under the assumption that we are measured by our talents and mental power.  We cling to the notion that all are offered opportunity based on the perception that they possess something deeper than the restrictions that come with class status.  We play with that assumption.  It’s a lie. It matters, and it matters more than most are willing to admit.

It influences who gets hired and who gets fired.  It determines who gets into those top colleges and universities that claim high SAT scores and grade point average as the foundation for selection.  We claim it’s not race, but academic performance.  All of it is a lie.  It’s the color of money and how it sways capital campaigns that influences who gets in and who is left out.

I’m tired of the lie.  All are not treated the same, and our laws are not made in a way that honors the humanity of each of us beyond how much we have in the bank.  It determines who runs for office and who gets elected.  It is used to undermine our ecosystem by offering government handouts to builders who come bearing the gift of a pipe dream. 

Those on the bottom are forced to contend with the mean game played by those with all the toys.  The rules keep changing.  It’s like playing musical chairs – those seeking hope keep dancing, only to have the chair pulled out from under them once those with the bucks stop playing the music. 

They’re told they need more education. Check.  Sorry, now you need more. Check. Sorry, it’s in the wrong field of study. Check. Whoops, you went to the wrong school. Check.  Sorry again, your GPA is too low.  Check.  Oh, I see you have bad credit.  I fixed it.  Hmm, so you have a misdemeanor in 1991 for possession of less than a gram of marijuana.  That was more than 20 years ago.  I was a kid. Give me a break. Nope.  I have a friend who has a step mother who has a cousin who needs a job.  I went to school with my friend, so I’m giving the friends step mother’s cousin the job.  But, wait! I have a Master’s degree with 10 years of experience.

I know. I know.  He has a college degree with no experience, but he fits our corporate image.

It’s easy to play musical chairs when someone is holding your chair and the DJ is your daddy with the checkbook.