A black man's confession after watching "Lemonade"

A smart man knows when to keep his mouth shut. When women start talking about their pain, it’s best to keep your thoughts to yourself and listen.

It may not be wise for me to step into the conversation involving “Lemonade”, the video album that has people wondering about Becky with the good hair. The album is one of those special contributions that leaves you thinking “well damn”.

Watching it reminded me of how I felt after my first viewing of Ntozake Shange’s “Colored Girls Who Considered Suicide/ When the Rainbow Is Enuf”. It happened in 1977 when I was coming to grips with what it means to walk around with a black man’s body. In that moment, I knew there is a part of me that symbolizes the brokenness of black women.

My very presence conjures an ache that can’t be resolved by the holy dance on Sunday morning. Shange helped me contend with the limits of the faith I preach like a medicine man peddling hope in a bottle.  There’s something black men have done that makes it hard for black women climb up after we beat them down, again, with our words and false assumptions.

“The most disrespected person in America is the black woman,” Malcolm X said in Queen B’s video. The images of brokenness are a reminder that I share in the pain they carry. Look at them. Look at them lined up to challenge us to see them for the best they represent. Look at the worst caused by our inability to see beyond our desire to use them more.

Look at their beauty. All of it. More than the brilliance of hue packed on bodies with curvatures envied by others, look at their will to love us. Look at their desire to lift us. And what do we do with it? We abuse the gifts they bring in hope that we will be better because of their yearning to help us see.

I don’t know if Jay-Z cheated. The truth is it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t because of the games black men play with love. The ways we cheat transcend the minor technically of the insertion of a sexual organ. We cheat with our lack of love and support, and do damage to black women by refusing to acknowledge their strength.

I admire the black women who stand in formation with the promise not to take no more. How do they do it? How do they continue to fight for our right to live when we rob them of their will to breathe? Watch them as they hold arms high while screaming “hands up, don’t shoot”. Watch them as they march because another black man dies too soon. How do they do it? Why do they care so much for us when we fail to give back the love they extend like roses seeking the sunlight?

I twinge at the image of Beyonce’ swinging a bat to acknowledge the rage that can’t take no more. My heart is pounding because she walks alone. No black man there to hold her hand while see seeks answers to the misery that causes her to find a place to beat the angst until there reason to believe again.

Why do we do this to our women?

And, why do they believe in us when we lack the will to say thank you. How can we blame them for how they feel? Why is it so hard for us to part lips while screaming I need you? Why no apologizes after we cheat love with an obsession to fill our voids with something other than what they freely give.

“Lemonade” may not be Beyonce’s personal story. My sense is this is the journey black women take in search for more than the alone that keeps them searching for more. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m in no position to speak to what black women carry.

I am a black man. I do know the pain I carry after watching my Queens suffer because of what we have done to them. I do wish I could help soothe the pain. I can’t. I’m limited by my own need for change coupled with being linked to a long history of bondage.  Some of this is mess rooted in generations of self-hate. Most of it remains due to an unwillingness to tell the truth.

We need change.

So, I’m sorry for what I have created. My prayer is to do better. In doing so, I hope that other black men will understand their place in Beyonce’s story. As much as they don’t want to admit it, we play a role in dismantling the hope of black women.

The good news is they carry a strength like no other. They are bound by the power of sisterhood and a faith grounded in the universe.

I love all of you.

Raising my glass of lemonade to you

The crime bill in historical context

The year, 1995

Hundreds of people marched to the Few Gardens housing complex. The sadness in the crowd felt like we had discovered more than we could bare.

Shaquana Atwater was accidently shot and killed. The bullet was meant for someone else. It was a drive-by shooting and the person who pulled the trigger failed to see the baby playing on the porch.

Pictures of the two-year-old in the newspaper and on television made it hard to fight back the tears. We walked to the place where it happened.

The week prior to the march, members of the community packed the room where the Board of Durham County Commissioners meet to demanded more police presence. They wanted to build a collaborative effort to end the cycle of death in their community.

This is the context of the crime bill.  The push for its approval came from people living in communities like Durham’s North East Central Durham. At the time, I served as pastor of the Orange Grove Missionary Baptist Church and helped facilitate the North East Central Durham Partners Against Crime Project.

It helps placing opinions within a historical context. For me it’s the same as reading the Bible. I can go with a literal interpretation, or I can consider the culture and context to gain a better understanding regarding the intent of those behind the construction of the original document.

This is the disconnect created when people evaluate the crime bill. Retrospect helps us understand how and why it shouldn’t have been signed into law.  What people miss is the massive pressure placed on lawmakers during the rise of crack cocaine.

"You are defending the people who killed the lives you say matter," Bill Clinton told Black Lives Matter protestors at a rally where he was campaigning for his wife.

Protestors shouted "black youth are not super predators," taking issue with a phrase Hillary Clinton used in a 1996 speech about violent crime committed by young people.

Hilary Clinton’s 1996 speech reflected the pain of many back then. It reflected how those living in and working in those communities felt. It’s the language many used to express their rage after the death of innocent bystanders. It’s how we talked that day when we marched to Few Gardens to draw attention to the need for more police protection.

It’s what I said when I spoke that day. I talked about outsiders coming into the community and creating what felt like a war zone.  I talked about people being afraid to walk in their own neighborhoods because of drugs and violent crime.

Mistakes were made back then.

Members of the community pressured the police to take a more aggressive approach to law enforcement.  They demanded random stop points and increased presence.  Residents of the predominately black North East Central Durham community wanted to arrest and punish the men and women they saw as predators. They used that language to describe their experience back then.

This was the language used to describe youth who embraced gang culture in Durham. The documentary “Welcome to Durham” exposed how gangs were a growing fear. In Durham, people like Otis Lyons, founder of Campaign 4 Change, use their personal stories to help youth avoid gang activity.

“I do it basically, to save lives. You know I was a gang banga too,” Lyons, who goes by the name Vegas Don, told Christopher “Play” Martin of Brand Newz.  “You know I sold drugs, so I know that ain’t the route to go, so I’m just trying to save as many lives as I can.”

Youth crime and gangs play a large role in how we process conversations regarding mass incarceration. It's a reality that can't be dismissed.

There were 35 murders in Durham, NC in 1994. A 2004 study from the Governor's Crime Commission documented more than 8,500 gang members and 387 gangs in North Carolina.

Lawmakers, under pressure from citizens, sought ways to strengthen anti-gang legislation. A bill calling for stiffer penalties enforced under the crime bill did little to curtail increases in youth crime.  

"When your social fabric is one where the community doesn't believe in the school system, doesn't believe in county government, doesn't believe in the things that are important, it opens up the door for persons to look at something else to believe in," said Donnie Phillips, a retired juvenile justice officer in Durham, during a community forum at the Hayti Heritage Center in 2008.

One death followed by another.  One funeral, with people crying because death came too soon, followed by another. The stabbing of Kenan Odom, 22, came just six weeks after his cousin Kordero Odum, 19, was shot dead, amplifying the grief of that family.

Odum had been out on bail on a number of charges, including murder charges for his involvement in two separate shooting deaths in 2005. Xavier Moore, 22 was suspected of killing Odum. He was shot outside a Miami Boulevard Wendy’s restaurant in 2005.

Odum was arrested for being one of the four men present when 18 year-old Sesaley Hunter was shot in the head. In April of that same year, he was charged again with being one of the four present when 17 year-old Kashaun Patterson was shot to death.

I still remember the death of Skye Lee, an 18-year old student at Northern High School, killed while her 10-month old child was nearby. Cory Anthony Jiggets, 19, was charged in connection with the slaying. Jiggets is the father of Skye’s child.

Over the years, I’ve attended close to 100 funerals of young people killed. I waited and prayed with the family after Tia Carraway left for a lunch break and never returned. She was found two days later in a wooded area with a bullet in the back of her head.

What do you call young people who commit murders? What do you say to families after they receive the bad news?

Is Bill Clinton right? Are we defending the people who take the lives of other people when we focus too much on the language of rage outside the context of those old statements? I seriously doubt that he possess the moral compass to help us filter through this issues.

More critical than Bill and Hilary's involvement in passing the crime Bill is the black communities participation in moving the Bill forward. Understanding the context in which the bill was passed aides in understanding the manipulation that assured the bills success. Rather than point fingers at the Clinton administration, it becomes more productive to ask what it takes to prevent bills like this being passed again.

This is the meaning of black empowerment.

I stood before the masses and prayed at Few Gardens. I can’t remember the prayer. I do remember the emotions. There was a bunch of God fix it entangled with please show us the way. We didn’t know what to do other than to collaborate with a community under siege.

In 1994, we began to feel the burden related to the rise of crack cocaine in black communities.  We watched as boys transformed into criminals and took weapons to protect their territory.  Mistakes were made back then. Now we can learn from those mistakes

Darryl Hunt's death challenges us to listen

(Photo: Darryl Hunt with April Garrett during panel discussion on the movie The Trials of Darryl Hunt at Harvard University)

The text message I received from April Garret forced the type of reflection that made me mad and sad within the same breath.

“Darryl Hunt died today at 51,” I paused before reading more. “He was in a truck with a suicide note and a gun.”

April and I were introduced to the life of Hunt at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival in Durham, North Carolina. It was during the showing of The Trials of Darryl Hunt, the documentary that exposed the world to the malfeasance that led to Hunt’s wrongful conviction of the rape and murder of a Deborah Sykes, a white newspaper copy editor in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

Hunt was imprisoned in 1984 and spent 20 years incarcerated. In 2005, he was exonerated by DNA and other evidence that proved the district attorney was complicit in the handling of the case. In December 2003, Hunt’s DNA was run against those in a database which determined the DNA in his case belonged to Willard E. Brown. Brown, who was a primary suspect prior to Hunt’s arrest, confessed to Sykes rape and murder long before Hunt’s release from prison.

On February 6, 2004, Superior Court Judge Anderson Cromer vacated Hunt’s conviction. Getting there wasn’t an easy task. Hunt, and his legal team, were forced to maneuver through dynamics that continues to impact black men and women caught in the criminal justice system. Concerns like cross-racial eyewitness identification, prosecutorial misconduct, implicit bias in death penalty cases, inexperienced defense attorneys assigned to capital cases and errors in police procedure are documented in The Trials of Darryl Hunt.

Barry Scheck, of The Innocence Project, worked on Hunt's case for ten years. After his release, Hunt worked with the Innocence Project and The Darryl Hunt Project for Freedom and Justice, the group he founded to educate the public regarding the flaws within the criminal justice system while advocating for the rights of the wrongfully incarcerated and providing resources and support for people after serving time in prison.  

The news of Hunts suicide is difficult to take.

I met Hunt after writing a column that profiled Hunt published in the Durham News. The column spoke of Hunt’s humility and faith during his journey for freedom. Hunt was in Durham to speak during the annual meeting of Durham Congregations in Action (DCIA). He approached me after someone informed him I wrote the column he read earlier that day.

His response reflected a level of appreciation I have never experienced as a columnist.  His voice was broken and his eyes exposed a few tears.

“Thank you for what you wrote,” he said. “It means more than you will ever know.”

“I’m amazed by you,” I responded. “You are a model of strength.”

It’s a point that Garrett and I shared prior to Hunt’s death. Garrett conducted a screening of The Trials of Darryl Hunt at Harvard Divinity School in collaboration with Harvard Law School. Garrett, a Harvard Divinity School graduate, held the event as the founder and president of Civic Frame, Inc. In addition to Hunt, the panel included my friend John Mendez, pastor of the Emmanuel Baptist Church in Winston-Salem, NC, members of Hunt’s legal team, public defense advocates and Katie Brown who produced the documentary.

Both of us have been changed after meeting Hunt.

"From day one, I told them I was innocent,” Hunt said.  “And the question has always been, was anybody listening?”

Is anybody listening?

There was so much that deserved our attention. I’m sure his closest friends noticed the depression that came after Hunt was diagnosed with stage IV prostate cancer. It had to be hard not to notice the pain after the separation from his wife.  She was the rock that anchored him after they were married during his incarceration. It had to hurt when their love wasn’t enough to endure the challenges that come with making a marriage work beyond the limits of prison bars.

Few of us fully understand the torment of serving 20 years in prison. It has to be worse when you’re innocent and youth is swallowed up with the passage of the days.  I don’t understand the burden of incarceration. Few of us do. Prayerfully, we never will.

Hunt committed suicide.

 I’m in no position to judge why he gave up on life after clinging to the dream of freedom.  Hunt asked if anyone is listening. Maybe he is challenging us to continue to listen.

Hunt leaves behind the witness of his struggle for justice.  Maybe his release from prison wasn’t enough to set him free. If so, this is the strain among those who endure this form of mistreatment.

This is the weight carried when people fail to listen to the cries of the innocent.

Live well in paradise my friend.

I hope we are listening.

Does anyone understand the struggles of black men?

On yesterday, I was pulled over by a Highway Patrolman for driving while black.

I felt it coming as soon as I passed him.  I was driving at 70 miles per hour headed West on Interstate 70.  I wasn’t speeding, but I sensed the worst when he pulled behind me as I followed a truck in the right lane. The tension increased as he followed me for what seemed to be too long. I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t sure why.

The revolving motion of the blue light confirmed my suspension.

“Driver’s license and insurance card please,” the tall, lean patrolman requested. Of course he’s white. “You know you only have one license plate. In Missouri, you need two.”

In Missouri you need two – one in the front, one in the back.  No big deal.  The mistake wasn’t mine. The attendant at the DMV only gave me one after I paid the property taxes when I purchased my car last year.

“Where you from. Where you headed. Where you purchase your car, why do you have a North Carolina license?” he probed like I’d been sworn in to testify in court. I was given a warning. End of story, right?

No, it’s the next page of a never ending saga.

It took me 45 minutes to reach my destination. A lot happens within a mind left alone to contemplate a series of questions with no more than assumptions to form a conclusion. Why did he really stop me? Was it because I’m black? Is it just my imagination, and I’m not talking about a groove from the Temptations?

I hate the fact that I’m left to ponder these questions

It’s not the first time I’ve been pulled over for driving at or under the speed limit.  It’s not the first time I’ve debated with myself regarding the meaning of a simple traffic stop.

It’s part of what I carry as a black man. Or, is that an overstatement? I’m certain white readers will discount my being stopped as no more than an officer doing his job. Insert loud sounds in my head coupled with words I was told not to use when I attended Sunday School.

I searched for someone to process the moment. Who? Hello! Will someone help me keep from losing my mind up in here, up in here?

Who understand the mass of pain that kept my mind glued on queries that many can’t understand? Each question framed the thesis of a topic that requires a dissertation to answer. It’s enough to keep me locked on stupid. Welcome to my world. Sadly, I know I’m not alone.

Once I parked my car in front of city hall and rushed to the meeting I had with the city manager, that bone I wanted to pick was too big for me to bite alone.

Do people understand how it feels to be a black man? That one is easy to answer. Hell no! the second question simply made me mad. Does anyone care?

The questions forced deeper scrutiny of the rage in my belly covered by layers of pretension and avoidance.  I envy the privilege carried by people not stuck on that lingering stupid prompted by years of not understanding the friction that makes it hard to embrace authentic freedom.

Maybe that awful feeling, like smoke venting from my head like a message telling people to stay out of my way, was the result of being single for too long. It could be the angst of being a big, black man is more onerous because there’s no one to scream at and hold at the end of the day. Maybe, just maybe, it’s more about me than the fact it takes people time to figure out I’m not the brother who robbed their mother last week.

Get out of my way. I don’t want your wallet. Hello, I said move!

Excuse me for venting, but it takes a lot to walk around in this body. Can I please get a witness?

Yes, let me testify. It’s not just what white people think. Part of the torment is the result of being forced, and I mean forced in real terms, to carry the unrealistic expectations of black people.

There, I said it!

Frantz Fanon is one of my literary mentors. His book Black Skin, White Mask helps me understand the divided self-perception black folks carry as a result of losing their native culture. Their embrace of white culture results in an inferiority complex that begins a scuffle to overcome the hideous place I call the middle. 

The middle is the place in between acting white and being too black. The quest for authentic identity is a battle between conflicting world views – black skin versus the white mask.

You get attacked for taking white and assimilating to firmly into white culture by obtaining education and other symbols of white culture. Getting paid, accepting certain jobs and taking care of yourself and family becomes risky business.

Being a black man is a constant battle of legitimizing authentic blackness within the context of seeking normalcy. By normal I mean paying your bills and making a difference beyond what others define as appropriate.

Being a black man requires that we always, and I mean always, “keep it real”. By real I mean not doing too much to question black solidarity.  It means being careful not to become a sell-out. What does that mean?

It means not taking a job that forces you to sing and dance to a white person’s music. It means not forfeiting blackness for the sake of some of that white prosperity.

This is the point that forces the smoke erupting from my head to send those messages.

It’s all a lie.

I don’t care how hard a person works at forfeiting their blackness for the sake of embracing a white identity – it doesn’t work. Black remains black, and no suit, tie and college education can change any of that. People see my blackness as soon as I walk in a room, and there is nothing I can do to alter the assumptions in their heads before I say hello.

What’s the point?

Give me my freaking freedom. Isn’t that what all of us want? Don’t we seek the freedom to function devoid of the labels that limit what we desire to do? Isn’t slavery about being defined by the supposition people make after boxes are made to keep others in their assigned places?

I was wearing a blue tailored suit, silk tie, white shirt with cuff links when stopped by the highway patrol. I drove my luxury car under the speed limit when others passed me like I was standing still. I was listening to classic Coltrane – Giant Steps. Darryl Pinckney’s book Black Deutschland rested on top of my IPad on the front passenger seat.

I handed the officer what he requested. Again.

Exhales followed by old memories. When will I be free to be me?

Too white for some. Too black for others. Off to my sell-out job to fight to create opportunities for black people.

Does anyone understand how it feels to be a black man?

Tamir's death: Is this the new normal?

My rage has transformed to numbness.  I can’t feel my heartbeat. I’m weak.

What are you supposed to feel after a grand jury decides not to press charges against the police who killed Tamir Rice? What do you say after prosecutors recommend bringing no charges against the two officers who shot the 12-year-old after confusing a toy gun for one with real bullets?

What excuse can be made, this time? How can you argue that officers were simply doing their job? What…?

I’m numb. I’m confused. I’m angry.

I’ve been crying off and on for two days. Who hasn’t? What else, beyond crying, do we have after this? What parent is incapable of feeling remorse? How can a group of people, after watching that video over and over again, decide no wrong can be found?

The ruling came after I submitted this week’s column in the Columbia Missourian.(http://www.columbiamissourian.com/opinion/local_columnists/carl-kenney-time-to-make-your-best-of-list/article_5d5cc56e-ade1-11e5-bbcc-7776a25bd8dd.html) I wrote about my struggles in compiling my list of top stories in 2015.  I wrote about the mass of stories regarding police malfeasance. They seemed to come like the rising of the sun – everyday. 

  

One of my readers responded to my list.

“I have an idea how you can expand the limits of your contribution,” Joseph Lanigan, a consistent pain in my ass, wrote. “You can do a story on the grand jury system in Boone County, and why our Founding Fathers made sure it would be an integral part of the new country they helped to create.”

Is that the opinion floating among those who want to take us back to the days when lynching black folks was both common and legal?

I’m sick of it.

But, we must press these questions.  What is behind this familiar pattern of black people getting killed by police officers, followed by their actions being protected by citizens? What is underneath the rhetoric that fails to embrace the humanity of black bodies? What inspires the outlook willing to protect the actions of police irrespective of evidence proving culpability?

Lanigan’s statement, regarding the role of the grand jury, is frightening for a range of reasons.  His remarks assist in tapping into the convictions of those who serve in law enforcement and those who serve as members of juries.  Lanigan's words help us flush through the manure that authenticates the actions of police officers.

This is why I’m numb.

Could it be that the public attitude related to black bodies has shifted back to the post-reconstruction mentality? Black people deserve to be killed.  Police officers are protected from reprimand when the victim is black.  The role of the grand jury is to punish black people for being black.

My reader is affirming this opinion in a way that challenges us to move beyond these incidents as individual cases.  These deaths are not about the guilt of the victims or the innocence of the police.  Tamir’s death may not be about his age or the fact the gun was a toy. These cases may involve the common sentiment among those chosen to rule on these cases.

Black people deserve to die.

Black people deserve to be punished for being black. The evidence doesn’t matter.  The background of the person is insignificant.  The experience and training of police officers fails to change the conclusion. What is the conclusion? In the minds of some who are called to serve and protect, it is a crime to be black. In the minds of some who serve on grand juries, when police kill a black person, they are simply doing their job.

Is this the point of my reader’s comments? Did the forefathers institute the grand jury to protect police officers when the crime involves a black person? Is the American legal system constructed to protect people for punishing people for being black?

These are questions that force us to consider the complexity of systemic racism as it relates to the enforcement of laws. The suggestion demands a serious analysis that presupposes the mentality of those who see a need to kill black people because they are black.

This may be the logic feeding the protection of gun rights and the anti-Obama movement. Could it be that some fear a black revolution? Is it possible that some police officers are involved in an unspoken war against black people? Should we consider the possibility that some white people are willing to compromise the integrity of the judicial system when the life of a black person is taken?

Is this the purpose of the system – to maintain white dominance at all cost?

I’m numb because the questions.  I’m hoping I’m wrong.  I’m thankful for the countless white people in my life reminding me not all white people feel this way. I’m also aware of the trends. Those trends make it difficult to consider life beyond the Obama years.

Can we expect a nation comparable to post-reconstruction? Will the hate that consumed the South reemerge to take America back to the days when black people were kept in corners of discontent?  Will hate in America rise like Hitler’s Nazi Party?

Absurd you say.

This is what happens when a person is numbed by an onslaught of confusing decisions. 

A black woman living in a white body: Confronting racial identity in the context of black female rage

Rachel A. Dolezai’s interview with Matt Lauer of NBC failed to expose more than we already knew. 

People tuned in to hear more about Dolezai’s deception.  Why does she prefer being black? What was her motivation behind it all?  I mean, how does it feel being a black woman trapped in a white body?

“When did you start deceiving people,” Lauer asked. It was a point Dolezal refused to concede. 

“I do take exception to that, because it’s a little more complex than me identifying as black, or answering a question of, ‘Are you black or white?’” she said.

In her mind she is a black woman. 

Dolezai isn’t the first white person to identify as black.  Teena Marie, called the Ivory Queen of Soul, often spoke of her connection with black people. Numerous white people have been given the coveted black card due to their swag and willingness to fight for causes important to blacks.

Teena Marie had the groove of a black woman. It’s not uncommon to hear a person say, “That white woman was black”.

What makes Dolezai different is her inability to trust the black community.  It’s her lack of trust that has stirred the ire among many blacks.  What makes this story news is not her role as President of the local branch of the NAACP.  That’s not unusual.  The organizations founders included white people.

This story is about the deception.  Black people are angry because she lied.  But there’s more to it than Dolezai’s pretending to be black.

Black people are angry because she got away with it. 

She was able to convince black people she’s black.  That’s hard to accept among those who take great pride in their history and culture. As much as a white person may want to be black, black people take exception when a white person believes they’re black.  It’s one thing to act the part; it’s another believing you’ve done enough to be black. Black people are willing to give that race card, but you have to wait for the community’s endorsement.

She fooled black people.

No she didn’t. Oh, yes she did.

She did it with her hair and black swag.  Note the rage of many black women.  Could it be that Dolezai has crossed a line that troubles black women?

What happens when white women take on the persona of black women?

It’s one thing to pretend to be black. Again, that happens all the time.  It’s understood, and, for the most part, forgiven. Black women can accept being envied to the extent that those of another race attempt to mimic their looks and ways.

They understand the cultural appropriation that shows up among white women.  Historically, white women have attempted to replicate the images of blackness.  From thicker lips, Bo Derek’s cornrows, tanning to butt injections, there is something about the beauty of blackness that white women desire.

You can’t hate a white woman for embracing the beauty and culture of black women.  Their swag is the envy of the world.  There’s no problem with taking a bit to add to one’s personal flava.  Do you.  Have fun with that.  Black women may not like it, but, from what I’m told, they do understand.

Dolezai took it a step to far.  She not only borrowed parts of black identity, she claimed it as her own.  In doing so she fooled black men and women.

She perfected being black and that’s crossing the line.

You can borrow pieces of black identity, but you can’t claim the right to be called black devoid of the permission from those who have carried the burden of blackness. When you do that, you’ve opened the door to getting your ass whipped.

This is a story about racial identity.  Dolezai’s story helps us filter the emotions of those who prefer connection to another race.  Does this help us understand black people who fight to strip themselves from all things labeled black?  Black people understand the history of passing and the benefits that come with siding with those willing to share some of the crumbs of white privilege. We get that. 

This is new.  Although black people have witnessed white people steal parts of black culture and claim it as their own, this is a rare example of a white person able to fool black people into thinking they are black.

Crossing that line is dangerous due to the persisting tension between white and black women.  More than a lie, this story is about feelings black women carry related to white women dating black men.  It is about black women feeling disregarded by white women.

Consider the feelings carried by black woman. Feelings like, does this white woman believe she can out black a black woman and what happens when white woman can fool black men into believing they are black to be considered black?

Dolezai’s deception is affixed to the complicated matter of black female identity. It’s one of the ongoing issues carried over from slavery.  As black women grapple to overcome the discord of dark skin versus light skin, Dolezai obscures potential healing by being a white woman who identifies with being black.

Is there enough room within the convoluted dialogue regarding black female racial identity to introduce a white woman’s issues with racial identity?

I understand and appreciate Dolezai’s struggle with her racial identity. 

There’s a lot of work to be done before black women can have this conversation.

Troubled by the message of death

It’s 12:54 a.m.

I gave the benediction at 11:34 a.m. – more than 12 hours ago.  I’m still haunted by the sermon I delivered today at Bethel Church.  Something was missing.  I feel it deep.  I’m dismayed by what I failed to understand until the stuff tugging at my soul wouldn’t allow me to sleep.

I’m angry about the implications of the text I preached.  I wasn’t willing to face the deep angst that came with reading and studying John’s gospel.  The words of Christ confronted all of my false assumptions and compelled me to consider the works of ministry from the place of death and shame.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit,” reads the Gospel of John in the 12^th Chapter. “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also.”

Each word reminded me of an email I received from Dr. J. Alfred Smith, Sr., pastor emeritus at Allen Temple Baptist Church in Oakland, California, in response to my rant regarding the sacrifices I’ve made to remain in ministry.  My missive to Smith came during a night soaked in tears after reflecting on the things missing in my life after moving to Columbia, Missouri over a year ago.

“You now live the cross shaped life,” Smith wrote. “Fight like your life depends on it.”

Suck it up son.  This is what it means to die for Christ.  This is what comes with the work of ministry. I felt each word as if the cross had in fact shaped my life after a series of deaths.

Pain kept me from preaching the text from the gut.  I failed to allow the words to reflect the onus of a person who understands the meaning of carrying that old rugged cross.

I have to face the message I refused to preach today.

What is that message?

Living the cross shaped life hurts.  It’s painful living to die, overcoming with resurrection, only to be killed over and over again.  The work of ministry is a series of deaths and resurrections.  It’s lonely at times, and there are days when you are much too weak to share the anguish that comes with saying yes to the call to serve.

I can’t sleep due to the fear related to telling the truth about how difficult it can be to preach the Good News when so much of it is built on bad news.

I wanted the shout that comes with the message of resurrection.  Yes, I wanted to skip the message of death by going directly to the lessons involving new life on the third day.

I didn’t want to discuss the pain of dying.  Not today. Not after Trayvon’s death. Not after Michael Brown’s witness of remaining on hot pavement for four hours after the bullets ripped his body. Not after Eric Garners struggle to breathe.

I can’t sleep because we, those who preach, often fail to preach from that place “where deep calls unto deep at the noise of your waterfalls “(Psalms 42:7).

I was seduced by the comforts of the good news, while contending with the relevance of all that bad news.  Isn’t this the work of ministry that is often lost within a culture enamored with health and wealth? Has our desire to feel good, and inspiring others to feel the same, hindered our ability to adequately share the message of death?

If so, is this where the message of social justice gets lost among a massive list of feel good memos shared in churches every Sunday in America?

I refused to dig deeper into the message of death.

It’s 1:53 a.m.

Lord, can I sleep now?

Finding words to express rage fueled by hate

Image courtesy of creativeclass.com

This is why we should pray together.

All of us should pause from what we’re doing, find a person from a different culture, faith community or race, and beg God to heal our nation. My atheist friends are welcome to bow in silence while honoring the presence of the people holding hands.

All of us.

Me, you, everyone in your church, mosque, synagogue, temple or humanist meeting group – pause and scream -I’m tired of this shit!

There you go. I said it. I’m tired of the meaningless deaths stirred by hate.

I’m past asking why it all happens.  I’m done with scrutinizing the lives of these murdering bastards.  I’m sick of attempting to bring a level of intellect to stupid bullshit.

I have no better way to express the angst I’m carrying after Craig Stephen Hicks, 46, shot and killed three people near the campus of the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. Police said all three victims were killed over a dispute involving parking tickets.

The killing of husband and wife Deah Barakat, 23, and Yusor Mohammad, 21, and Mohammad’s sister Razan Mohammad Abu-Salh generated national outrage after reports surfaced that all three were Muslim.

The religion of the victims was placed in the lede, while the alleged motive for the shooting was found deep into the story.  In the journalism business we call this burying the lede. The lede is the up top information that captures the essence of the story.

Parking rage seemed less sensationalized than Muslims being shot in Chapel Hill, NC.

We could wag fingers at the press for stressing the religion on the victims on the same day that American hostage Kayla Mueller, 26, was confirmed dead after being abducted by members of ISIS. Were members of the press using the murders to prove the point President Barack Obama made during the National Prayer Breakfast?

“In our home country, slavery and Jim Crow all too often was justified in the name of Christ,” the president said during the breakfast. It is true that the Bible has been used in America and around the world to justify revolting actions throughout history.

The appropriate response is for the people, all of us, to say amen.

Drop the mic.

No one can deny the massive hate circulating under the guise of God’s will.  Hate can be found in a variety of places, and religion is often used to support the acts of those hell bent on proving a point, even if it means killing innocent people along the way.

None of us really knows the motive behind Hicks’ decision to kill. Maybe it was because of a parking space. Maybe it was because he hates Muslims, and from what we’re being told, anyone who practices any religion.

We can only assume.

Does it even matter?

That, in a big nasty nutshell, is the crux at what has me using bad words versus the others that come with having a quality education.  Those dirty words get at the essence of what has me fuming and ready to explode whenever I pick up a newspaper, turn on the television or check my newsfeed on Facebook.

I can’t help but ask - have Americans become impervious to death?  Are we to assume the right to hate alongside the other privileges that come with living in the U. S. of A?

Sadly, I can’t cuss my way out of my rage.  Mixing street jargon with a few big words fails to convey the indignation I carry after more people are killed for reasons none of us understands.

I would like to say prayer is enough, but I’ve been praying for a long time.  I know God is listening, but are we listening to God’s response?

Can you hear her speaking? 

It all seems so simple – stop, listen to one another, pray together and move beyond the assumptions each of us make.

I’m praying that we take the hate out of our religions.  Until then, I’m tired of this shit.

Help me stop using those bad words.

Discussion on Selma sounds like an old movie

I didn’t know where to begin.

The silence denoted something deeper than what my emotions had to say. I stood and paused long enough for the words to catch up with my feelings.

Ninety people gathered to discuss Selma, the movie that tells the behind the scene story of the protest against voter repression in Alabama. The people in the room watched the movie before gathering at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Columbia (UUCC) to share their thoughts.

“It felt like the same story being played over again,” I said to begin the discussion.  “I left drained because the same thing keeps happening, over and over again.”

Rev. Molly Houch Gordon, minister at UUCC discussed learning to listen.  She admitted not having answers.  She talked about the need to show up.  She hoped that would be enough.

“There’s so much pain that I carry with me every day,” Mary Denson, 21, president of UUCC, said. “There are so many issues and I don’t know where to start.”

Denson wasn’t alone. Many in the crowd felt overwhelmed by the burden of fighting a war to end the systems that separate us from one another.

We all want to embrace hope in better days.  It doesn’t have to end this way. Right?

Rev. Cassandra Gould, pastor of Quinn Chapel AME Church in Jefferson City, talked about the connections between then and now.  Born in Alabama, Gould told the story of her mother going to jail after protesting the laws that kept her and others from voting. Gould’s mother was there on that horrific Sunday when police beat protestors on their way to Montgomery.

Then she talked about the tear gas mask she wore in Ferguson, MO.

“Watching the mask they wore in the movie connected me to the mask I wore,” she said.  “I had to grip the hands of those next to me to fight back the tears.”

It’s a reminder of how close we are to the story of Selma.  Many of us remember the images on our black & White televisions.  The brutal attacks of protestors shifted the consciousness of those far removed from the system that denied people the ability to vote.

What about the color images from Ferguson? Why aren’t people outraged by the men, women and children tear gassed in Ferguson? Has time robbed us of our sensitivity, or can we assume the people in Ferguson deserved to be treated that way?

Can we presuppose that every person in the crowd should be punished for looting? Was it deserved punishment for disobeying the law, and, if so, can the same argument be applied to those who protested in Selma on that bridge?

Has time crippled our compassion toward people begging to be heard?  Have Americans forgotten how corrupt ways can easily consume those employed to protect the rights of all Americans?

Could it be that we trick ourselves into thinking Selma happened a long time ago?  If so, we forget that so much of what happened then continues to strangulate so many today.

People are still working to suppress the vote of black people.  In Missouri, state legislators are pressing to place a Voter ID law on the ballot for the 2016 election.  If approved by voters, the law will be the most obstructive law regarding voting rights in the nation.

The Republican controlled House Elections Committee proposed HB30 and HJR1 within days of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday,on  the 150^th anniversary of the end of slavery in Missouri and while people are watching Selma.

Do they care?

Don’t they understand how insulting it is to press to limit voting rights while people are hurting throughout the state after the death of Michael Brown?

Do they assume it doesn’t matter?

Or, are they too coldhearted to understand?

I didn’t know where to start. 

It’s too close to process through the pain. 

I’m still doing my best to understand.

Help me breathe

I didn’t know where to begin.

The silence denoted something deeper than what my emotions had to say. I stood and paused long enough for the words to catch up with my feelings.

Ninety people gathered to discuss Selma, the movie that tells the behind the scene story of the protest against voter repression in Alabama. The people in the room watched the movie before gathering at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Columbia (UUCC) to share their thoughts about the movie.

“It felt like the same story being played over again,” I said to begin the discussion.  “I left drained because the same thing keeps happening, over and over again.”

Rev. Molly Houch Gordon, minister at UUCC discussed learning to listen.  She admitted not having answers.  She talked about the need to show up.  She hoped that would be enough.

“There’s so much pain that I carry with me every day,” Mary Denson, 21, president of UUCC, said. “There are so many issues and I don’t know where to start.”

Denson wasn’t alone. Many in the crowd felt overwhelmed by the burden of fighting a war to end the systems that separate us from one another.

We all want to embrace hope in better days.  It doesn’t have to end this way. Right?

Rev. Cassandra Gould, pastor of Quinn Chapel AME Church in Jefferson City, spoke of the connection between then and now.  Born in Alabama, Gould told the story of her mother going to jail after protesting the laws that kept her and others from voting. Gould’s mother was there on that horrific Sunday when police beat protestors on their way to Montgomery.

Then she talked about the mask she wore in Ferguson, MO.

“Watching the mask they wore in the movie connected me to the mask I wore,” she said.  “I had to grip the hands of those next to me to fight back the tears.”

It’s a reminder of how close we are to the story of Selma.  Many of us remember the images on our black & White televisions.  The brutal attacks of protestors shifted the consciousness of those far removed from the system that denied people the ability to vote.

What about the color images from Ferguson? Why aren’t people outraged by the men, women and children tear gassed in Ferguson? Has time robbed us of our sensitivity, or can we assume the people in Ferguson deserved to be treated that way?

Can we presuppose that every person in the crowd should be punished for looting? Was it deserved punishment for disobeying the law, and, if so, can the same argument be applied to those who protested in Selma on that bridge?

Has time crippled our compassion toward people begging to be heard?  Have Americans forgotten how corrupt ways can easily consume those employed to protect the rights of all Americans?

Could it be that we trick ourselves into thinking Selma happened a long time ago?  If so, we forget that so much of what happened then continues to strangulate so many today.

People are still working to suppress the vote of black people.  In Missouri, state legislators are pressing to place a Voter ID law on the ballot for the 2016 election.  If approved by voters, the law will be the most obstructive law regarding voting rights in the nation.

The Republican controlled House Elections Committee proposed HB30 and HJR1 within days of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, the 150^th anniversary of the end of slavery in Missouri and while people are watching Selma.

Do they care?

Don’t they understand how insulting it is to press to limit voting rights while people are hurting throughout the state after the death of Michael Brown?

Do they assume it doesn’t matter?

Or, are they too coldhearted to understand?

I didn’t know where to start.  The emotions were too deep for me to put it all into words.

It’s too close to process through the pain. 

I’m still doing my best to understand.

Help me breathe

The fear of acting white

The room was chilly cold.  It wasn’t the temperature that had most of us trembling; it was the purpose of the gathering.  Administrators at Duke University, the Divinity School, called a meeting with black students to discuss our lack of participation during worship at the chapel.

Worship services were held Tuesday – Thursday at the divinity school.  The time in between classes was viewed as the perfect opportunity to ripen strong bonds with our peers.   It was our chance to practice what we were being taught – what it means to be “One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic”.

Many of the black students were being immersed in the teachings of liberation theology for the first time.  Some of us began pondering the significance of Christianity given its long and brutal history in being used to subjugate people of color.  Most of us found ourselves embattled by congregations that regarded theological education antithetical to the cause of the black church.

We were being pulled between diametrically opposed agendas – learning to advance the work of the Church and remaining vital in the churches we were being called to serve.

“I refuse to cast my pearls to the swine and, in the process, forfeit the idiomatic expression of the people I have been called to serve,” I said that day.

I meant every word. 

I was afraid of gathering for worship, taking preaching classes from people who had never participated in worship with a black congregation, learning the theology of white men who died long ago, and, as a consequence, gaining nothing to support the work I’m called to perform.

Put another way, I was afraid of becoming white.

More to the point, I was afraid of being perceived as too white.

The tension I felt then continues to pester many who make the decision to pursue theological education.  Many pastors warn their ministers not to be changed by the teaching.  They’re told not to listen. They’re warned not to learn, but to go. Go and receive credit for going, but don’t accept what is being taught.

They’re taught that theological training is not designed to prepare those in ministry, but to credential and separate those who have it from those who don’t.

So, what is the significance of my working as a pastor at Bethel Church, a predominately white congregation? Does my presence reflect the function of my theological training and, as a result, the surrendering of my role as a servant of the black church?  Is there an assumption that my embrace of the things I’ve been taught has led me toward becoming the very thing I feared.

Does this mean I have become white?

Let’s be clear. That is completely impossible.  No matter how hard some work in denying the implications of race in their life, there is enough to remind me that I can never run away from the relevancy of my skin.

Some want me to pretend it’s not there.  I’ve already been told I talk too much about being black.  Why wouldn’t I? Why would I refute the part of me I love so much?

I love being a black man.  I’m proud of my ancestors and the mass of people who keep it real while working to invalidate the stereotypes people wave in our faces. Yes, we are brilliant.  We are artistic, and we have contributed more to America than any other race.

I said it.  We make America what it is today.

I have no reason to run from my blackness. I love the energy and passion of black worship.  I am a preacher of the black faith tradition.  I love the deep moans that leap in my throat when the spirit of God catches hold of the congregations causing all present to break free from bondage of the week. That’s who I am, and nothing will ever take that away.

So, why am I serving a white congregation? If all of that is true, and it is, what is it that would lead me to step into the pulpit of a congregation that doesn’t understand the significance of what it means for me to be me?

That’s simple. It’s called a calling.

Put another way, this is bigger than me.  It’s beyond what I understand.  All I know, for today, is this is the work that God has chosen for me in this season.

How do I know this to be true?

Because everything I have done, before today, has prepared me for this challenge. I have been trained for this season.  I know it’s true because I’ve written about and preached the message of inclusion long enough to be baptized into its meaning. I know it’s true because my footsteps point in the direction of healing and understanding. 

I know it’s true because the world and the Church have to change the way it functions in regards to the things that divide us. It’s true because hate and detachment has fractured the essence of what it means to be crafted to promote love and peace.  It’s true because someone has to stand beyond the assumptions we claim to rouse faith beyond the barricades built to keep us on the other side of unity.

I know it’s true because of the people I serve at Bethel Church.  They have taught me beyond the things I have been taught.  They teach me not with their words, but with their willingness to build community in a new way.  I’ve watched them transcend the comforts of their sacred community.  I’ve watched them say no to the crippling messages that keep America divided because of an aversion to listen.

No, it has not been easy. Yes, it comes with a cost beyond what I may be able to pay.

But, I’m here now glaring at my words from long ago.

“I refuse to cast my pearls to the swine and, in the process, forfeit the idiomatic expression of the people I have been called to serve,” I said.

I have a new message.

Beyond the color of my skin.  Beyond the history of suppression. Beyond the assumptions made when I show up to speak. Beyond all of it, I have been baptized in a faith that makes me who I am today.  Yes, I say it loud, I’m black and I’m proud. Nothing will ever take that away.

But, beyond all of that, thank you Lord for calling me to a purpose beyond things I can comprehend.  I accept your will.

Show me that way.  I don’t know the way, but I hear that still small voice calling my name.

Here I am Lord, send me.