"The Bible says black people are cursed": a minister said in Ferguson, MO

“The Bible tells us black people are cursed,” a minister said while surrounded by a group that looked like they had been transported from another era.

I paused to look at them.  Then I looked around to see if anyone else heard what he said.  A black man in his late twenties was placing a banner on the building next to where the group had pitched their tent.  His quick gaze in their direction said enough.

I took a few steps closer.

“Did you hear that,” I asked.

“Yeah,” he nodded. There was nothing else to say.

There was nothing else to be done.  I took a few pictures to document the moment.  Then I went back to the McDonalds in the parking lot next to the congregation praying, preaching and singing about black people.

“Lord, remove the devil from this place,” the preacher hummed like a black Pentecostal.

Maybe it was too hot to care.  Maybe the residents of Ferguson, Missouri were too tired to fight back.  Maybe it was too early after a long night of fighting the fear of tear gas and rubber bullets.

“I’m limping because I had to run from the police on multiple occassions,”Osagyefo Sekou told me after we appeared on the Melissa Harris-Perry Show. “I’ve been hit with tear gas twice.

Sekou graduated from Soldan High in St. Louis years ago.  He still holds the school record for the mile.  Sekou has children in St. Louis.  He’s been gone for a long time, preaching and teaching justice as the Pastor for Formation and Justice at the First Baptist Church in Jamaica Plain, MA.  He is spending the summer as a Scholar in Residence at the Martin Luther King Education and Research Institute at Stanford University.

We talked a lot about social justice work while sitting at the McDonald’s in Ferguson, Missouri.  I reflected on the two journalist arrested by the police while working there.  I watched as police vehicles cruised the streets as if searching for a reason to fight.

“This is a police state man,” Sekou said.  “Churches are supporting it.”

We talked about the limits of the Church, and the disbursement of false information.

“I’ve been here. I’ve seen it first hand,” Sekou said. “We have been peaceful in our protest.  Senior citizens and children have been a part of the protest.  How can you justify tear gas in a crowd like that?”

Our conversation was deflected by the presence of the congregation holding service less than 100 feet away.  There, under a tent, they prayed and preached hate.  They walked into a community besieged after the death of an 18-year old black man, and moralized about the evil of the black people living in Ferguson.

I seemed fixated in another time.  Images of Bull Conner’s message of hate, barking dogs, water hoses, and senior citizens and children marching to make a point, visited me like Jesus on top of a mountain.  I watched as a congregation clapped hands and preached damnation on the black people living in Ferguson.

I begged God to take it away.  All of it.  Take away the misery in the streets.  Take away the pain of Michael Brown’s death.  Take away the rage related to racism, and the hate that compelled that congregation to sing.

Take away the pain in my soul after hearing them call me cursed.  Take away the massive division between those who confess disgust due to their standing on different sides of history.  Take away the anger fueled by rejection, and the tears that swarm because of people to mean to understand.

It was difficult to comprehend the reasons.  Another black boy is dead, and a church decides to preach a message of hate.

I’m closing my eyes and praying that it’s all a dream. A terrible dream.

It’s not a dream.  It’s an unending nightmare.

The death of Michael Brown stirs rage among black men

(Students and residents of Columbia, MO gather for a vigil to protest the death of Michael Brown on the campus of the University of Missouri)

I am a black man.  I’m proud of that fact.  I wouldn’t change that for anything.

I celebrate sharing the hue of my skin with former African kings.  I’m proud of the creative legacy of men like Miles, Coltrane, Baldwin and Jean-Michel Basquiat.  I take pride in carrying the torch of leadership, creativity and social consciousness that opens eyes and inspires many to do the same.

Like I said, wouldn’t change a thing.  That doesn’t dismiss the pain that comes with walking in these shoes.  It’s a point I’m forced to make whenever another black man is gunned down, unarmed, by police. When that happens, and sadly it happens too often, I find myself taking deep breaths, wiping tears and fighting the urge to swing in the air.

It happened after the Trayvon Martin verdict when I wrote about America’s lack of love for black men.  I was disappointed when people fired back with claims that I was pulling the race card, had cast all white people in the same bucket and needed to consider the facts of the case versus being angry at the outcome.

Those responses forced me into deep isolation.  The attack of my vulnerable moment reminded me of why I feel so disconnected from America.  Don’t take that the wrong way. I love America.  I’m not willing, yet, to give up on my country and head to another more affirming place.  I simply need to be heard.  All black men need that.

Why?

Because we are being hunted down like rats on the street.  Because it feels like our lives are worth less than the T-shirts we purchase to protest the execution of another black man.  Because of how it feels to walk within a village with eyes glued on us as if waiting for us to make a mistake.  Because of the assumptions and distance created to keep us silent when our hearts ache too much to share how we really feel.

It hurts being a black man.  That angst is rooted in our ongoing need to prove we deserve our place within the broader American social stream.  Our movement is blocked by the condition of our race and manhood, and it hurts.  It hurts too much to share, and I’m tired of the pain.

That's the root of what I said during a vigil on the campus of the University of Missouri to protest Michael Brown’s death.  I talked about being born in Columbia, Missouri, walking the streets of the city, reading Kierkegaard for the first time in the university library, graduating with a degree in journalism from Mizzou, only to feel like an intruder.

I simply don’t feel like any of it belongs to me.  I feel out of place when I walk the streets.  I’m constantly reminded of the distance between myself and the others who share common space.  I don’t feel affirmed or appreciated.  I grapple with the vast gap between the opportunities afforded me versus those who are white.  I notice the disparity in my field.  Where are the black reporters? Where are the black people?

No, I don’t belong here.  Everything is set up to sustain a system of white privilege.  I’m not supposed to say that.  I’m not supposed to feel that.  I’m told to preach personal accountability by pulling yourself up from those bootstraps.  I’m rewarded for drawing attention to the failures of those unable to make it in a given system.  I’m told to use scriptures to warn people of the consequences related to not playing by the rules. 

None of that feels right when pondered within the context of my black manhood.  When another one of us is shot and killed, I’m reminded of the ache that keeps my feet glued in fields of pain.  I don’t belong here. They want me dead.  It doesn’t matter how hard I work to transcend it all – none of it matters when I’m judged by the stuff they can’t see.

So, I’ll try this again for those who missed it the last time.  I’m a black man.  I’m hurting because of all of this.  I’m taking it personal because I have been stopped by the police for walking in my own neighborhood.  I have been stopped for driving home late at night.  I’ve experienced enough to know how it feels to be judged for no other reason than the fact that I am a black man.

I’m not asking people to understand any of that.  I simply need a space to scream, because, once again, a part of me died last week in Ferguson, MO. My faith will pull me back, but, in the meantime, give me some space to breathe.

Black man walking.

Protest in Ferguson, MO exposes assumptions regarding black leadership

Photograph courtesy of WCNC TV

A few years back, I wrote a column about the gulf between the black church on the mountaintop and those stuck in the valley.  I argued for a place somewhere in the middle. 

We need to find that place fast.

The conversations related to the shooting of Michael Brown remind us of the deep division within the black community.  Saying that is, in part, a celebration of the diversity of ideas within black public space.  Not all black people think the same.  It is also true that black people represent a diverse set of cultural experiences which impact the construction of those views.

Yes, all of that is a celebration.  We don’t act the same, think the same, look the same or experience life the same way.  This all leads to variances regarding assumptions of leadership.  For those peeking into black public space from a position of privilege, there are clear expectations related to the function and assignment of black leadership.

Those assumptions exasperate the emotions of people lingering in the valley.  They watch as the press, the Church, politicians and the masses request affirming words from those they christen as the official voice of the people.  They do so based on the traditional model for the sanctioning of black leadership – they seek the voice of the Church.

As meaningful and significant as it may be to seek leadership from the black pulpit, it must be understood that the certification of community leadership is attached to one’s position and allegiance prior to the uproar of a movement.  One’s association with the Church does not credential a person as a community leader.  That can be assumed when the Church is engaged in the community in a way that makes them a part of the work in the valley.

The happenings in Ferguson, Missouri are an example of how leadership is both perceived and assumed within black public space.  There are two separate responses to the death of Brown. As the press and privileged seek leadership from the pulpit, those in the valley have indorsed their own leaders.  They have found, within the crowd of hurting people, those who speak with clarity regarding the nature of their pain.

As those from the mountaintop of privilege gather to discuss ways to minimize the hurt, those in the valley take matters into their own hands.  They speak with the form of protest that those on the mountain deem uncivilized, and a reflection of an unproductive strategy.  Those on the mountaintop meet, talk, pray, hold press conferences and formulate messages intended to abate the aggression in the valley.

Those on the mountain assume they are listening.  Those in the valley wonder why they speak, given their failure to be present before the madness became a part of national debate. 

Those in the valley meet and plan.  They engage in a way that reflects the culture of the valley.  Those on the mountaintop also meet.  They formulate strategies based on the culture of their institutional assumptions of power and privilege.  They bring a level of sophistication and common sense that can be embraced by the press and public. 

People watch and wonder about the division. Why are there two meetings held at the same time?  Why can’t we work together to impact change?

It’s because of the distance between the mountaintop and valley.  Those on the mountaintop have welcomed people in the valley to the mountain.  They are asked to come if willing to embrace the terms of those on the mountaintop.  Those in the valley watch those on the mountaintop from a distance.  They, those on the mountaintop, rarely come to the valley.  They find comfort in having escaped the valley.  It’s not safe in the valley – they say. 

The mountain is the sanctioning of the American Dream.  Those in the valley lack the advantages that come with mountain dwelling.  It is assumed that the leaders live on the mountain. 

Leaders emerge in the valley.  They know the language of the valley. They listen as the press refuses to listen.  They watch as people speak for them.  They know they haven’t been to the valley.  They know they remain comfortable in their churches while making assumptions about the reasons behind their failure to take the journey to the mountain.

There has to be a place between the mountaintop and valley.  Finding that place demands attention before things fall apart.  You can’t speak for people you have never met.  Titles, education and acceptance on the mountain aren’t enough to credential one as a leader among those in the valley.  You have to walk those streets before you can speak for them.

Keep listening.

 

The return of "Burn, baby! Burn"

Rioters in Watts shouted “Burn, Baby! Burn!” during uprisings that began on August 11, 1965.  The riots within the South Central Los Angeles area resulted in 34 deaths, 1,032 injuries, 3,438 arrests, and over $40 million in property damage.

"Burn, Baby! Burn!" was the trademark of Magnificent Montague, a popular R&B disc Jockey on KGFK in Los Angeles.  Montague would howl “burn” when a song moved him.  Listeners responded by calling the DJ and shouting “Burn” on the air.

They yelled “Burn, Baby! Burn!” to articulate frustration after word spread that Marquette Frye and Rena Price were roughed up by police.  It wasn’t the first time.  It was a common practice – police brutality, not only in Watts, but in black communities across the country.

Yesterday was the 49^th anniversary of Watts.  People are still asking why did people burn and loot in Watts?

Why are people rioting in Ferguson, Missouri?

It’s a question we shouldn’t have to ask.  The question reflects a deep divide between the pain of rioters, and the assumptions of those who believe these types of matters should be left to the system to unravel.  Those who ask the question miss the point of the rage.

The system is the problem.

How do you respond when yet another black youth is killed for no reason?  How do you keep that rage contained when confronted with too many examples were justice fails to prevail? 

How do you watch Michael Brown’s mother cry without feeling compelled to respond in a way that reflects your sorrow? How to you respond to those who refuse to listen?  What do you say to those who discount the dignity of the life taken, and use excuses to justify the death of another black man?

What do you say to a nation that blames victims for crossing the line? What do you do when authorities refuse to listen to the witness who watched a police officer kill his friend?

“I saw the barrel of the gun pointed at my friend,” Dorian Johnson, 22, told Trymaine Lee of MSNBC. “Then I saw the fire come out of the barrel.”

Johnson told MSNBC the incident began as an order by a police officer to ‘get the f— onto the sidewalk’ and quickly escalated into a physical altercation and then, gunfire.

“I could see so vividly what was going on because I was so close,” said Johnson, who was within arm’s reach of both Brown and the officer when the first of several shots was fired.

Johnson said they continued walking after telling the officer they were close to their destination.  He says the officer then slammed on his breaks, backed up, nearly hitting them.

They heard him say something to the effect of, “what’d you say?” At the same time, Johnson says the officer slammed the door into Brown, and, with his left hand, grabbed Brown by the neck.

“I could see the muscles in his forearm,” Johnson said. “Mike was trying to get away from being choked.”

 “They’re not wrestling so much as his arm went from his throat to now clenched on his shirt,” Johnson said. “It’s like tug of war. He’s trying to pull him in. He’s pulling away, that’s when I heard, ‘I’m gonna shoot you.’”

 Johnson said he looked at the officer to see if he was pulling a stun gun or a real gun. That’s when he saw the muzzle of the officer’s gun.

 “I seen the barrel of the gun pointed at my friend,” he said. “He had it pointed at him and said ‘I’ll shoot,’ one more time.”

Johnson said he heard the first shot go off.

 “I seen the fire come out of the barrel,” he said. “I could see so vividly what was going on because I was so close.”

 Johnson says he looked over at Brown and saw blood through his shirt on the right side of the body.

 “The whole time [the officer] was holding my friend until the gun went off,” Johnson said.

 Johnson said he and Brown took off running together. There were three cars lined up along the side of the street. Johnson says he ducked behind the first car, whose two passengers were screaming. Crouching down a bit, he watched Brown run past.

 “Keep running, bro!,” he said Brown yelled. Then Brown yelled it a second time. Those would be Brown’s last words.

 Brown made it past the third car. Then, “blam!” the officer took his second shot, striking Brown in the back. At that point, Johnson says Brown stopped, turned with his hands up and said “I don’t have a gun, stop shooting!”

 By that point, Johnson says the officer and Brown were face-to-face. The officer then fired several more shots. Johnson told MSNBC he watched Brown go from standing with his hands up to crumbling to the ground and curling into a fetal position.

“After seeing my friend get gunned down, my body just ran,” Johnson said. He ran to his apartment nearby. Out of breath, shocked and afraid, Johnson says he went into the bathroom and vomited. Then he checked to make sure that he hadn’t also been shot.

Five minutes later, Johnson emerged from his apartment to see his dead and in the middle of the street.

What do you say and do after hearing a story like that? Freeman Bosley, Johnson’s attorney, said police have declined an opportunity to speak with Johnson.

What do you think after Trayvon Martin?  What do you do after Eric Garner was choked to death by police in New York City?  Do you wait?  Do you hope for justice?  Do you maintain trust in the system?

Do you accept the notion that we are experiencing a post-racial America, and that time will prove the police did nothing wrong? Should we indict rioters for overreacting, or is something deeper taking place to reshape the conscious of black America.

Are we experiencing the return of “Burn, baby! Burn!”

Listen to the rage.

Reflections on James Brown and his violence against women

Yes, I’m a James Brown fan.  Saying that is a bit disturbing given the Godfather of Soul’s numerous arrests for assault and domestic violence. Loving the music is one thing.  Lifting Brown as a role model is hard to concede.  His life and message leaves one conflicted at best.

Yes, I say again for undeniable emphasis, I love me some Funk music.  I’m a child of the P-Funk, and there wouldn’t have been such a thing without James Brown. From taking the beat from the top, showcasing moves that would be imitated by Prince, Michael Jackson and a bunch of others who credited Michael for the moves, to making the Funk about the band (bow down to the truth George Clinton) – everybody has been touched by the Godfather’s music.

Yes, again I say yes, James Brown deserves all due respect for introducing the Funk.  The link between Brown and George Clinton proves the point.  The list of band members who quit, or were kicked out of Brown’s band to join Clinton, resembles a messy divorce.  Bootsy and Catfish Collins took the Funk to Parliament/Funkadelic after forming House Guest.  Somebody sing I’d Rather Be With You. Excuse me as I reminisce. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tgYr03o3dE.

Like I said, Get on Up unpacks an important part of black music history.  It exposes the sensitive, but real, connection between black gospel and R&B.  It tugs at how race denies Little Richard’s contribution in transforming American music as the real King of Rock & Roll.  Yes, again and again yes, step aside Elvis.  We could go on for days about how all American music has roots in black culture.  A critical analysis would tell the truth about the African connection to Blue Grass music. Help me out with that one Carolina Chocolate Drops. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVIaiADsyYo

There are layers like an onion related to the impact of cultural appropriation, and how the genius of James Brown is embedded within the context of black expression.  We could talk about how Brown got there.  What was brewing within the social milieu of black people that fashioned the groove, the movement and lyrics of Brown’s music?

This brings me to a layer beyond the beat of Brown’s music.  As powerful and meaningful as Brown’s music is in constructing the crusade of black counter-culture, how can we separate the message from the antics of the messenger?

How do we close eyes to Brown’s violence against women? Can we dismiss it all as a variable of his social conditioning, while pointing at the actions of two pitiful parents who offered him nothing in becoming a man?  Can we blame it on the pathetic consequences of extreme poverty?  Or, should we censure Brown for his abuse against women and refuse to play his music because of his pugnacious ways?

Should we dismiss Brown and his music like we did Chris Brown after he attacked Rihanna?  What have we learned in the space between these two Brown’s, and how do we celebrate both given their issues with women?

I left the theater thinking about something Bill Clinton said to Oprah after the scandal with “that woman”. 

“It’s not an excuse, but it’s an explanation,” Clinton said.

I can’t excuse what Brown did, but his childhood serves as a powerful explanation.  Who wouldn’t be angry at women given what his mother did?  How do you learn to control your anger after having to endure all of that?

I felt so bad for him.  All I could think was “stop the movie and let us pray!”

But, none of that matters in the court of law and public opinion.  It doesn’t undo the rage felt by women who have felt the force of a man’s hand on her face.  It doesn’t absolve the hate and pain felt by those who endure the sting of a man’s fury.

No, you get no pass.  It’s an explanation, but there is no excuse.

I understand the context and social conditioning that fueled that rage.  I get the demoralizing enculturation packed in the souls of black men devoid of emotional strength to overcome the lies thrust against their identity.  I recognize the pitfalls and insufficiency associated with attempting to get to a place with no one to lead the way. I get being hurt, trapped and angry. But!

There is no justification for putting hands on a woman.  There is no excuse.  And maybe, no damn it, forget the maybe, we need to demand accountability from those who crossed that line.

That means you Mr. Brown.  That applies to you Miles Davis and others we celebrate for their undeniable contribution.

As for you Chris Brown, sit in a corner and get your act together before it’s too late. You have no explanation.

The Bethel Experience: Walking in the footsteps of old dreams

It felt like the cold would chill my dreams.  I stepped out of my Ford F-150 to begin a journey that would unthaw my iced heart.  I didn’t know it.  Journeys often begin without our knowledge. 

My friend Clanton Dawson invited me to the lectionary group that meets every Wednesday at the Rock Bridge Christian Church.  Maureen Dickman, the pastor at the church, followed up with an invite when we met at Dunn Bros Coffee.  I was looking for a safe place to unwind and share Biblical and theological thoughts.  I needed more than the Sunday morning shout that came with sitting in the pews at the Second Missionary Baptist Church.

Part of me was fading away after deciding to relocate to Columbia to take care of my sick father.  Most of my nights found me waiting in the dark, afraid to sleep after watching my father fall on numerous occasions.  My desire to preach and participate in worship kept me trapped in between sickness and hope.  My midnight torture was followed by days of walking devoid of sleep.

Caregiving was taking a massive toil on both my spirit and body.  I prayed for time away from cooking, taking vitals, handing out medication, trips to doctors and tending to other household chores.  Surviving with the daily task was worsened by the messages from Durham, NC.  We miss you.  Things are not the same.  Please come back. When will you come back? Why did you leave?

Each note did more to shatter my dwindling hope.  Each day felt like a nightmare.  I needed to preach.  I needed to pray.  I needed a place to remind me that God’s will for me is here. 

I exhaled with each footstep as I approached the door. Clanton was there to greet me. Maureen was happy to see me.  The others welcomed me to the group.  More exhales followed as I contributed to the study.  For a moment, it felt like I was back in the classroom. Yes, temporary relief from the burden.

Then she spoke.  My friend spoke.  My twin shared.  Bonnie Cassida’s body was bruised by a long illness.  She needed relief from the weekly activity of the church.

“Can you preach for me?” she asked through email shortly after our meeting.

It was hard for me to preach that Sunday.  It came after my father was forced back into the hospital due to an infection.  The illness would lead to an amputation.  After weeks in rehab, he returned for more amputation and a longer stay.  Then he broke his femur.  Everything seemed to be falling apart.

The crying worsened. 

“God fix my daddy!” I screamed each night.  “God grant me the strength to be what I must be in this situation.”

It was never enough.  There was more to do than I was able to give.  The urge to preach, to pray and pastor intensified.  Then Bonnie called.

“Can you serve Bethel Church as I take time to heal?”

I said yes.  Saying yes scared me.

There were no comfort zones.  All of my teaching and preaching was offered from the perspective of the black faith tradition.  I agreed to offer service without knowing what to do.  I brought my faith and training, yet something was missing.  Everything was unfamiliar.

There were no amen’s and yes Lord's to set the tone for my preaching.  The idiomatic expression of the black faith tradition was not there to create the context for what I do best.  My preaching was limited.  The mood and issues in the room forced me to step outside of myself and learn from those in need of ministry.

I felt lonely when I preached.  It was a new language in need of translation.  I pulled from my vast library for help. I revisited Theo Witvliet’s The Way of the Black Messiah to address the balance between universality and particularity.  I clung to the teachings of Howard Thurman to rekindle his vision for a multicultural church.  I read J. Kameron Carter’s book Race: A Theological Account and Willie Jennings book The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race to connect with the teachings of my friends who teach at Duke University.

I needed more to help me.  I agreed with Carter's contention that race is a social construction used to manage belonging.  I agreed with Bonnie’s vision regarding diversity.  I needed more.  In giving, something was being lost along the way.

I reflected on my conversations with Craig S. Keener, professor of New Testament at Asbury Theological Seminary, before his decision to join me at the Orange Grove Missionary Baptist Church. I told him to read the Autobiography of Malcolm X and meet with me after he finished.  I wanted to be sure he understood black culture and pain before becoming a white minister in a predominately black church.  He came back a few days later.

“I wish I could take my white skin and make it black,” he cried.

He joined us.  We learned from him.  He taught us humility and service.  He was ordained and moved on to become one of the leading New Testament scholars in America.

He tore off his skin and made it black.  Could I do the same?

I preached with hesitation.  I learned to strip myself of the part that limited my being present.  They loved and accepted that part of me that presented itself on Sunday morning.  I felt the message of Frantz Fanon in his book Black Skin, White Mask.  My training allowed me to maneuver around the sensitive matter of race and other divides, but was something lost along the way? Was I becoming something other as I offered a part of myself in ministry?

I kept praying.  The tears followed each prayer.

“Lord, what does it all mean?”

Then it happened.

You are called to this.  Move toward Howard Thurman’s vision.  Embrace King’s dream.  It’s not what is lost along the way; it’s the emergence of a new reality that demands the steps you are taking.

Pause and pray. Weep some more. Still asking questions along the way.

“Send me Lord, and I will follow.”

This is the road less traveled.

Teach me Lord Jesus, teach me.

NFL position on domestic violence is guilty beyond reasonable doubt

Stephen A Smith, commentator on ESPN’s First Take, launched a huge controversy when he asserted women should learn “the elements of provocation” to prevent men from responding with violence.

Those words, “elements of provocation”, sparked massive resistance from women who have endured men putting hands on them in inappropriate ways.  It was one of those, “no he didn’t say that” moments that had women from coast to coast standing tall with one hand on a hip and the other wagging a finger to denote rage.

Men like me took a few deep gulps in solidarity.  As much as we appreciated the effort, we knew better than to blame sisters for provoking domestic violence.  You can’t say that.  It’s out of bonds, and Smith made good by starting today’s show with a heartfelt apology.

I get the mistake. I certainly get the apology.  Stuff had to be checked, and Smith was taken to the woodshed for his lapse in judgment.  He fessed up. All is cool. Right?

Nope.  Stuff still needs to be said.

Lost in the hoopla related to Smith’s faux pas is what brought us together to yell at Smith.  Stephen A., Cari Champion and Rick Bayless were discussing the NFL’s treatment of Ray Rice.  NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell suspended Rice two games for knocking his fiancé unconscious.  Rice, a running back for the Baltimore Ravens, was caught on a hotel surveillance camera dragging Janay Palmer out of an elevator after punching her in the face.

We expected swift and severe punishment.  Considering Goodell’s punishment for helmet –to-helmet contact is normally one game, and the average suspension for violating the league substance abuse policy is 4 games, it was feasible to expect stiff punishment for knocking your girlfriend out in an elevator and dragging her like a piece of meat.

Are we to assume a league policy that regards violence on the football field worse than cruelty toward a woman?  Are we being told that smoking marijuana is worse than knocking a woman unconscious? Is the NFL taking domestic lightly, and if so, what is the proper response to the NFL’s leniency?

NFL Senior Vice President of labor policy Adolpho Birch defended the league’s two-game suspension of Rice.

"Listen, I think if you are any player and you think that based on this decision that it's OK to go out and commit that kind of conduct, I think that is something that I would suggest to you that no player is going to go out and do that," Birch said Monday morning on ESPN Radio's "Mike and Mike,". "So in terms of sending a message about what the league stands for, we've done that. We can talk about the degree of discipline; we can talk about whether or not third parties need to be involved. I would suggest to you that a third party has been involved in this matter and that was the court that reviewed it, the prosecutor that reviewed it.

 "But if it is a question about what the principle of the league is and what standards we stand by, that cannot be questioned. I think it is absolutely clear to all involved that the NFL does not condone domestic violence in any way and will not tolerate it in our league. I don't know how you can reach a conclusion other than that although I certainly respect the opinion."

Someone needs to boo Birch off the stage for that lame explanation regarding the NFL’s suspension.  Birch claims the NFL doesn’t condone domestic violence, but all evidence suggests the opposite.

Pro Bowl defensive end Greg Hardy, who plays for the Carolina Panthers, was recently convicted on two domestic violence charges for assaulting a female and communicating threats.  He was sentenced to a 60-day suspended jail sentence and 18 months’ probation for attacking his ex-girlfriend.

Hardy has appealed the decision, and the matter will not be resolved until the end of the coming season.  The NFL has decided not to make a ruling related to suspension until the case is finalized, and the Carolina Panthers have decided to wait on the league to decide on suspension before extending punishment.

The lame decision by the league and the Carolina Panthers allows Hardy to claim all of his $13.1 million salary this coming season.

Birch’s argument that the NFL takes domestic violence seriously is muted by the absence of a decision to suspend Hardy.  All bets are off.  The NFL is serious about helmet-to-helmet contact and smoking marijuana.  Goodell is quick to strike the whip whenever the game is compromised by one of his players.  He enforces his version of the law with reckless disregard. Goodell takes no prisoners.

The rules change when it comes to domestic violence.  Goodell and his staff depend on the courts to decide prior to pronouncing punishment.  The long wait leaves fans of the game wondering if they care about violence against woman.

So, yes, we needed to place a sock down Stephan A Smith’s throat for his upsetting statement regarding provocation.  We shouldn’t let him off the hook, but, while we have him caught in the web of his own creation, let’s not forget what brought us here.

We gather here today because of Ray Rice. Exhibit B is Greg Hardy.

The defendant is the NFL, and the league is guilty of not giving a damn about domestic violence.

I rest my case. Guilty beyond reasonable doubt.

 

 

 

It's time to listen to "those" people

I sat and listened as a group of well-intentioned religious leaders discussed ways to make a difference.  The burden of the moment began to tug at that part tired of enduring processes with no end in view.  The myriad of problems stacked on the table made it appear no way could be found to break through the massive wall of division in Columbia, Missouri.

I've been down this road before.

Only two black men sat at a table to discuss issues that impact poor, black people in Columbia and throughout Missouri. I was one of them. The people at the table brought varied levels of power and privilege to discuss ways to help "those" people. Yes, "those" people.

How can we help "those" people?

I closed my eyes one last time and prayed to remain silent.  I couldn’t. The rage linked to living and working in Columbia left me devoid of the strength to remain mute.

“Columbia doesn’t have a black community,” I said.

“Yes there is,” the people in the room responded.

“There are no blacks on the Columbia City Council.  There is no black radio station.  There is little black representation in the press.  There are no black businesses in downtown, and few that don’t cater services exclusively to blacks,” I said.  “A community within the context of the larger community is minimized when it lacks the power to impact change.”

I pondered the teachings of Paulo Freire, “the trust of the people in the leaders reflects the confidence of the leaders in the people.”

Freire was an influential leader in the critical pedagogy movement.  Freire taught that education should create space for the oppressed to regain their sense of humanity, and, through that process, overcome the conditions leading to their oppression.  Freire believed the oppressed must participate in their liberation.

“No pedagogy which is truly liberating can remain distant from the oppressed by treating them as unfortunates and by presenting for their emulation models from among the oppressors,” Freire wrote in Pedagogy of the Oppressed. “The oppressed must be their own example in the struggle for their redemption.”

It was a point that those in the room needed to hear.  Although they came with a sincere desire to make a difference for those hindered by policies and systems of subjugation, true liberation demands the input of those not in the room.

“You mean well,” I continued.  “You are here for the right reasons, but the people who need to speak are not here.”

I continued to share the consequences related to their absence.  I told them they are not present because of a lack of trust rooted in a long history of racial divide.  I told them people are unwilling to come to the table because of the process used before they arrive.  Those with power and privilege make decisions, and then come to the broken for an endorsement.

How do we break that cycle?

We must empower those who feel they hold no power.  We must equip them to take ownership and control of an agenda that will improve their condition.  They must lead the way.

Yes, we must listen.  We have nothing to say until we have adequately listened to the voices of those in need of liberation.

Steps have been taken to begin this process.  For the next few months, members of Columbia Faith Voices will be listening to the people.  We will begin with the Douglass Park Neighborhood Association.  We are asking for permission to attend your meetings.  We only won’t to listen.  Our promise is follow your leadership.

We will listen to other communities.  In doing so, we stand with you in collaboration.  We bring the power of our privilege to demand you will be heard.  We bring the power of our faith and the clout of our votes.  In listening to you, we will learn more about ourselves.  We’re asking that you teach us.  Teach us about the conditions that limit your progression.  Teach us how we, each of us, have stood in the way.

If crime is your concern, teach us how we can help.  Help us yell for you.  No, help us yell with you.  Teach us how to yell.

My vision for empowerment is simple.  I envision a massive collaboration between faith communities, business leaders, nonprofit organizations, academic institutions, county, city and state government, law enforcement and citizens.  I envision a bottom up approach to human service delivery and community development.  I pray for a work led by the people that will lead to the advancement of all of Columbia citizens.

I’m seeking a new model for community development that begins with listening. 

Columbia Faith Voices is on board.  Speak to us Douglass Park.  We are waiting on you to lead us in the transformation of your community.

Speak.

Back to silence.

Why I don't celebrate Independence Day

There will be no barbeque and fireworks for me. 

I don’t celebrate Independence Day.

I both understand and appreciate the importance of the day.  It is the birthday of our nation.  I say our devoid of hesitation. I love being an American, and believe in baseball, hotdogs and apple pies.  Well, I don’t eat hotdogs, but I accept them as part of American culture.

I don’t celebrate Independence Day because doing so would affirm a lie.  It is not my Independence Day.  I know, that’s old news, but buying into the celebration would deny years of subjugation before the signing of the Civil Rights Act in 1964.

Note that I didn’t use Juneteenth, June 19, 1865, as black Independence Day.  Juneteenth is a holiday that commemorates the announcement of the abolition of slavery in Texas.  Although it is more appropriate for blacks to celebrate Juneteenth as their date of independence, the mention of freedom from slavery did not equate to true independence until the legislation of laws to protect freedom were imposed in 1964.

It could be argued that black people continue to fight for independence.  That is a matter for debate.  It is true that many have experienced the promise of the American Dream, while others continue to grapple to overcome the grip of oppression.  Some will say the limits of some are the result of personal choices, and that institutional barriers that hinder progress have been eliminated. Again, that’s a debate for another day.

My issue relates to the validity of our claims.  Independence Day is not a day of celebration for me.  It is a reminder of the hypocrisy of our nation’s history.  It shed bright lights on the scandal of our past, and the consequences related to blacks in America.  It’s a past that shouldn’t be neglected in our quest to wave flags, eat barbeque and watch fireworks to celebrate our national pride.

As much as I would like to get over it, my love for history won’t allow me to pretend.  I can’t let America off the hook by participating in our nations lie.  We can imagine a nation ruled historically by the mandates of its constitution.  We can fantasize over the contribution of the fathers of the nation, while forgetting they were all white men.  We can conceive in our imagination a history of people bonded by an agenda for universal freedom, but all of that is a lie.

That is not who we have been, and for black people to celebrate independence, while trapped in a history of suppression, denies the pain of our past.  I can’t claim that history as my own.  My ancestors continue to cry from the grave begging me to state the truth regarding the rest of the story.  To claim national independence negates the brutality of a system that refuted the humanity of the slaves.

Yes, that is a painful past, but it remains part of our national truth.  To expect my participation under the cloak of patriotism is a position rooted in privilege.  It strips me of the part that demands to be heard and respected for surviving the journey.  It recants the stories of my great-grandparents who endured being slaves.  It tarnishes the witness of those who fought for, waited for, and died for authentic independence.

I love America.

I believe in the values expressed in our constitution.  I believe that all men, and women, “are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights.  That among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. “

I believe in the natural rights of all men and women.  I believe those natural rights exits irrespective of race, nationality, religion, gender or sexual orientation.  I believe those rights should be respected and affirmed in the face of mental and physical condition, political affiliation or past mistakes.

It is my belief in our constitution that compels me not to celebrate Independence Day.  My refusal affirms the rights of those denied, and the independence of those forgotten.  My saying no is a yes for those who seek to be protected by the constitution we celebrate on this day. My no obliges us to move past the memory of the words, and apply them in a way that includes those forgotten between the lines of hypocrisy. 

I refuse to celebrate because I love the vision of America.  I love what we can be if we uphold fully the tenants of our constitution.  I love the hope of each word written.

I refuse to celebrate because we’re not there yet, and there is a gruesome past that we sweep under the rug whenever guilt and shame show up to prevent authentic healing.

This is what it means to be created equal.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

For all men and women.

A lesson on power and privilege

Illustration from BKNation.org

Every now and then I’m forced to step away from my writing and reflect on comments made by readers.  I rarely respond to what people write.  It’s a policy I implemented years ago to allow readers to go at it without my intrusion.  That doesn’t mean I’m not reading.  I do.  I laugh, sometimes I cry, and there are days I take a few deep breaths before screaming – y’all don’t get it.

My last blog about white privilege is an example of my desire to yell at readers.  To their credit, the confusion may be the fault of the author – that would be me – due to the introduction of conceptions that require a more profound explanation. 

So, let’s go to class on the meaning of privilege.  Take notes.  Be patient, and prepare to apply the teaching as you seek to embrace diversity.

To begin, privilege is not a condition of selection.  It is not limited to philosophy or political position.  Privilege is not something you can remove with effort.  It comes with being you.  As much as you regret having to claim your privilege, it comes with being born with, or acculturated within an institution of privilege.

White privilege is given at birth.  It opens doors, extends benefits and assigns merit for no other reason than the advantage of being born that way. You can’t denounce white privilege.  Association with radical positions and disassociation with extreme positions doesn’t lead to the forfeiture of privilege.  It comes with being born white, and your life is both measured and rewarded based on that privilege.

Got that? On to point two.

There are numerous forms of privilege. Some are physiological while others depend on the environment of the moment.  There is gender privilege, age privilege and heterosexual privilege.  Each weighs heavy on the way people are affirmed or marginalized in their pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  Privilege extends to attraction, mental well-being, and the lack of privilege shows up for those with mental illness and disabilities.

Privilege can exist among those accustomed to unfair treatment.  There’s black privilege when the majority in the room are black.  When that shows up, privilege isn’t about perception within a broader context, but how being the majority affords advantages that others miss.  My black privilege shows up within the context of worship in a predominately black church.  My black male privilege supports my personal agenda when a seek leadership within a black church.  My black, male, heterosexual privilege grants me power, influence and authority if I promote an anti-gay agenda within the black church.

Privilege is used to subjugate others.  This often shows up as an unconscious action.  The benefits associated with privilege are extended lacking perception.  Privilege doesn’t require participation. Advancement associated with privilege is laden in a myriad of historical and cultural actualities. Unwrapping how privilege impacts the ability to maneuver through systems is critical in advancing diversity.

Owning ones privilege is decisive in releasing the power that comes with privilege.  Personally, my list of privilege is vast.  Some of the things on my list have to be filtered through the context of a particular setting.  I hold education privilege as a person with graduate degrees.  Although my position of privilege exists within a broad community context, my lack of race privilege limits my ability to utilize the normative power associated with such privilege. My lack of normative advancement, comparative to those with white privilege, is construed as supreme privilege when juxtaposed within the context of black culture.

There is power that comes with privilege.  This is a truth that can’t be surmounted by simple will or association with groups that confront the advantages of privilege.  My willingness to listen to and embrace feminist and womanist ideology isn’t enough to counteract the advantage of my male privilege.  My being an advocate of LBGTQ rights isn’t enough to undo the advantages of my heterosexual privilege. 

The power that comes with my privilege requires ongoing introspection related to how I function as a person holding advantages.  Although privilege is something often given without demand, how I function with that privilege may limit the progression of others.  I’m constantly examining ways in which I use my privileges to hinder others.

Many would rather assume they hold no privilege.  Conceding the ownership of privilege is difficult when one considers it a function of will.  It is challenging for some to consider their advantages due to how history shows up as a reminder of ongoing negation.

All of us hold privilege. For some, there is power that comes with that privilege.

Now that we have that out of the way, take a look at your own privilege.

Class dismissed.