Black History Month leaves and a new month, March, emerges. During February, I thought what does it mean—Black History Month? One month nationally set aside embraces a history I feel only pricks a hole into the abyss. Much of what people of color don’t know is because their stories, contributions, and past journeys have been lost, untold, or reviled as not true American History. White folks are tired of reliving a placed blame. They need to be protected from their own history, starting from what the slave ancestors lived through—up to this very present, today, after decades as these ancestors walked as freemen. Irrelevant, is what people of color are labeled by an emerging group, picturing themselves saviors of an America, whose history is best served up on a golden platter of apple pie and fried chicken. Continue reading
History
6
This month marks the birthday and national holiday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I remember the exact place I was when the news broke about his assassination. I was in school, the last study hall session for the day, and the announcement came over the loud speaker. Our principal’s voice sounded shaken as he stumbled over his words. All the students stopped and listened, and for a moment, even the toughest bullies looked solemn, as if a member of their own family had been murdered. 
I’m grateful for much in my life, especially for those thorns that have caused me pain. The gratitude of gratification has carried me on its back. Friends, to distant ones, to those I’ve sworn to never speak to again, have imprinted my DNA, and when dissected, reveal threads knowing who I am and what I’m grateful for. 
If you listen with your eyes and hear with your mind, clarity will amaze, surprise, and dumfound, because we’ve been previously preoccupied. Whatever life holds, surprises are entwined into micro bombs throwing us off track. Getting back on track, for me, is a continuous task forcing me to sit down and take serious stock of what’s going on.
Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you replaced all your square tables with round tables? In retrospect how different would your surroundings look or feel? Realistically, this drastic alteration probably isn’t feasible, but assuming imagination is possible, so how would it feel touching, feeling, and smelling new each day? Could the change be sustainable and tolerable? 
The month of June started and ended with ups and downs. Prickly vines twisted and entwined our breaths gasping for air.
Over the past couple of months, I’ve finished relocating to a new city. The process of finding an ideal-to-a-perfect place is difficult. What I look for is a congenial context of weather, culture, politics, community, affordability, and an overall ascetical environment outside my window. What I’ve found in my search is the narrow appeal for many parts of this country. Maybe I’ve allowed prejudice to cloud and interfere. Honestly, deciding on a perfect home is a daunting task. 
I wanted to break the tradition of me writing December’s blog. My dear friend and poet, Michael Conner, gave me permission to post what, I think, is a brilliant poem. It is from his book Canto Sun (published by Invisible College Publishing).