The Constitution is a term that’s used regularly in the political world and in right-wing circles. But it’s constantly misused like the term love, which is used every single day. There are many levels of love. It can go anywhere from love for your favorite sports team, love for a family member, and of course, the love of your life (at the time lol). But again, the term love is used all day, every day. And similar to the adjective “the,” there’s often not much meaning behind it.
Similar to “love” and “the,” the term Constitution is used improperly or rather without true meaning. We live in a time where many want to bring up their Constitutional right, whether they are left, right, or somewhere in the political middle. We often hear “It is my Constitutional right…,” “I am protecting my Constitutional right,” or, “They want to take away our Constitutional right…” and so forth.
The issue is many who are yelling protection of their Constitutional right do not even know what the Constitution says. They are clueless about how many Amendments are in the Constitution and what they actually state.
There are 27 Amendments in the Constitution. Some remember popular Amendments, such as #1 Free Speech, #2 Right to Bear Arms, or #5 Remain Silent. But as mentioned there are 27 Amendments, and I can guarantee you judges, police officers, and government officials constantly use many of them as justification for their actions despite not actually following the law.
Let’s deal with the Second Amendment for today. Many gun activists believe that the Second Amendment is their only God-given right and the most important. They also believe that this Amendment justifies having 18-20 guns to protect themselves including military-like weapons. This may be true, but this is not the law of the Amendment nor is it the purpose of its creation.
Because these activists have chosen not to use the Amendment properly, they have subsequently created a Stand-Your-Ground Law. Stand Your Ground Law states that you have the right to use your gun to stand your ground when you feel your life is threatened. But these activists are using their guns any way they want because they believe the Second Amendment and Stand Your Ground Laws give them that right and justify their actions. Once again something that is not accurate. And what we’ve discovered is “Stand-Your-Ground” really means Whites can stand their ground and Blacks & minorities have no ground to stand on. Blacks can’t say, “I am standing my ground because I fear for my life.” Blacks cannot walk up and down the street waving a gun or have a large gun strapped across their chest and walk in a Burger King, gas station or Walmart without police or authorities being called. That phone call on that Black individual most likely will end in an arrest or murder by the police or civilians.
If we’re being honest, Stand-Your-Ground Law is another made-up law that allows White Americans to make civil arrests or take the lives of innocent people, mainly African-Americans. If it was really about protecting everyone then the law would also give African-American their fair protection and rights to STAND THEIR GROUND as well.
But the reality is it’s not for Blacks. They still believe how dare a Black man own a gun because that is NOT American so they must be up to some type of crime. How dare a Black man go golfing, take a jog, sit in first-class on a plane, or be in the park with friends.
But people used The Constitution as their American Bible to hide behind their hatred and evil speeches. Believing that The Constitution is their legal right to do whatever they want as long as they say my Constitutional rights. It’s the same ones that say, “Get over slavery it was a long time ago.”
But Blacks and minorities have Constitutional rights. It is their right to speak up, defend, and protect themselves and their families. It is their right to not be killed, shot at, or threatened. It is their right to vote, worship, love whom they deem fit, and it is their right to stand their ground and demand justice in our judicial system. The sad truth… justice is not blind, it can see real good. She sees color, skin tone, race, nationality, gender, sexual orientation, and income status. Justice is not blind and justice is not fair.So when will we make The Constitution something that protects and serves all Americans? Because it’s just not for White people.
I have a diverse group of friends. Over the years, I’ve had great conversations with my White friends about what my experience is as a Black American. Often in those various conversations, a few statements have recurred:
“I won’t ever know what it’s like to walk in your shoes”
“I don’t see color”
“I don’t know what I can do to help”
Generally speaking, all of these statements were said with good intent. So I’ve come up with a simple but impactful analogy that might help shift one’s thinking from apathy to care.
In my travels and most summers, I love to go to the beach. Growing up in Brooklyn, I never felt that I had a connection or access to picturesque beaches but there is calming quality in listening to the waves crash under the sunshine. I find that the beach is a great place to read a book, listen to music, have few drinks, and/or connect with friends. When I take out my beach bag to leave for the beach there is always something inside the bag that I don’t really need; sunscreen.
Now before you get all preachy on me about the dangers of skin cancer hear me out. First, my doctor tells me every year that I have a vitamin D deficiency. Second, my dark skin can absorb the sun’s rays and I’ve never gotten sunburned in America. Third, my skin looks radiant and I look great with a tan.
So why do I buy sunscreen and remember to take it with me to the beach? I know that when I leave the house for the beach that I will likely be going with other people, of lighter skin (i.e. White folks), who will need sunscreen or else they get sunburned.
Now, I’ve never had a bad sunburn but I have been around plenty of White folks who didn’t apply sunscreen properly and have gotten a bad sunburn. To be frank, it looks awful and extremely painful. Because I’m not apathetic, I’ve asked my White friends to share their sunburn experience with me. What does it feel like? When does it go away? What happens when you touch it? How does it heal? Why did you not apply sunscreen more effectively? You really have to go through this entire sunscreen application process before you layout? Why do you want to get a tan anyway? Yes, I know being darker is sexier but is all this worth it? So I’m thoughtful enough to leverage my Black privilege in this instance to bring sunscreen just in case.
Similarly, when I leave my apartment every day there are things that I have to think about that White folks don’t. I’ve previously written about some of the things that I have to think about when I leave the house. While I can’t speak for the 40+ million Black folks in this country, I can tell you that acknowledging our struggles under the metaphorical sun will go a long way to improving the racial discourse in this country.
You see, Black folks are familiar with the White experience in this country because that experience has remained prominently at the forefront of our culture. In an era where access to information is just a few clicks away, I’ve come to feel that some White folks are simply apathetic to our experience and choose to remain ignorant of the full spectrum of the Black experience. Folks choose to remain uninformed and believe, just as our current administration does, that only negative portrayals of our communities are worth highlighting.
In his usual eloquence, James Baldwin, explains the White apathy towards the Black experience as a segregated wall where there is no desire to peer over the other side of the wall because there is a conscious effort to remain ignorant of the Black experience.
In short, we want our White brothers and sisters to look over that wall, we want you to understand the complex spectrum of our experiences, we want you to be curious about how we live, we want our struggles under the metaphorical sun to be acknowledged, we want you to join in our interconnected fight against racism. We want you to bring sunscreen,even if you don’t need it.
“Most of the White Americans I have ever encountered really, you know, had a negro friend or a negro maid or somebody in high school. But they never, you know, or rarely after school was over or whatever, you know, came to my kitchen. You know, we were segregated from the schoolhouse door. Therefore, he doesn’t know – he really does not know – what it was like for me to leave my house, you know, leave the school and go back to Harlem. He doesn’t know how negroes live.
And it comes as a great surprise to the Kennedy brothers and to everybody else in the country. I’m certain again, you know, that like – again, like most White Americans I have, you know, encountered, they have no – you know, I’m sure they have nothing whatever against negroes. That is not – that’s really not the question. You know, the question is really a kind of apathy and ignorance which is a price we pay for segregation. That’s what segregation means. It – you don’t know what’s happening on the other side of the wall because you don’t want to know.”
It’s all over the news. Another black man was murdered. Two white men chased and shot Ahmaud Arbery in broad daylight and they sat peacefully in their home for months, without remorse or conviction for what they had done. Ahmaud Arbery’s shooting comes as no surprise to me but I, like many black and brown people across the nation, am grieving.
Amidst COVID-19, black and brown families are suffering – from physical health problems, hunger, distress, and many ailments brought by a long history of inequalities. However, Ahmaud’s shooting hit me hard. I often would try to stay fit by jogging outside my neighborhood. How do I know I won’t be shot like Ahmaud? My brother, a tall skinny runner who recently took up jogging outside, could have been a younger Ahmaud, a Trayvon Martin or Tamir Rice. The black community has no time to grieve. The black community must deal with the current pandemic AND the threat of white nationalism and violence. We are being hunted at the mercy of others, machismo wrapped in the enjoyment of killing prey and the prey happened to be an innocent man jogging. Words cannot describe the feelings surrounding his death. I am concerned but more so angry at those who turn their cheek to injustices. I am concerned that non-black communities are turning a blind eye to murder, with the same lack of remorse and convictions as the killers.
We live in a day and age where social justice is popular, acknowledging the strife of vulnerable communities is popular, and passively advocating for black and brown communities is popular as well. One post for non-black communities “should” be enough to show support. However, those who post are returning to their everyday lives and environments where black lives do not matter. They don’t have to matter and if they do, they are inconvenient and burdensome. The question is how are non-black and brown communities changing the discourse about black men and women in their own communities? What are they doing to curb negative views of black and brown people? How do they truly see us on a day to day basis? As we can see, perceptions are stronger than reality and black folk are perceived as dangerous.
The lives of individuals in power take precedent over ours. Even more so, is the view that racism only happens in the South and the South is to blame for these incidents. Don’t get me wrong. The South has had a long and complicated history with racism. However, I do not believe that racist acts and murders only happen in the South. If anything, Ahmaud’s murderers possess a white identity that is reflective of white people across the nation. That blacks do not belong, are dangerous, and they are beneath that of white folks. No matter their athletic ability and likeability, we are still animals, and nothing will change that.
I constantly find myself mourning people I’ve never met. The eulogies are the same, but with different names. This time, his name is Ahmaud Arbery, aged 25 and was about to be 26 on May 8th.
He too fell victim to his skin, the same color as the chocolate that his murderers probably like to eat. Only in the form of candy is Blackness palatable to racism.
Ahmaud was just out for his daily run. Many people do this; even through this quarantine people are still outside exercising. But isn’t the perception of Black boys and Black men running that they’re ‘usually running from something’?
On February 23rd in Brunswick, Georgia, Gregory and Travis McMichael were playing vigilante the way George Zimmerman did. Boy and man alike, neither Trayvon nor Ahmaud ‘could have been up to any good’ just running or going to the corner store.
The McMichaels saw a Black man running in their neighborhood, which couldn’t have been for a reason as innocent and simple as him exercising.
There had been a series of burglaries in the McMichaels’ neighborhood. I can understand being suspicious of people coming and going that don’t live there. However, would they have pursued him in a truck with trigger happy fingers and guns had he been White instead?
The way a person runs for leisure and exercise looks entirely different from someone running from a crime, or their death. I suppose it all looked the same to the McMichaels. So yes, Ahmaud was a Black man running from something alright.
They were the ones armed and dangerous. The McMichaels grabbed a shotgun and a handgun before jumping in their truck to follow Ahmaud. Ahmaud was armed only with the prayer that every Black parent has: that he returns home the same way he left out. Alive.
What baffles me is how long it took for the McMichaels to be arrested. Two and a half months after the incident, these murderers were just arrested on Thursday, May 7th, and charged with murder and aggravated assault. This only happened because a video of the murder was finally brought to light.
What baffles me is how William Bryan, the man who took a video of the murder, took this long to turn it over to authorities. He let the McMichaels walk around as free men for two and half months more. He let Ahmaud’s murder almost be waved off as “self-defense.”
I’m not saying that he and his family deserve the death threats that they’re receiving. I don’t know how I feel about him being charged with murder either. Withholding evidence in an ongoing investigation? That is something I’d charge him with because there is absolutely no reason why he felt it to be better to just hold onto this footage of Ahmaud’s last moments for months.
I understand that he was afraid in the moment the murder occurred. I would be too. Just taking the video was probably the best he could do because he put his safety and his family’s safety first. But what about Ahmaud’s safety? What about the family that Ahmaud won’t be able to create because he is dead? What about the goals and dreams and aspirations that this man had that cannot be fulfilled?
We have a right to be outraged. Racial profiling is continuing to cut down Black bodies. How many more need to die before it is safe for us to be Black and American? Will we ever be safe in our Blackness? Will we ever be American?
Over two months ago, Ahmaud Arbery was viciously attacked and murdered in cold blood. In America, where the African-American community has some of the highest rates of obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes, heart disease, and renal failure, he was doing his part to contribute to lowering the modifiable risks of those diseases by simply exercising. Instead of looking at this young man jog and being inspired to do the same or simply just minding their own business, George and Travis McMichael decided to stalk and murder him. In broad daylight, in the middle of the street, and while being recorded, his life was stolen. His future, his destiny, his goals, all snatched from his grip.
It’s pointless to ask why because we all know the answer to that question. This mentality of hate and discrimination is handed down from generation to generation like a family heirloom. The feeling of superiority that some are taught comes with simply being born. The delusional concept that they were appointed by God to keep us in line and remind us of our place which is under their feet. What’s even more outrageous is the fact that Ahmaud’s mother was told by investigators that he was attempting to burglarize someone’s home and the owner of the home killed him in an attempt to protect their property. A blatant lie to cover for their former colleague. The investigators knew there was video, his murderers knew it was being recorded. Yet both proceeded. It was not enough that the story of Ahmaud’s death began to circulate, it took the leaked video of his execution and public outcry to cause the D.A. office to send this to a grand jury. Instead of arresting and charging two callous cold-blooded killers, they sent it to the grand jury to allow them to make the decision.
In the same country where a 16-year-old Kalief Browder was arrested and jailed for three years with no bail hearing, charge, or conviction for allegedly stealing a backpack… this is a disgusting reminder of this country’s history. My people were considered three fifths of a person, seen as nothing more than property. People like George and Travis McMichael are comparable to patty rollers that were paid to hunt slaves and drag them back to their plantation and allowed to have their way with them until they returned. In fact, patty rollers are the precursor of what we now know as police. There’s no possible way for me to articulate my feelings after seeing that video. We’ve prayed, marched, sang, kneeled, and there is no end in sight. As a wife, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, and friend of Black men I’m not only frightened for them, but I’m exhausted from the worry. The attempted cover up from the D.A.’s office is sickening. The silence of our tweeting president is sickening.
What’s next is my question. However, what I fear most is the question, who’s next?
February 23, 2020 – I don’t remember much about that day for myself. It was a Sunday so I probably went to church, came home and got in some comfortable clothes, and spent the rest of the day on the couch doing much of nothing. Within a couple of weeks, I’d be on lockdown in my home for the foreseeable future, unsure of when my life would get back to normal, if that ever was to exist again. It was on that day that 25-year-old Ahmaud Arbery decided to go for a jog in his Brunswick, GA neighborhood. Unbeknownst to him, a father and son would be out on the same road that day looking for trouble. You see, they kept their loaded shotguns in the back of the truck I’m sure just in case they passed some wandering deer, possums, or for the occasional menacing ni**er. Of course, they say that this Black man, jogging down the street trying to tend to his own health, “matched the description” they say of a burglary suspect. According to them, that’s when they grabbed their guns and decided to leave the house in an effort to pursue him on a “citizen’s arrest.” What happens from there is anyone’s guess, and the coward filming appears to be more concerned with catching the action than preserving a life considering that he later shared the video with friends bragging about what had happened.
I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time combing back through all of the details and facts that we can find on every major and minor news outlet. I don’t have the time to contemplate why it’s appropriate for the state of Georgia to allow people to get a haircut during the Covid-19 pandemic, but conveniently can’t find the means to arrest or bring charges against 2 men who have spent the last 2 months at home, alive, believing that they had every right to pursue another human being and kill him without any question. I’m sure that, after a couple of weeks, they assumed they were in the clear and that nothing would be done. The father and son had probably even turned their attention to protesting the loss of their own “freedom” during a time where people were dying, because it wasn’t directly affecting them so they wanted the privilege to move around freely again. After all, it’s their American right to do so!
My questions at this time are many, my anger is at a boiling point and I don’t have enough energy to process frustration. Instead, I find myself asking-
“Was Ahmaud not allowed to be scared when 2 men rolled up in a pick-up truck pointing guns at him?”
“Is it possible to fight back when strangers come out of nowhere and interrupt your peaceful jog by pointing a long gun at you and screaming at you in a way that must’ve rendered you confused and in shock?”
“Why is a very real threat to people who look like me always laced with questions and doubt, as if it’s some sort of made up, imaginary fantasy?”
“Are we still unable to acknowledge the history of domestic terrorism towards Blacks in this country? The kind that makes sure every Black child is given “the speech” by parents and elders from the time they are able to listen, and doesn’t stop even into adulthood because now a wife is also concerned that her husband may not make it home safely.
“Was my ability to feel pain stripped away when my ancestors had their children stolen from them at an auction block, never to be held or nurtured again? Am I still supposed to be that numb?”
“When do I get to feel what I want to feel- fear, hurt, frustration, pain- and express it without being labeled as “angry” and “black.”
I can’t say for sure what will happen this time. If the District Attorney is suggesting that it is taken to a grand jury, I can’t respectfully thank him for his consideration and walk away expecting justice to be served. What I am sure of, however, is that the courtesy that the Black community has extended to those who have hurt us over the past 400 years is wearing thin and patience is running out. I am educated and experienced, and this weekend will receive a doctorate degree. Yet, I personally will think twice about the vengeance I withhold, and will no longer be polite in my stance when the death Black and Brown people is a movie that can be played over and over again without even a warning label, as if to desensitize us all to the fact that Ahmaud was even human. Ask yourself when was the last time you even saw a video of a dog being killed that didn’t come with a warning or of “graphic violence and animal cruelty”? I’ll wait…
He’s neva’ gonna come see you play, he doesn’t love you.
Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.
You’re not good enough for him to come see.
I was alone at Monsignor King Hall before practice one morning, working on my footwork.
The neckline of my green t-shirt was soaked in sweat. I was in the gym working my eleven year old love handles off to perfect my patented “drop step to the baseline” spin move.
The sound of the basketball bouncing off the kelly green floor and the squeaking of my sneakers were like music to my ears.
The season before I had fallen in love with basketball as a ball boy for the Monsignor King tournament. I had to be close to the action for the LaSalle high school game to witness one the nation’s top prospects, Ron Artest, play in the championship game.
My first teammates at St. Thomas Aquinas (STA) were a group of special kids: Izzy Bauta, Mike Blake, P.J. Marshall, Joey Romano, Nick Russo, and myself. We were coached by local mailmen, Joe Romano Sr., who was Joey’s dad, and John Browning.
Our team was good. Like, legendarily good. Our first season together we made a splash in Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) with an outstanding record. We’d easily score about 60 points a game. Any given game each of the starting five players could score 12-14 points each. I am still waiting for the local Catholic newspaper, The Tablet, to do a documentary on our successful run. We were unstoppaBULL. Get my drift? It was 1997 and who didn’t wanna be like Michael Jordan? Chicago was on fire that year, and so were we.
That year, people started to talk about how historically dominant we could become if we continued to play together throughout the summer.
And that’s saying somethin’. NBA Hall of Famer, Chris Mullen, used to workout on that floor and rumors have it that he once broke the backboards at Monsignor King Hall while practicing for the Dream Team before the ‘92 Olympics.
Yeah, so you could say that we were almost NBA Hall of Fame, Dream Team level nice, ok?
Anyway, that spring, we had won our first championship on a corner buzzer-beater against St. Rose. We had tasted the sweetness of victory and I wanted to improve my basketball skills over the summer.
But inside our apartment on 2525 Bedford Avenue, my world was crumbling. Dad was never home and the only time I’d hear from him was when he played music on Sunday’s. Sometimes he’d be so into his records that it felt like I was invisible to him.
With the hurt and anger towards my father growing, basketball was a much welcome distraction to muddle the chaos going on in my home and in my young mind. I had asked Mom if I could join karate to blow off steam but my mom felt that I might have been too much of a brute and injure the other kids my age. Not to mention that she just did not have the time to take me to practice with all that was going on in her life.
So when I came home from school energetically rambling about my desire to want to play on the basketball team, my mom initially rejected the idea. But she saw how excited I was and she finally relented with a little persuasion from another parent who offered to take me to weekly practices twice a week.
The turbulence when my dad would come home and the size of our cramped apartment felt like flying through rough air in a small airplane. The uneasiness from the tension created a cagey atmosphere that left me suffocating with resentment from how he had treated my mom and me.
Basketball was an escape to another dimension where I could be free to release the stress of my emotions. The more I poured my energy into the game, the more it gave me the fulfillment I was desperately searching for.
(Silverback’s Note: Read Power of Love Part: I, here. Remember, click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
Inside Monsignor King Hall, her voice rumbles across the court.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN! LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
My mother, sitting in the wooden bleachers, leans back, takes a deeper inhale and continues to bellow. I can hear mom’s voice from the center circle.
Just like her prayer time every morning, that voice got louder, and louder, and louder.
I adjusted my yellow Rec Spec goggles as the referee was giving our team’s final instruction. I can’t even hear him.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN!” “LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
Soon it’s the only voice that everyone can hear in the gym. There’s six minutes on the game clock to begin the first quarter and the scoreboard is buzzing with electric current. Adrenaline is running through my veins. The referee toots his whistle and lobs the ball into the air.
I won the tip-off, and Mom switched to a more provocative cheer.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!,” she shouts as we got into our positions to run our first play of the game.
Looking back, her volume was a somewhat obnoxious level of support considering that our team was about to dismantle our opponents during the first few minutes of the basketball game.
Monsignor King Hall was the home court to one of the most ferocious boys junior high school basketball teams in the history of Brooklyn CYO sports.
From 1996 to 1998, the STA boys’ basketball team would rack up 149 wins and 1 loss. We didn’t have a team mascot or a nickname so our fans would cheer for us using the color of our green cotton t-shirts. Our loudest super fan was my mom, Madeline Louison. At 330 pounds, she was also our largest and most gangster, cheerleader as well.
I can feel her fierce love and undying support with every echo of her voice that rang through the gymnasium. It’s that same voice that I can still hear in the echoes of my mind, passionately encouraging me to push myself to be better to this day.
She’s still cheering me on and is the driving force behind my competitive passion. She’s still in my corner encouraging me to strive for more through the power of her love.
You see, Madi has always been the personification of the Bible. She embodies the ruthless ferocity described in the battles of the Christian Old Testament combined with the warm loving narrative of the redemption story told in the Christian New Testament. That’s how I described her to my therapist, anyway.
“You know I am an atheist, right?” Dr. Brown says to me in one of our early sessions.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I respond as I am sitting across from him at a wooden table inside his apartment office.
“Tell me about your mother but with less Biblical references so I can understand,” he says with a slight grin that accentuates the shine in his brown skin.
I had just completed unpacking my father’s story of origin to my therapist and it was time to discuss my mother. I found myself in the therapist chair because I was experiencing an emotional block in 2014.
The woundedness of my father’s absence during my childhood and the effects of two colossally failed romantic relationships as a young adult had left me broken and searching for healing. I was struggling with emotionally connecting with humans – I felt unable to love.
“My mom and I have a really close bond,” I respond. “We’ve had to be there a lot for each other through the years…”
My goggles were foggy from the perspiration. It was scorching outside and I could feel the heat rising off the gravel courts in the Coney Island public housing complex.
Our Dream Team was playing in our first summer tournament. We had made it to the championship of the 2nd Annual Stephon Marbury Basketball Classic.
Our team had not played hard enough in the first half to be competitive. It was halftime and Coach Romano was red in the face.
“Get your heads outta’ your asses and focus!” Coach Romano growled at halftime. He usually didn’t cuss at us but when he did his Brooklyn-Italian accent really came out.
Izzy and I plop our dense 180-pound frames into the lawn chairs. We both stood about 5’8 and our knees were protruding off the edge of the nylon seats. I cross my arms in frustration.
The PA announcer had been talking nonstop during the first half and it was good to finally hear some music blaring from the speakers set up near the courts. Jay-Z’s debut album, Reasonable Doubt, was playing during a break in the action.
Our team was not accustomed with losing and we began allowing the unfamiliar territory to disrupt our flow.
One of the parents passed around a bag of frozen orange slices to cool us down.
“Put those orange slices down and focus, Andy!” my teammate P.J. shouted. “You’re not boxing out!”
Focus, I thought.
How could I focus when all I wanted was for my Pops to come watch me play ball? I had so much heaviness on my heart. All of my teammates’ dads were there to watch them play. Even the ones that didn’t get much playing time.
Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me? I got game.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my mom being there. It was just that she didn’t know much about sports and I just wanted my dad’s guidance like all the other boys. Some of my teammates wondered if I even had a dad at home.
Basketball apparently was a “waste of time,” according to him but the game I loved had already given me more than he ever had.
“Pick your head up!” my mother commands. “Get your head in the game. You’re letting those little guys get the rebound over you!”
We were playing in a rough neighborhood against a gritty team of all Black players from Coney Island. I was the only Black kid on our team and you could tell that my White teammates or their parents had never played in such a lively environment. Matter fact, they were the only White people participating in the tournament, the only White people on the basketball courts, and most likely the only White people for a few blocks.
Far away from our home court and in strange surroundings we were down by 15 points. We had been down before but not by this large of a margin. The pressure of the deficit and the exuberance of the crowd was becoming increasingly stressful.
Maybe we weren’t as good as we thought?
The horn sounded to start the second half. I looked on as all of my teammates’ fathers assured their sons and provided final instruction.
At that moment, something switched inside of me. The separation from my own father felt more pronounced. I felt so alone, so unprotected, so wounded. In order to protect the vulnerability of my feelings, a menacing ball of anger ignited inside me.
Enough.
We inbound the ball and I beeline to my spot on the post and call for the ball with gusto. I wanted to get a bucket.
The shot went up and I found a body to crash into as the ball was in the air. I boxed out, snatched the offensive rebound out of the air and scored on the put back layup.
“Oh he’s a beast on the inside!” the color commentator says to start the second half commentary.
Damn right I am a beast! I’ll ball out without my Pops.
The sound of male validation sparked such a self-confident feeling inside of me that I began to chase it by playing harder.
“Great rebound, Andy!” shouted one of the White dads.
Keep rebounding, they can’t stop you.
We score on a few back to back possessions and cut into the lead going into the final quarter.
Every time I glanced over to the stands and remembered that my father was not there I felt my blood boil hotter and hotter. I wanted every damn rebound. I wanted every freakin’ loose ball. I wanted to squeeze every pebble on the basketball’s leather skin.
Who needs a Pops anyway?
I was on a roll and our opponents didn’t seem to have anyone on their bench to match my ferocity in the paint.
I began mouthing off at the referee after he called a loose ball foul on me. I was being too aggressive positioning for the rebound, he said.
“I didn’t even touch him!” I lashed out.
Okay… so I elbowed the kid. But I had no capacity to care even if I was playing on their turf.
“Callate la boca,” my mom shouts. I am chewing on my jersey to keep from erupting and I softly whisper into my jersey, “That’s such a bullshit foul call.”
Well, at least I thought I whispered it, as the referee whistles me for a technical foul.
Coach Romano is besides himself and Coach Browning has to hold him back from yanking me off the court by the strap of my goggles.
He decided he can’t take me out of the game, we had the momentum and we needed a big body in the paint for rebounds.
Coach Romano found his composure and Joey huddled up our players at the center circle.
“Keep your head in the game big guy,” my teammate Joey said, slapping me on the head. “We need you in the game to win this.”
With Joey’s pep talk, I regained my composure and got back to dominating in the paint.
The game was back and forth as we entered into the final minute of the championship. We had clawed back to take the lead by one point with 42 seconds remaining on the game clock.
Just then, out of nowhere, a rainstorm soaked the court. Everyone scattered for shelter ending the game with mere seconds left.
When we all returned the following week to play, we had found our winning confidence. With NBA rookie sensation, Stephon Marbury, watching court side, we walloped their asses for the remaining 42 seconds left in the contest.
Marbury, A Kid From Coney Island housing projects, had just completed his rookie season for the NBA’s Minnesota Timberwolves as a member of the now iconic 1996 NBA rookie draft class that featured future all-time greats Allen Iverson and Kobe Bryant.
It was an odd way to end such a hard-fought game but we were going to meet an NBA player and take home a giant trophy. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I didn’t care much for Marbury at the time, other than that I could brag to my friends that I was somehow closer to Michael Jordan.
I can still hear mom as we victoriously left the basketball court that day.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!”
My mom and I were in a joyous mood on that drive home in the minivan. Boy, did we need that victory to lift our spirits. Winning gave us something to celebrate. I still wanted my dad to be there, but it was great to look up from the passenger seat and not see her tears.
Mom switched on the ignition of the minivan to pull off. The choir picks up mid track where the song had left off earlier in the day. This time the choir sounds so angelic, so sweet.
“Jehovah Rapha” the choir croons.
“You’re my healer…” mom and I triumphantly join in unison as we try to hit the high notes of the songs crescendo. We both sound terrible.
It was in Coney Island that I began to understand what the lyrics of that gospel song really meant.
Basketball had provided a space to set my pent up emotions free. Jehovah Jireh.
The game had supplied me with the confidence and male validation that I was craving in my father’s absence. Jehovah Shamma.
All undergirded by the support and the healing love that my little heart so needed. Jehovah Rapha.
In addition to my teammates, Mom and I have always been a team. I consoled her through the sting of her tears and she soothed the intensity of my rage. Our wounds shared a common source but the power of our love was more than enough to bring us through any challenge we faced together.
When I reflect on that era of our lives together, one of the tracks on my favorite album by Jay-Z comes to mind. The lyrics on Blueprint (Mama Loves Me) remind me of the things I asked God for in my nightly prayers as a child.
“Mama loved me, Pop left me…” Jay begins. “Mama raised me; Pop I miss you. God, help me forgive him; I got some issues…”
Thanks for always being more than enough for me, Mom. You’ve always been the answer to my prayers.
Spring has come and the Covid-19 is still with us, filling news reports and front pages. Bodies pile up in hospitals in some countries, in others extreme lockdown measures have enabled the virus spread to be limited, and the medical staff handles the situation bravely. The number of deaths all over the world is soon reaching, as I write, an appalling 200,000, for almost 3 million diagnosed cases. The USA amounts for a fourth of the fatal cases.
Trump’s daily briefing points are an embarrassing comic relief in the tragedy whose ending is still unpredictable. He has now decided these press points are not “worth the effort,” and I do not know whether to be thankful or desolate. At a time when leadership and trust is most crucial, he fails to embody the strength and good sense Europeans relied on so many times in the past. It is like watching a gutter TV reality show, and obviously he knows a lot more about that than about empathy. Erratic syntax, limited vocabulary, references to absurdities like disinfectant injections (justified as sarcasm on the next day, ha ha) and promoting non-tested miracle cures, tantrums whenever the question is not to his liking, blatant lies and disinformation… all of these offer a sharp contrast with many (not all, looking at you, Brazil) governments’ response to the pandemic.
In Switzerland, the federal councillor in charge of the Interior, Alain Berset, has uttered a phrase that is now the epitome of the crisis, “As quickly as possible, as slowly as necessary.” It is true that the idea of not rushing things is quintessentially Swiss, and we are often mocked for our slowness in many matters (driving, speaking or making decisions being a few). However, despite the crisis affecting many entrepreneurs and businesses, small and big alike, the Swiss people stick to this motto and mostly follow the recommendations as strictly as they did following the March 13th lockdown. Some shops are scheduled to open on April 27th, such as garden centres and hair salons, providing yet another test of the popular compliance with emergency circumstances.
Unlike in several American states, there are no demonstrations in the streets accusing our authorities of turning into tyrants or asking for our freedom back. No one here thinks we have been robbed of our liberty or imposed some sort of slavery, which is something I read on an American protester’s placard. As for now, the moment, the streets and parks are empty, in the supermarkets the distance rules are observed and students are patiently waiting for a decision to be made by the federal council about whether or not they will sit their matura exams (= high-school diploma, A levels). The decision will be made and announced this week, as quickly as possible, as slowly as necessary. Younger students will already go back to school on May 11, while high schoolers will have to wait until June 8th.
As a teacher, I am looking forward to going back to school and seeing my students again. It’s been a month and a half now, and distance teaching/learning has become my new routine.I will not linger on how much time I spend adapting resources or modifying documents, trying to reach students who do not reply to emails or submit work for assessment. It is my job, and I do it in whatever conditions this crisis has imposed on us. I do it with my own children at home, waiting for me to entertain and play with them all day long. I do it in between baking and cooking, finger painting and seed planting, floor mopping and laundry folding, hide and seek and car playing. I do it at night, when the kids and my partner sleep. I do it.
Nevertheless, I have observed what I already knew, but did not see in such proportion before: the amount of people who think teachers are lazybones who deserve their pay to be cut down for doing nothing all day and ostensibly bragging about it on their balcony or in their garden while others still go to work as normal. It looks like half the population thinks this way, judging by the comment sections of online newspapers. And they do not use words as kind as the ones I have chosen above to express their grudge. It saddens me to witness this lack of faith and trust in people who, after all, sometimes have to neglect their own children to make sure others’ get their daily or weekly supply of knowledge. I have no access to my school buildings (homeless people have been accommodated in them), and I have over 100 students. I cannot, unlike my children’s primary school teachers, print and send, or deliver, files. We rely on the internet and the distance learning tools and programmes our department has chosen for us to work with. In just a week, we had to learn how to use them, get organised, alter programmes and adapt whatever was planned to this new situation. We did it. Well, to be honest, most of us did.
Yet some parents (and some non-parents) are unhappy about our incongruous right to a salary when working from home. I read a mother accuse teachers of being Nazis in disguise for wanted to send her children to the gas chamber, aka the classroom. Of course I find it unbelievable to have the nerve to compare the final solution with trying to teach kids. But what I also cannot believe is the idea that the teachers have their word to say in this. We are employees, we do what our hierarchy tells us to do, (in that case, going to work), which is why another fraction of the population hates on us right now: we are like the blind SS, obeying orders against the general good. I did not choose the job thinking I was going to get praise and statues, but I am still stupefied by the constant outbreaks of hate and criticism. As teachers, our role today is to maintain a sort of normality, a routine of learning and understanding the world we live in, through remote connection with all these pupils and students whose parents have to worry about other concerns. We try to make sure they are OK, we let them know they can reach out to us in any case, and we reassure them. We give them homework, set up video calls and formative tests so they can move on and feel they are doing their part. We tell them they are important because they are the future, so they need to know things to make the right decision when it comes to them being in charge.
I have already thought about the perfect activity for my students to practise their own criticism skills: I am going to show them a few pictures of these American protesters, and ask them what they think of that. Would they rather live in “dangerous freedom” rather than “peaceful slavery”? Why does the US resonate as some dystopian setting, reminding us alternatively of “The Handmaid’s Tale” when some compare the right to abortion to social distancing and wearing a mask, or “The Giver,” a novel by Lois Lowry presenting a society in which all differences have been suppressed —suggesting they fuel dangerous behaviours and crime—hence leading to a safe, but deprived of any free will, civilization. Inequalities are more than ever palpable amidst the pandemic, with the poorer populations paying too dear a price for their leaders’ lack of action. If only this crisis could make things change for the greater good, and erase some of these differences instead of intensifying them…
The 6th American president, John Quincy Adams, said “If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.” In that respect, today’s teachers are much more real leaders than some presidents.
The Coronavirus pandemic has completely shut down the world. Way too many lives have been lost globally, yet here in the United States we have a narcissistic president that refuses to own up to his own failures and take responsibility for allowing thousands of Americans to die despite warning after warning. Loved ones are not allowed to say their last goodbyes and people are dying alone in hospitals and being placed in body bags just to be stacked in makeshift coolers. This can’t be how life goes from here on out, or is it?
Recent reports show that Black and Brown people are contracting the virus at a much higher rate, which has ultimately led to higher death rates in their communities as well. Yet again, you have the president of the US (that seeks to be the next dictator) pushing for all states to open up without regards to what medical professionals have suggested, which is for states to not remove their “stay-at-home” orders.
Trump initially stated he wanted to open the country up for Easter but that was walked down by Dr. Anthony Fauci. Then weeks later the report came out about Black and Brown people. Immediately, thereafter the president re-engaged the topic of opening up the economy. My thoughts are, the second the report was released, he saw the opportunity to allow this pandemic to kill off as many Black and Brown people as possible. How ironic knowing that the majority of Black people will vote against him in the upcoming election which could help lead to his demise. He’s gone as far as fueling his base to protest Governors to open up their perspective states, totally disregarding stay-at-home restrictions and social distancing guidelines. His supporters even argue that they allegedly aren’t affected by the virus so the state should be up and running. How is this going to help heal the world and bring people together? It won’t!
To add insult to injury, social media and actual news coverage is reporting that Black people are being banned and denied access into multiple establishments in China. They are saying and believing that Black people are the cause for this virus. How obtuse is that? Especially when all signs have pointed to the Wuhan science lab as the sole bearer of this horrible pandemic. That is baffling to me. This leads to my question of why do they hate us so much… even in a time of crisis?
Covid-19 will change many aspects of daily life for years to come.
Last week, Dr. Fauci, American physician and immunologist who has served as the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases since 1984, said we should stop shaking hands indefinitely, even after Coronavirus is under control.
Perhaps now is the time to adopt the social custom of bowing, in lieu of physical contact.
And why not? Bowing is fun! It’s safe and it’s very respectful.
My wife and I performed music for the U.S. Troops in the Asian Pacific and traveled to many countries where bowing was the norm. I thought it was so lovely and affectionate, even from a distance.
Bowing is not as simple as it would seem. There are many levels of intimacy and different emotions that can be expressed without touching. Cordial business bows are more rigid and dry (the equivalent of a firm handshake). Friendly bows are more loose and smiley (like a hug).
Bows of the deepest affection or respect are very low and long. In Japan, our tour manager took us to a record shop where a great friend of his recognized him from across the room. She ran full speed up to him and paused drastically at the appropriate distance (about 6 ft) and bowed the lowest, most loving bow seemingly possible. It was as powerful as the strongest hug I’d ever seen.
Perhaps long ago (or not so long ago) a pandemic of COVID-19’s magnitude swept through Asia and the culture collectively abandoned physically engaging forms of affection, instead embracing (pun intended) this social distancing form of love.
In any case, let’s try it out, America! Everyone knows what it means to bow. What might have been viewed formerly as “foreign” or “unAmerican” (we hug here) might just be a large ingredient necessary for getting this country out of our current predicament and back to some semblance of the beautiful way of life we once knew.
