Even with the national shutdown and suspension of our normal way of life, most pastimes can still be enjoyed. If you have reliable internet service, you pretty much can get anything you need. Is it the same? Of course not. Seeing a movie meant for a theater release isn’t the same as streaming… no matter how big and new your television screen is. Yes, you can still order the Surf and Turf platter via delivery; however, it simply isn’t the same served in styrofoam. Considering it costs the same, you want the same taste and experience you’d get in the actual restaurant.
But it’s something.
Prior to this shutdown, I was in a gym rat groove. I still can run outside and use my dumbbells at home (don’t worry about the weight of the dumbbells). Is it the same as a full-fledged gym??? No.
But it’s something.
One aspect of society that cannot be modified, and for good reason, is sports.
Yes, ESPN is currently airing a HORSE basketball tournament between current and former NBA and WNBA players. I get it, they’re trying something. And I tried watching it. I really tried, it just simply wasn’t appealing to me. Aesthetically, it looked like it was shot on an Iphone 4. It was little action and mostly interviews with the players, the competitiveness was manufactured, and it wasn’t live. Sorry, something about the unknown of watching live sports is a major appeal to why we love it so much. I currently watch the classic games shown by various outlets, and love seeing the unknown in the face of fans as they watch something they don’t know or expect to happen. It’s a really special feeling only live sporting events can deliver. Either at the event or home, the emotion of fans cheering and live action is needed. A prerecorded HORSE competition simply can’t deliver that. And as a rabid sports fan, I only want the full return of sports. No more barnstorming and bad ideas, just the real thing.
I can watch a remote episode of a sketch comedy show or a news broadcast, not the same, but it’s something. And that something is currently the state of sports. Meaning, we don’t have a true understanding of how or when the shutdown will end. And that understanding is beyond and more important than sports. With that being said, if with the utmost safety we can get modified versions of sporting events, I think it would be welcomed by many.
Proposals such as playing in empty (fan-less) stadiums, playing in one arena and city, and other similar ideas of that nature are a good start. Sports is needed. The positive economic and social impact of professional sports teams on cities is beyond simple calculations. On a smaller scale, the same can be said for the economic and social impact of collegiate athletics (the NCAA) on college and university campuses nationwide.
The need to have an outlet for celebration and sports is inevitable and emotional. I just hope we don’t have to wait too long to experience it again.
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.
The first time I heard the phrase “vote for the lesser of two evils,” was when Hillary Clinton was chosen as the Democratic Nominee for the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election. I’m sure we all remember that enthusiasm for Hillary was low. She was widely disliked and many people were devastated at having to choose between her and Trump, but criticisms of her were immediately shut down by people claiming “she’s the lesser of two evils.” Basically, no matter how many valid reasons people had for rejecting Hillary, they had no choice but to shut up and vote for her because her evil was easier to swallow than Trump’s. Fast forward to 2020, and I’m hearing the same arguments all over again.Joe Biden is the Democratic frontrunner and his so-called supporters are out in full force, silencing any and all criticisms. They’re saying to “vote blue no matter who” regardless of his many faults because anyone’s better than Trump. I disagree entirely and I’m honestly sick and tired of hearing these arguments. There are many problems with this kind of mindset and I think it’s both harmful and unproductive to promote it, so here are the reasons why I don’t believe in “voting blue no matter who/voting for the lesser of two evils.”
One reason I’m not okay with these phrases is because they encourage people to settle for candidates that we *know* are unfit to lead us. We deserve better and should demand better from our elected officials, instead of just throwing our hands in the air and accepting a candidate who is proven to be unworthy in every way, shape and form. Progress is what I seek, and I know that settling for the status quo will get us nowhere.
I can’t accept “vote for the lesser of two evils” because in terms of Biden vs Trump, this phrase suggests that Joe Biden is somehow less evil than Donald Trump, which is a lie. In fact, I believe that Trump and Biden are the exact same brand of evil, the only difference being that Biden wears a blue MAGA hat while Trump wears a red one. There are too many similarities between the two, one being that Trump and Biden are both racist. Trump has labeled Mexicans as criminals and rapists, was sued by the U.S. Department of Justice for housing discrimination against Black people, proposed a ban against Muslims, and referred to African countries as “shithole countries” (these examples hardly scratch the surface of his history of racism). Biden was good friends with white supremacist James Eastland and gave a eulogy at the funeral of segregationist Strom Thurmond. He opposed desegregating schools because in his own words, he didn’t want his kids going to school in a “racial jungle.” He called Barack Obama “the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean,” said that “poor kids are just as bright and talented as White kids” during an Iowa town hall, and helped write the 1994 Crime Bill that expanded mass incarceration in the U.S.
Other similarities between Trump and Biden? They’ve both been accused of sexual assault/harassment/uncomfortable physical contact by numerous women. Trump has accusations from 20+ women, while Biden has eight, (and has also been seen on video inappropriately touching underaged girls and smelling their hair). Both have disappointing track records on LGBTQ+ rights, both have credible accusations that they’re mentally unfit to be president, both have worked for administrations that put kids in cages, and both are warmongers. Now that I’ve laid out all the reasons why Biden and Trump are horrible in pretty much all the same ways, how exactly is one better than the other? Swapping out one bigot in chief for another is not a win, giving me no reason to rally behind either candidate. I’m a marginalized person and my marginalized community will be harmed by both Trump AND Biden, which is why I cannot just sit down and “vote blue no matter who”—and anyone who tries to bully others into doing so is blatantly choosing their party affiliation over their morals.
It’s time to kill the idea that we should choose a lesser evil over another, and that we have to vote blue no matter who. I need people to realize that politicians work for us, not the other way around, so we shouldn’t give up our power by accepting less than what we deserve and by being afraid to demand what we need from them. I also need people to realize that Donald Trump is not the sole reason for all the evil in this country and that replacing him with Biden will not put an end to it. In reality, Trump is a product of the evil in the U.S. and in order to make real change in this country, we must dismantle the systems that allow him to thrive, not just focus 100% of our energy on him. Since people will always do what they want regardless, I’m not going to end this article by telling anyone who to vote for. But I will tell you not to allow the direction of the 2020 election to make you feel hopeless, because regardless of who’s in office—whether it’s a Democrat or Republican, whether you love them or hate them, there is work that needs to be done. We must stay aware, stay involved, and look out for our fellow community members, because in the words of my good friend and one of the smartest, most passionate activists I know, Brooke Solomon…
“No president is going to save my community.”
While electing a president is important, it is not the only way to create change. The power lies within us. Real change exists outside of electoral politics, and we need to be the ones to create it.
I can hear mom’s voice battling with God in prayer. It’s the first thing I can hear even before I can open my eyes to start the day.
My bedroom is underneath my parents’ bedroom in the basement of the house.
Some mornings the murmurings of her voice cajoles me out of my sleep. Some mornings it jolts me out of my sleep. Some mornings her syncopation consoles me back into sleep.
She prays like someone having an argument on the telephone.
You know when you can’t hear the person on the other side of the phone call but you know that the side you can hear is winning because the passion in their tone is increasing?
This was the voice that woke me up. Every. Single. Weekday. At 6 am.
“LORD GOD, I’M COMING TO YOU IN THE NAME OF JESUS…”
I bet you her fists are balled right now, I think.
“YOU SAID IN YOUR WORD, OH GOD…”
Yep, she is definitely wagging her index finger in the air right now.
“HEAR THE CRY OF MY HEART, OH GOD…”
Ah, she’s slapping her chest again.
“BRING BACK MY HUSBAND, LORD! HEAL MY MARRIAGE! RESTORE THE YEARS THE LOCUSTS HAVE EATEN…”
Welp, that shit’s neva’ gonna happen.
“Time to get up for basketball practice,” I think to myself as I get out of bed.
I could hear that she was crying again. But unlike at night when she would wail herself to sleep, I could hear the fight in her voice in the morning. I could hear her grappling for her marriage, for her sanity, and for her survival at dawn.
I mean, how else can you manage raising four children playing sports, a full time job as a NYC public school teacher, studying for your Master’s Degree in English in the evenings, and emotionally reconcile with the implications of a wayward husband in the late 90s without seeking daily divine intervention?
(Silverback’s Note: Welcome back y’all! There’s so much to say about the global public health crisis that has most of us currently confined to our homes. Until we are safe to roam free, I am reminded that Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years and if Madiba could endure, then so can we. Blessings to you and your loved ones.
My last piece, “Music Is Life” triggered healing conversations and reflections for a lot of folks. I am so grateful for your feedback, thank you. The piece also unlocked my ability to share stories about what fueled my drive and focus on the basketball court.
If my father’s absence was the antagonist in my life story, then my mother’s presence was the protagonist. I am excited to share my love for my mother, the game of basketball, and most importantly, the love for a lifelong journey I have embraced through therapy. Please enjoy reading this very special 3-part series. For the first time ever, we present Power of Love.
P.S. – Click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
It was around 1996 when we learned of my father’s infidelity. This news was a devastating blow to our home. I was unable to fully contextualize the damage but I knew that my dad was with another woman. Their explosive arguments were burning hotter by the week.
Raising four young children, effectively as a single parent, was taking its toll on mom and she had ballooned to 330 pounds.
I learned one morning that her nightly tears often continued well into her twenty-five minute drive into work. She was a public school English teacher and on the days that I had off from Catholic school, I would witness how she began most mornings in the car.
The northbound drive from East Flatbush to Bedford Stuyvesant in the late 90s was not pleasant.
I wanted to listen to this new rapper named Jay-Z on the radio but Mom always wanted to listen to the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. She loved this one particular album on cassette, God Is Working. Oh man, did she love this one song called “More Than Enough.”
She couldn’t sing worth a lick but she would rewind that song over and over. She used to say that one day she was going to audition for the church’s Grammy-award winning choir.
Fat chance.
Sometimes her singing would be so off putting that I’d just tune out her words. Until, about five minutes into the drive, I’d begin to hear sniffles.
The drive would take us past the cross street where my dad’s other woman and their two young children lived. The sight of the block was too much to bear for my mother. The tears would fall.
Then she’d turn up the volume, as the rumble of the piano keys welcomed us to her favorite song, the sound of the keystrokes pierced through the silence in the minivan.
“Jehovah Jireh” the soloist would sing. “My provider…”
On one of our rides, I remember approaching the intersection where Ebbets Field formerly stood. There was a painted mural of my idol, Jackie Robinson, to commemorate his becoming MLB’s first Black baseball player.
“Look!” I pointed. “Did you know that Jackie broke the color barrier in 1947 playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers?” I ask, attempting to distract her from her sadness.
Ignoring my attempts at a diversion, mom would continue to sing along with the choir with more vigor, “Jehovah Shamma,” she continued through her tears. “You supply all my needs…”
By this time on our drive, we were stopped at a red light and her eyes were closed. Suddenly, a knock came to the window. Startled, we realized it was a panhandler from the men’s homeless shelter looking to squeegee our front windshield in exchange for small change.
“You know I really wanna get better at basketball,” I continue blabbering, ignoring the strange man at the window. “I am excited for my teams tournament this weekend. You think Dad will come?”
She kept singing her heart out without responding. She was in her own world.
Those drives were tough for me to experience from the passenger seat but even more painful for her to experience as the driver but we both were looking for inspiration to get us through the day.
As our old minivan puttered and squealed to a halt in front of the burgundy clay colored doors of Primary School 308, Madi would begin to transform out of her sadness.
“Come on Madi, you gotta focus now,” she’d say to herself in the sun visor mirror.
“Lord, you are more than enough…”
She turned off the ignition.
“You are more than enough for me.”
I too was struggling with feeling that I wasn’t enough. Mom had discovered her resolve in the mountains of Puerto Rico. A resolve that I was lacking.
Where did she develop such resolve? I wondered.
Instead of telling you, I’ll step aside and let Mama Soulful share her own journey with you.
Mama, tell us about those dreams you had about “La Isla del Encanto.”
OYE COMO VA.
I open my eyes wondering if I’m in my Tío Felito’s house in Puerto Rico. As I look around the room, I remember, Oh, I’m in my dorm at Stony Brook.
Why do I keep having those dreams?
In my dream, my Tío Felito, the quintessential Catholic, keeps warning me to go to church.
Why? What does he mean?
Somehow I knew in my gut that God was calling me to serve Him, but I kept pushing that thought to the recesses of my mind.
I knew that I could not serve God and date Jordache — my unbelieving boyfriend — at the same time. In my mind it was either God or Jordache. Of course, I chose the love of my life, Jordache. That one decision led me to speed through my blossoming girly college days into unanticipated womanhood.
During the course of one week in May of 1984, my life changed dramatically: I graduated from Stony Brook University on Sunday, May 20th. Three days later, I turned 22, and three days after that, this emotionally immature woman had become a wife.
It would take a few more dreams and many, many more explosive arguments with my husband that would lead me to the altar of the Brooklyn Tabernacle in March of 1986.
I was so disheartened. It was at that altar that two young women approached me, as tears of pain were streaming down my face. They sympathetically asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior and say a prayer of confession with them.
I said, “Yes.”
Of course, I had no idea what I was doing and the tremendous lifelong impact that one decision would have on me and my little two month baby, Neville Andrés (Andy). A decision that I can honestly say transformed me from a weak, emotionally immature woman to a mighty warrior for Jesus Christ. My heart is saturated with profound gratitude as I recognize that I am still evolving, still growing and still seeking God’s truth to define who I am. As I reflect upon my metamorphose into womanhood, I know that this journey of faith began long before my college years. It began when I was just a little girl.
“Ouch,” I whispered in pain as my mom pinched me.
She did this sneakily under her crossed arms as the church choir sang, “Hear, O Lord the sound of my call.”
She was always nudging me to pay attention as the priest gave the liturgy. I can remember from the time I was a little girl how Mami adamantly taught me and my two older sisters to fear and love God. She insisted we pray before a meal; reminded us to always say, “if God wills it” when we made plans; or urged us to kneel by our bedside to recite The Lord’s Prayer. She made sure we received all the sacraments and attended church every Sunday despite the cold temperatures or our grumpy adolescent attitudes that only desired to sleep in on Sunday mornings.
Despite my religious conversion to a nondenominational Christian Church at the age of 23, I am extremely grateful for my Catholic upbringing. This orthodox foundation was the cornerstone upon which my faith has thrived on for decades.
In 1950 my beautiful mother, Isidra Natal, prematurely left her home in the country at the tender age of 18. She arrived after two days of weary travels from Puerto Rico then to Florida and finally to her final destination, New York, a strange city she had never encountered.
While living in a two bedroom apartment with her three cousins near Albee Square Mall in Brooklyn, she is acquainted with a young, handsome brown skinned man with soft straight black hair from the island of Cape Verde, located on the West Coast of Africa.
Shortly after my parents met, they got married and eventually had three daughters: Antonia, Leda, and Madeline. I am a proud, native Brooklynite born in the early 1960s when it was very popular for Cape Verdeans to marry Puerto Ricans for a green card.
During my early years, I can vividly remember the instability of my home. Growing up, my dad would always argue with my mom for many different reasons. It was either the house was not cleaned well enough or we had company visiting without his approval or simply lies that my dad’s family spewed out to enrage my father against my mother. Most of these arguments would always end in some sort of abuse. The arguments were constant and fervent while living in Brooklyn and continued even more when my parents bought a house and moved the family to Hazlet, New Jersey.
As one of fifteen siblings, my mom is the matriarch of our family. Over the course of their marriage she endured emotional and physical abuse as well as infidelity until she could no longer tolerate it. She tried to keep the family intact as best as she could, but the abuse was more than she could handle. In spite of the chaos in our home, Mami shielded us by keeping us girls as close to her as possible.
In 1975, she decided to move to Puerto Rico with my sister, Leda, and me in order to file for divorce. Despite the many years of loneliness and neglect, my mom was and is strong and resilient. She made sure we did well in school, attended every parent teacher conference, put food on the table, exposed us to the world of travel, and even made sure we maintained very close family ties. She taught us that family relationships are fundamental, and the importance of supporting each other and staying connected. My mom is a woman of character, as my grandmother would say. She instilled the will, drive, determination, and the gift of civic pride that women during her era were not sufficiently accredited for. Her fortitude of character can be easily traced back to my grandmother, Petrona Adorno Natal.
“Madelina, olvidate de esa gente que familia tienes demás aquí,” my grandmother would lovingly remind me to forget about my father’s side of the family because my maternal side of the family was more than enough.
She’d tell me this every time I’d pour out my anger, pain, and frustration of how my father’s family treated my mom, my sisters, and me. She assured me that their rejection meant nothing because of the enormous family in Puerto Rico that loved us deeply.
The rejection and my father’s violent temper led me to reject my Cape Verdean roots. I wanted nothing to do with any of them. They shunned us, and I buried the memory of this abusive family into the deepest part of my recollection.
That is why the move to Puerto Rico was critical to my identity. Who was I? Where did I self-identify? It was there in the mountains of Puerto Rico that I found true familial love.
It was there that I found a part of my identity as a New Yorican as I embraced the vibrant education, the Spanish language, the rich culture, and the delicious food.
Every morning abuela brewed a steamy pot of fragrant coffee. She’d always make sure my tacita de café was on the table ready for me to drink before going to school. This was the beginning of my lifetime love of having una tacita de cafè every morning except now they are not tacitas they are large mugs of coffee.
The caffeine fueled me, late into the night, to study books that were written in a language that was very unfamiliar to me until I slowly and arduously adopted it as my second language. The pay off of those long exhausting nights of studying finally came the day I graduated from 9th grade as the valedictorian of the graduating class. A distinction I embraced because many kids in the class did not like that a New Yorican, who had arrived two years prior, snatched up this prestigious title.
Life there was rich, peaceful, and filled with wonderful, new experiences that I didn’t always appreciate at that moment, but learned to treasure them as an adult.
In the summer of 1977 Leda and I arrived in Brooklyn before my mom. We stayed between my father’s house in New Jersey and my paternal grandmother’s house in Brooklyn. In preparation for my mother’s arrival to New York, I took on the responsibility of trying to find a place for us to live because after all my parents were divorced, and I did not want to go back to living in the house in New Jersey where so much suffering had taken place. So at 15, I was able to find an apartment for Mami to look into upon her return.
When she arrived she secured our three-bedroom apartment in Flatbush. I was registered in the 10th grade at Erasmus Hall High School, and Leda was enrolled at Brooklyn College. Antonia had graduated from William Paterson University and was living in New Jersey in her own apartment. Mami then found a secretarial job at the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. My father continued living in the house my parents had purchased in Jersey and would visit us regularly. Despite the divorce, he always stayed connected to the family.
I was reacclimating myself to my native Brooklyn roots and like most teenagers at the time, I was consumed by school, friends, disco music, and my first part time job.
Working at Tasty Twin, a small sandwich hero shop, taught me a different level of responsibility that I had never experienced. The owners, Juan and Manuel, were two elderly gentlemen from Spain who simply adored and trusted me, but they worked me like a dog for a mere $2.50 an hour. In their absence, I managed this modest sandwich shop where the Off Track Betting gamblers and commercial workers on Flatbush Ave would sit, socialize and build community relationships. As the cashier, I made sure all monies were counted and secured while Willy, the sandwich maker, cleaned up the shop before closing. My meager earnings allowed me to purchase things I knew my mom couldn’t afford to buy.
The late 70’s were the years of Elvis Presely’s passing, Jimmy Carter’s 39th inauguration as president, and watching and mimicking Soul Train dance lines. Disco music was blazing everywhere from the radio to people walking down the block with boom boxes on their shoulders blasting their music. When Saturday Night Fever came out in the movie theater, it was a hit of monumental proportions that also contributed to the disco fever of the day.
Next door to Tasty Twin was a movie theater where Leda worked the concession stand. The manager there favored Leda and I, and she always gave me free passes to see Saturday Night Fever at least half a dozen times. My goodness, I spent so much time trying to learn John Trovolta’s dance moves. Simultaneously, roller disco was also en vogue and everyone was trying flashy moves on their skates.
Every Friday night, Antonia, and I would hang out at the Empire Roller Skating Rink across from Ebbets Field. The DJ would blast the music and the skaters would skilfully roll to some of the sweetest, most soulful music of that era. Skating was so much fun, in spite of my ungraceful moves. Antonia was a talented skater, and I was just trying to copy her graceful moves as any little sister would do.
While at Erasmus, I was the president of Arista, the national honor society. I was also the vice president of student government. These roles allowed me to develop leadership skills that I did not possess.
Academically, the years in Puerto Rico had revealed that I in fact had some gaps in my education in comparison with other students. However, out of a class of 723 seniors, I graduated number 23. This sweet accomplishment was a reflection of my deliberate determination and effort to excel in my education.
Erasmus Hall blessed me with my life-long friends: Judy, Annmarie, Magally, and Janine. They were all high academic achievers that challenged me to be the best version of myself and to always stay on task and overachieve. As the years passed, my relationship with these very successful ladies has grown very deep roots that have gone beyond friendship. We are family!
Sadly, Janine passed away four years ago of pancreatic cancer. I was so broken-hearted to the point of almost missing her funeral because I was not prepared to face her death. I would have missed out on the biggest surprise of my life had my husband and my son, David, not continued to coax me to fly down to Georgia to say my final goodbyes.
Prior to Janine’s passing, she had arranged her entire funeral service. Unbeknownst to me, she had planned for me to offer words of comfort during the service. I was shocked, honored, and extremely grateful that I was present to fulfill her last wish.
Sleep well until we meet again at the pearly gates, my friend.
In 1980, I started a new chapter of my life at Stony Brook University on Long Island. My parents were very hesitant about allowing me to attend because they wanted me to live at home, but they finally relented with a little coercing from my college counselor.
I guess they feared I would go wild and not come home; however, that was the furthest thing from my mind. I went to all my classes, got involved in the Hispanic club, and pretty much stuck to the books all the time. Every weekend I went home to see my family and to work a part-time job at my local Key Food supermarket.
All was pretty much quiet, until April of 1981 when Mr. Cool and Confident danced into my life at Annmarie’s birthday party. After that first dance with Jordache, I was smitten.
The Coronavirus pandemic has become the #1 issue worldwide, causing widespread panic, anxiety, and isolation. I’ll admit, I originally thought the virus would be a fleeting issue; but as the death toll rises and countries lockdown, the seriousness of the situation can no longer be underestimated. I’m concerned for those who are most vulnerable to the virus, and the emotion that I find myself feeling the most is anger. The United States government has failed to properly respond to the Coronavirus outbreak, and this failure has shone a major light on the fact that the U.S. is horrifically flawed down to its’ very core, and has spent years devaluing, mistreating and oppressing anyone who doesn’t belong to the 1%. Most of us have already been aware of the many social inequities going on in this country, but this virus is now waking others up to how bad things truly are.
On March 7th, ABC News tweeted about a man with Coronavirus that worked several shifts at Hobart’s Grand Chancellor Hotel instead of self-quarantining. This is dangerous because his actions will more than likely cause harm to those who came in contact with him. However, his actions point to the larger issue of poverty in the U.S., as he is just one of many workers that have long been forced to put their health & the health of others in jeopardy because being fired or missing a paycheck could lead to their downfall. In addition to this, people are afraid to even get tested because of the expensive medical bills, another example of just how rampant poverty is in the supposed “best country in the world.”
Moving on to the closure of K-12 schools and universities, the Mayor of New York confirmed that NYC public schools are closed until April 20th; however, it was originally reported that the schools wouldn’t close since 114,000 homeless students depend on school meals to eat. Numerous colleges across the country have sent students home and will have classes online. But, this immediately raised concerns about the number of homeless students who depend on their college for housing and food, who were basically being thrown to the wolves. None of this is okay and it’s shameful that this country acts as if it is.
The fact that so many people are being forced to choose between their health or losing their job, and that tons of students are living in extreme poverty with no access to food or shelter outside of the schools they attend is not an individual issue, but a structural one. The United States is a rich country with enough money to guarantee things like healthcare, paid sick leave, and food/housing for its’ residents, but those who have the power to do this simply choose not to. Billions of dollars are poured into things like the military budget—so imagine what this country would be like if the money were put towards things that are actually needed, like healthcare or canceling student loan debt?
Furthermore, Coronavirus has shown that progressive policies that have been shut down for years are doable. The NYC Council Speaker, Corey Johnson, announced on March 15th that eviction proceedings would be suspended statewide until further notice (Miami Dade will be doing the same). In Bexar County, arrests for minor offenses have been suspended to prevent crowding in prisons. In Detroit, residents who’ve had their water shutoff will have their service turned back on. My question is, why did it take a pandemic for these things to be done? People have spent years calling for these actions to take place! Many of us are aware that evictions, mass incarceration, water shutoffs, etc. are backward, cruel and unnecessary, and should have ended a long time ago. But we were repeatedly told that this was impossible and that these things somehow needed to happen for society to function. Now that we’ve seen firsthand that that’s bullshit, and that our government has always had the power to make decisions that actually make life easier/better for us, we cannot allow things to go back to the way they were.Once the pandemic is over, those in power will attempt to go back to business as usual, but we can’t let them do that.
I urge everyone to let this moment radicalize them, and to demand that the rights being given to us during the pandemic remain. Greed and selfishness have been the heartbeat of this country for too long. People have stood up and fought back in the past, and this pandemic has been a breaking point for so many of us. It’s my hope that from this point on, people will stand up and fight back in a way that has never been seen before. In the words of Assata Shakur…
“It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love each other and support each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains.”
An email was sent to my employer’s special-interest lists the other day: “Does anyone know where I can find some N95 masks? All of the local stores are sold out.” I was stunned. My company is staffed by some of the most logical, reasonable, critically-thinking people I’ve ever known. People at my own company were panicking about the novel Coronavirus, also called COVID-19. Why?
The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) has been a reliable source of unbiased, evidence-based public health information for decades. But, they have been oddly inconsistent in their messaging concerning the coronavirus outbreak – which has been declared a pandemic by the World Health Organization (WHO) on Wednesday (3/11/20), and President Trump is largely responsible.
When the virus first entered the country, the White House squabbled over whether to even share what it knew, and what plans, if any, were being made to keep Americans safe. Meanwhile, experts at the CDC were prevented from communicating with state agencies and providing information to the public. So, state and local governments, airlines, and other companies worked to devise their own plans. Conferences were canceled, airlines put new sanitation policies into play, companies began plans for allowing employees to work from home and to provide financial support to hourly workers. We were standing by until February 25th, as President Trump was preparing to return from New Delhi when he was forced into the reality of the situation. Only then did he signal any intent to address the issue.
Americans look to the president to lead them through crises with a calm demeanor, determination, and decisiveness. Trump did not deliver.Instead, he chose to turn every opportunity to provide assurances into a platform for vilifying the media, blaming the democrats, and aggrandizing himself. What vague reassurances he offered were not intended to calm the public as much as to avoid ruffling the stock market’s feathers. It didn’t work. Trump’s refusal to acknowledge the threat until late in the game may have actually caused the panic on Wall Street. The business-as-usual attitude may have intended to calm fears, but when the rest of the world is rushing to contain and mitigate the spread of the virus, some might see it as sticking one’s head in the sand, waiting for the threat to pass. Not exactly a model of decisive action.
Not surprisingly, Trump’s view of what we’re facing is out of sync with reality. While Democrats worked toward pushing through an emergency economic package to help those forced to stay away from their paying jobs, Trump pushed for a payroll tax break. Not at all useful, because you have to be paid – which means you have to work – in order to get the benefit. He explained his rationale to Republican senators, “… so taxes don’t go back up before voters decide whether to return him to office.” said, President Trump. The stimulus package that the White House is putting together is reportedly going to cost around $700 billion – on par with the Wall Street bailout of 2008 and the Recovery Act of 2009. This package is aimed at corporations, including the hotel industry, which considering that he still profits from his hotels, creates more evidence of his conflict of interest.
The Trump Administration’s anti-science stance is also reflected in its response to the COVID-19 threat. Over the last 3 years, Trump Republicans have gone out of their way to discredit evidence-based science. Budgets for research and public education were slashed, seriously hobbling the CDC in its efforts to create accurate tests and effective solutions. His willful ignorance of how science works was laid out for all to see at his visit to the CDC on Friday. He failed to grasp the simple concept that drugs cannot be created overnight. Getting medicine from the lab to the drug cabinet takes painstaking research, experimentation with consistent results, and clinical trials. All of which require money… money that Trump took away back in 2017.
Exemplified by his own tweet, Trump is fiddling, while all around him the flames get higher.
Whether it’s on my newsfeed or on TV, every hour brings new developments and criticisms about the handling of the COVID-19 crisis. Even my 6-year-old has an opinion on it. Besides reliable information and statistics, I see jokes, memes, and videos making fun of the apocalyptic situation in Italy, Iran or China. However, amidst the flow of information and hoaxes, a pattern emerges: we should take care of one another, and especially of the elderly.
It’s clearly established that those at risk are older people or those who have serious health issues such as cardiac or lung problems or a weakened immune system. Some say it’s just good sense, but when you think about it, other pandemics and outbreaks didn’t quite resonate like this one. Whether it’s bird flu or swine flu, SARS or the measles, in unvaccinated communities, these epidemics didn’t get the same media coverage and level of anxiety worldwide. Why is that?
Adults care for themselves, parents for their children and babies… but who cares for the old? How many isolated senior citizens pass away unnoticed for weeks or months? Each summer, authorities warn them to drink enough and reach out if needed during heatwaves. At Christmas, charities organize dinners for the lonely. In some cultures, such as in China, the elderly are highly respected and unlike in many western countries, they aren’t parked in nursing/retirement homes as soon as they show signs of dependence or senility. Conversely, they are honored and cared for at home by their own children who become at the same time parents and caregivers.
This may explain why many people feel this crisis is different: it is lethal almost exclusively to the ones whom we didn’t think needed protection. As a rule, everybody acknowledges a new-born is vulnerable and must be shielded from threats such as viruses. But people also tend to think that the elderly can take care of themselves and are experienced enough to avoid risk-taking when it comes to their fallible health. Unfortunately, that is not the case and right now what someone may deem a simple cough or a little temperature can wipe out your lovely granny and your funny grandpa. Even if it may be consoling to think that it is in the order of things, they may still have good years ahead of them to enjoy their family and to make the most of this much-awaited time to themselves after working hard and raising a family.
On a personal level, I still have one grandmother and she deserves long years of leisure and serenity after enough hardships. Some of my colleagues are close to retirement and my parents are in their 60s. To those who laugh this off pandemic by thinking it is natural selection, I hope they have considered who they put at risk, even more so within their own family circle.
Count your blessings and respect safety measures, listen to health professionals and remember that optimistically, one day, you will be the elderly person hoping people still acknowledge and value your existence.
The 2019 National Football League season will go down as a very special football season for many years to come. It was the 100th season of the National Football League in which they announced their 100 greatest players in league history. Secondly, it was the first season in which several Black quarterbacks were amongst the league’s best. With Baltimore Ravens Quarterback, Lamar Jackson winning the NFL MVP and Mahomes being the second Black quarterback to win the Super Bowl MVP, the league showcased what sensible people knew all along: Black quarterbacks are just as capable of leading their teams to victory as White quarterbacks – a mindset that still lingers in some fans, and even worse, some front-office decision-makers.
We’ve come a long way in American sports regarding race. We still have a lot more progress to make on race and gender issues in sports; however, this article will highlight how far we’ve come.
I want to tell the story of a great Baseball manager, John McGraw, and how his story serves as an example of racial progression in sports.
Most people have never heard of the legendary baseball manager John McGraw. McGraw, a man who died in 1934, is still considered “the best player to become a great manager” in baseball history. John played and managed his entire Major League Baseball career without ever having the opportunity to do so with any Black or nonwhite player. Unlike many of his contemporaries, McGraw did follow players and teams of the Negro Leagues. He did so up until his death, in which his wife found in his pocket a list of all the Black players he wanted to sign over the years. McGraw would never come close to being able to sign any Negro League players, for the league would not become integrated until the arrival of Jackie Robinson in 1947.
Unlike John McGraw, Andy Reid’s coaching career is most unique regarding race relations in sports. As mentioned before, the racism surrounding Black quarterbacks has kept hundreds of would-be good Black quarterbacks from being just that, quarterbacks. Which has led, up until very recently, in any given NFL season a handful of black starting quarterbacks.
Since Andy Reid’s coaching debut in 1999 to winning Super Bowl LIV, for the bulk of those years Donovan McNabb, Michael Vick, and Patrick Mahomes were his starting quarterbacks. In other words, in an NFL where only a handful of Black Quarterbacks exist, Reid has coached three of them over his entire career. Reid and McGraw are clearly alike, it should be about the players, not the politics.
Hopefully, articles like this won’t be necessary in the upcoming years for the hysteria around Black quarterbacks simply won’t matter, only if he’s got it or if he doesn’t. More importantly, never again will a manager or coach have to go to their grave not being able to sign a player simply because of the color of their skin.
The 2016 election was historic. Hillary Clinton became the first woman ever to secure the Democratic Party’s nomination for president. While her run for president was historic, unfortunately, she did not win against Donald Trump.
However, after her run, unprecedented drives of women – more than ever before – began stepping up to run for office across the country and at every level. So, it was no surprise that the 2020 election for president would see a historic level of women running. Major Democratic ticket contenders included NY Senator Kristin Gillibrand, MN Senator Amy Klobuchar, CA Senator Kamala Harris, Hawaii Congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard, author Marianne Williamson, and MA Senator Elizabeth Warren. Of these six women, Gabbard remains in the race, but her campaign is not viable. Warren was the last serious candidate to drop out, falling hard after Super Tuesday where she had a poor showing.
So what does this mean for a primary that has seen upwards of fifteen-plus candidates enter and leave the race?
Some Americans are saying this country is ready for a woman president; however, their actions are not matching their words. Arguably, Warren was the Democratic Party’s best chance for a woman candidate, but she did not win a single state during the four early primary contests (IA, NH, NV & SC) and she fell flat during the 14-state Super Tuesday contest. She didn’t even win her home state which is a bad indication of support.
Even more than her loosing and ultimately dropping out, we now face a primary that is likely to showcase a contested convention with two old White men. Our moderate candidate being former Vice President Joe Biden and our liberal candidate being Bernie Sanders.
As a self-proclaimed woman advocate, it’s extremely hard to look at a contest that seemed so promising with a diverse field of candidates running from age, gender, race and sexual orientation to dwindle right back down to what we’ve been used to in this country – old white men.
While Gabbard remains in the race, clearly unviable, Warren dropping out sends a strong signal that what this country preaches it clearly doesn’t practice. We already have a president who has proven himself to show clear bigotry and sexism towards women. What we should be running toward are more women who can represent the more than majority voting population of this country – women.
While I believe we will have a woman president within the next decade, I can’t help but wonder what message we are continuously sending by advancing old White men.
Like millions of fans, Kobe’s death affected me more than I thought it would. I didn’t know him, I wasn’t even a Lakers fan, but I respected him greatly. His preparation, his tenacity to compete, and his attention to detail made me root for him even when he was playing against my team.
As a Black male, I found myself in a weird place trying to understand why I couldn’t stop thinking about Kobe and Gianna and the rest of his family who was left behind to cope with his tragic loss. We’re taught at a very young age, directly and indirectly, that showing emotions is a sign of weakness. Under no circumstances do you cry or let others see you cry. But when Kobe died, people witnessed some of the world’s most notable Black men cry and show emotions. It was tough to watch because you could tell many of them tried to hold back the tears, and literally could not. The no crying rule in public had been broken. Sad because a man and his daughter died as well as 7 others in a horrific accident, but beautiful because it humanized Black men in a world that often strips them of their humanity.
But society continues to reinforce that crying, especially in public, is a negative attribute in every way possible. Combined with America’s fascination with sports… we don’t give our athletes time or space to show emotions, to live outside of their respective sport(s); and if you’re an NBA or NFL fan, chances are the subjects of such reinforcement are young Black men.
While the world witnessed notable Black men crying for weeks after the news broke and at the memorial service, they probably didn’t think much of it. But millions of Black men saw those same tears and raw emotions and realized it’s ok to do the same. And that’s a huge win for their long-term mental health, and ultimately their families and communities.I probably won’t immediately start crying the next time I’m hit with tragic news, but if it hits me hard… I now know it’s ok to do so. If WebMD and other studies are correct regarding crying helping our mental health, then by not doing so would do the exact opposite. Compound that by decades and decades of not crying, and you can imagine the negative impact and toll it can take on someone’s mental health and the communities they live in.
Most change isn’t easy, but most change is good, and inevitable.
We all wish Kobe and Gianna were still here. But if through Kobe’s tragic departure millions of Black men can realize that showing emotion is a strength and not a weakness, then Kobe might’ve made his biggest impact of all, and it had nothing to do with basketball.
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