An Imposter at the Homegoing

by with 4 Comments CultureFeaturedPolitics

Perseverance in the face of tragedy is a staple of the Black community. Surviving devastation has become so engrained in the Black psyche, it’s hard to separate the two. Events that appear insurmountable for many are often anticipated, a literal rite of passage. “How old were you the first time you experienced . . . (insert horrific event)?”

The Black “Homegoing” is a microcosm of that same Black experience in America. Early in the African Slave Trade, slaves were much more closely tied to their ancestral roots. Traditions were carried with human cargo during the Middle Passage. The newly-enslaved Africans believed death signified a return of the soul to the Homeland with the ancestors. Considering the horror they now faced, death was easily a much better existence. It mandated a celebration.

True to its DNA, the Black community persevered through centuries of the worst treatment of human beings in documented history. Relegated to the status of permanent livestock, hope for a life free from bondage sustained generations. That freedom could be in the physical form on Earth, living life as a “freedman” or it could mean a symbolic freedom with the soul released to a better place.

Forced cultural assimilation could never extinguish the will of the Black community to hold on to its humanity. The Black community now practiced a corrupted and modified version of Christianity. This form of population control sought to subjugate Blacks to permanent subordinate status by coupling their physical bondage with a far more insidious form of domination, mental servility.

Despite the clear objective of mental castration, the Black community still held traditions as sacred. Full forms of music, methods of cooking, story-telling, and manner of style/dress survived centuries of extensive efforts to sever any tie to the Black ancestral home(s). The Black community took this corrupted form of Christianity imposed upon them to further white supremacy and turned it on its head. The same Bible that was only presented to them in an abridged form (though never allowed in their exclusive possession) still provided hope to Blacks living a literal hell on Earth.

It is upon this backdrop that the Black Homegoing must be analyzed. One cannot overstate just how sacred the tradition is. After generations, Blacks in America replaced the African ancestral homeland with the heaven they heard preached in the Bible. They became synonymous and after generations, the Black community knew more of slavery than their actual bloodline. Sadly, slavery became the entire existence of the overwhelming majority of Black people in America.

Hope for something greater was all many had. Survival required them to hold on to the hope of reaching the “Promised Land,” lest they only exist to be subjected to daily torture. Whether that land be physical or spiritual, it was a blessing many sang of and sought daily. It sustained them. So one can only imagine the literal joy many felt to see another subjected to the same nightmarish existence, finally free. The celebration that “sent” that human being “home” was a recognition of them finally at peace. It was simultaneously providing hope for others. One day they too would no longer have to toil in the abyss of bondage.

The means of the Black Homegoing has evolved over generations, but the end is always the same. It is mandatory to celebrate that person’s life and the reality that the Black oppression in America can no longer harm them. While it is true that slavery in its original form has ended, it is still very much practiced in every state of the Union. Oppression and denial of the Equal Protection of the Law is likewise denied the remainder of the Black community that is not currently incarcerated.

The Black Homegoing is a celebration of those realities no longer controlling the life of the person currently celebrated. This is true of any Black American, be it the homeless man that remains nameless or a Civil Rights ICON. So with this context in mind, the passing of the arguably the greatest remaining vestige of the Civil Rights Movement necessitated the greatest Black Homegoing imaginable in the world of COVID-19.

John Lewis fought his entire life for the Black community. Literally penning a letter of instructions to the people from his deathbed, Lewis always sought to advance the Black community from the tortuous reality he endured for 80 years. The path was slow and arduous and unfortunately too long for Lewis to see it to fruition. With this reality in mind, Lewis’s Homegoing was planned. It involved multiple locations and services on multiple days, one last crossing over the Edmund Pettus Bridge, and his being honored by a who’s who of both the Black community and the world of social justice. Lewis was to be eulogized by the last President this country has seen, the first Black President of the United States, Barack Obama. It must be noted that the Obama Presidency likely never occurs without John Lewis and all he fought for, a reality that was never lost on neither Obama, nor the Black community.

However, before that sacred event could be concluded, America had to have one “last laugh.” In total, three former Presidents spoke at Lewis’s final service of his Homegoing. Ironically, the Republican former President knew full well what was and was not appropriate. George W. Bush’s words were eloquent and gracious, a far cry from his Presidency. His dialogue actually made many ponder on how far he had come, almost wishing the current occupant of the Oval Office could be more like him.

But true to form, White America had to make its indelible mark of despotism on the life of John Lewis one final time. Bill Clinton, a man that once joked he was the first Black President, is perpetually too comfortable in exclusively Black spaces. Indicative of his nature, Clinton would not waver during the sacred Black Homegoing for a sacred icon of the Black community. His words, reminiscent of the Willie Lynchism tactics imposed during slavery, sought to illuminate a perceived division in the struggle for Black liberation.

It was an underhanded and veiled slight, spoken quickly in a manner that would lead the passive listener to believe that John Lewis openly disagreed and clashed with another icon in the struggle for Black equity. While praising Lewis, Clinton referenced a division HE remembers in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). SNCC was an organization of student protestors and freedom fighters who sought nonviolent means to protest and resist segregationist practices in the South. SNCC was founded by 126 student delegates from various institutions. Among them were John Lewis and Stokely Carmichael. Their goal was uniform, direct-action challenges to civic segregation and the political exclusion of the Black community. SNCC sought to eradicate both with all deliberate speed.

Lewis and Carmichael may have personally favored different means of achieving their goal at times, but not to the point of pitting one against the other as an adversary. Put simply, they were fighting the same beast at the same time, seeking the same outcome. But, leave it to Clinton to impose revisionist history during the Homegoing for John Lewis. “Thankfully, Lewis prevailed…” were the words of Clinton, hinting that there was some struggle to “liberate” SNCC from the oppression of Carmichael. It was shameful and uncalled for.

Stokely Carmichael was a freedom fighter and not an oppressor. His contributions to the Civil Rights Movement cannot be quantified any more than those of John Lewis. Carmichael coined the phrase Black Power. A phrase many take for granted today, was unheard of when he first said it. One of the most revered alumni of Howard University, Carmichael set the world on fire with his powerful rhetoric. One cannot speak of the struggle for Black liberation without mentioning the name Stokely Carmichael (or Kwame Ture the name Carmichael took in later years). 

Much like John Lewis, Carmichael is a sacred icon. To speak negatively of Carmichael invites passionate debate or worse. It is an insult to the Black community to degrade its icons. Clinton did exactly that while on invite to an exclusively Black space, a sacred Black Homegoing for a sacred Civil Rights icon. He pitted one icon against the other without either of them alive to refute his subversive tactic. It was horrific.

However, the Black community will always survive. It will always endure. True to its character, the Black community brushed off this nasty tactic, which could have easily placed a stain on such a sacred moment. After all, those in attendance (either physically or virtually) were waiting for someone greater. While he is an imperfect human (a trait he wears on his sleeve openly), Barack Hussein Obama is a master of understanding the moment. Obama delivered one of his best speeches of recent memory, eulogizing the great John Lewis appropriately. By the conclusion of his speech, Clinton was a distant memory, as he should have been. John Lewis was appropriately sent “home.” He was finally at peace, no longer burdened by the cancerous disease that plagued his life. Racism could no longer harm him. He was finally free and no form of oppression, be it overt or the “wolf in sheep’s clothing” from Arkansas, could ever touch him again.

Long live John Robert Lewis, an icon and personification of the Black experience in America.

Similar Read: Until the Revolution of 1776 is Complete

The Constitution?

by with No Comment CultureFeaturedPolitics

[New Contributor]

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.

POWER OF LOVE: PART II

by with One Comment CultureFeaturedSports

Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.

Again.

Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.

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.)

OLÉ COLTRANE.

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…”

TAKEOVER.

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.

Power of Love, to be continued…

Similar Read: POWER OF LOVE: PART I

THANK YOU, PRESIDENT TRUMP

by with No Comment FeaturedPolitics

Thank you, President Trump. Thank you for electrifying a nation that was politically flaccid. Thank you for jolting younger generations into political action. And, If I am being totally honest, thank for driving me to awaken the Silverback inside me.

Over the last six hundred and fifty four days of this Presidency, I’ve observed many things that have equally disturbed me and broken my heart. Unfortunately, at the top of that list are Conservatives of Faith who have continued to support this President. The more that I continued to see the bastardization of Faith, did it only drive me to recall my own Christian upbringing. While the net outcome of those conversations with myself will be shared at a later time, I did remember the following passage from 1 Kings 3: 16-27. Which is a story about King Solomon making a decision between amongst two disputing women:

16 Now two prostitutes came to the king and stood before him. 17 One of them said, “Pardon me, my lord. This woman and I live in the same house, and I had a baby while she was there with me. 18 The third day after my child was born, this woman also had a baby. We were alone; there was no one in the house but the two of us.

19 “During the night this woman’s son died because she lay on him. 20 So she got up in the middle of the night and took my son from my side while I your servant was asleep. She put him by her breast and put her dead son by my breast. 21 The next morning, I got up to nurse my son—and he was dead! But when I looked at him closely in the morning light, I saw that it wasn’t the son I had borne.”

22 The other woman said, “No! The living one is my son; the dead one is yours.”

But the first one insisted, “No! The dead one is yours; the living one is mine.” And so they argued before the king.

23 The king said, “This one says, ‘My son is alive and your son is dead,’ while that one says, ‘No! Your son is dead and mine is alive.’”

24 Then the king said, “Bring me a sword.” So they brought a sword for the king.25 He then gave an order: “Cut the living child in two and give half to one and half to the other.”

26 The woman whose son was alive was deeply moved out of love for her son and said to the king, “Please, my lord, give her the living baby! Don’t kill him!”

But the other said, “Neither I nor you shall have him. Cut him in two!”

27 Then the king gave his ruling: “Give the living baby to the first woman. Do not kill him; she is his mother.”

America is the baby. Love always wins. Go vote.

The Spirit and the Letter

by with No Comment FeaturedPolitics

The Trump Administration’s policy to separate children from the undocumented adults they accompany has created outrage among Republicans and Democrats alike. We all know that the administration is taking a hard line on immigration. It appeals to their base. Attorney General Jeff Sessions invoked the Bible (Romans 13) in an effort to justify the new policy. This statement alone is concerning, coming from the mouth of a public servant. The First Amendment is in place to prevent religion from influencing policy or law.

So, what is policy? Policy is the plan that describes what the government intends to do, and the path to get there. Law is the end result of this plan. This means that the policy of arresting undocumented adults on federal charges and taking away the children they bring over the border may soon become law. 

There is a difference between law and policy, and the law says nothing about separating children from their parents. The law, in the most basic terms, describes apprehending undocumented aliens, charging the adults with a misdemeanor, determining if there are family ties with the children, and treating them according to an established process. The policy of the Trump Administration turns this process on its ear, not only by charging adults with federal felony charges, but with taking all children into custody. 

The Trump Administration lays blame on the Democrats, who it says put the law on the books. It appears to be referring to the “catch and release” policy (not a law) of releasing parents with children into society while awaiting their day in court. The Administration considers this policy a loophole and wants to close it. Homeland Security Secretary Kirstjen Nielsen claims further that the vast majority of children who cross the border are sent alone, or with an adult who is not a parent. I’m not going to dig deep here; my intent is to frame the situation. 

The U.S. Customs and Border Protection website reports an alarming increase in the last few years in the number of family units and unaccompanied children crossing the Mexican border into the US illegally. This may be why the GOP is reluctant to condemn the new policy. 

However, there is nothing beyond this policy that outlines what to do with the people once they are apprehended. This is why we have a repurposed Walmart in Texas and the federal detention system will soon become overwhelmed.

Laws are subject to interpretation, even the ones that appear to be very clear-cut. The letter of the law is being enforced here. However, the spirit of the law is being ignored. The Trump Administration seems to interpret the law as giving no quarter (and using the Bible to justify it).

The laws are written in a way that removes the element of emotion, or at least tries to. However, humans are emotional creatures. Emotion drives interpretation and enforcement. Claiming adherence to the letter of the law while adding a cruel spin to it reveals a dark side of the Administration. One that is not very different from certain authoritarian regimes in the past and today. No compassion, no consideration of the human condition, and justifying it as a commandment from God. This is the worst sort of interpretation and hypocrisy. 

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Jeff Sessions And The Religious Right Are Ruining Christianity

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Christians need to shame those who use their faith to justify actions and policies that are anything but Christ-like.

Remember the movie “Saving Private Ryan?” For those who haven’t seen it, not sure if that person even exists, but if you haven’t seen it here’s the gist. Captain Miller, played by Tom Hanks, and his platoon are assigned to find a soldier whose three other brothers have died in combat before he possibly faces the same fate.

The soldier, Private Ryan, is just another soldier; however, Army leadership found it purposeful to save the Ryan household another loss to their family, thus the mission to find Private Ryan and bring him home.  

During the mission, several of Captain Miller’s troops, including Captain Miller, die attempting to save Private Ryan; yet the mission of rescuing Private Ryan is fulfilled and he safely returns home. 

Related: Alabama Republicans, Politics Over Everything…

The movie came to mind when I saw yet another ridiculous religious reference by a political official. This time it was Attorney General Jeff Sessions. Side note, speaking of Hollywood movies, if there was ever the perfect man who had both the look and voice of the Jim Crow segregationist, it would be Jeff Sessions. 

Sessions stated the Bible justified immigration enforcement to purposely separate families in the effort of enforcement because “it’s the law of the land.” Which is true. The law of the land includes immigration protocols. The Bible does state to obey the law of the land. But… is that the Christian way? To intentionally separate families for violation of a nonviolent crime? Would he use the good Christian book if the immigration issue was focused against… say… Polish immigrants versus immigrants from Mexico and Latin America?

However, Sessions isn’t the real problem. It’s his fellow Christian worshipers who stay silent when the “Christian Right” continually use the Christian faith as a launching pad for their political policies.

To the non-affiliated type, the “Christian Right” has become nothing but a harbinger for bigotry, xenophobia, and homophobic views and policies. This type of practice has gone on for too long and now more than ever Christians need to go on a mission and save their faith.

The “Christian Right” has become so ridiculous that white evangelicals voted to the tune of 95 percent for Trump. Trump: a lifelong party going, illicit drug using, several wives having, amongst other things self, was voted for based on religious beliefs. Huh????

So what gives? 

Simply put, the “Christian Right” use religion as makeup to cover their true bigotry filled desires. And only rightfully minded Christians have the makeup removing kits to wipe it away. Yes, I know most of the “Christian Right” are southern White people, but it doesn’t matter. If you practice the Christian faith, what’s supposed to supersede any demographic box is wanting to be Christ-like. Therefore, that includes ensuring your faith is not being misused.

Lastly, in “Saving Private Ryan,” Captain Miller calmed his troops questioning the purpose of their mission for the expense of their own possible death; for he stated if bringing Ryan home is a way to get them all home, then so be it. Other Christians not on board with the hypocrisy of the “Christian Right” might fear backlash or know they too have their own faults. However, justifying these actions by stating it’s the “biblical thing to do” creates a mark on the Christian faith that’s becoming harder and harder to erase.

After listening to such justification and watching it play out, refusing to speak up is even worse. 

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