Mitch McConnell intends to have this Senate vote on Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s replacement for the Supreme Court. Trump is planning to announce a nominee as early as Monday before RBG is even laid to rest.
This is in direct opposition to statements that Senator McConnell and other Republicans made in their defense of the historic blocking of President Obama’s Supreme Court nominee, Merrick Garland.
Of the many statements made to justify their unprecedented (yet legal) stonewalling, only one needs to be brought forth as evidence of the clear hypocrisy, dishonesty, and inconsistency of the means the GOP used to attain its ends:
“The American people should have a voice in the selection of their next Supreme Court Justice. Therefore, this vacancy should not be filled until we have a new president,” McConnell said.
This was 11 months before the 2016 election. The 2020 election is already underway.
Many Republicans expressed dismay at the dangerous precedent it would set to not only block the nominee, but to refuse even a debate. Lindsay Graham said, “I want you to use my words against me. If there’s a Republican president in 2016 and a vacancy occurs in the last year of the first term, you can say Lindsey Graham said let’s let the next president, whoever it might be, make that nomination.”
There is bad faith here. There is deceit.
If McConnell and the GOP are more focused on war and victory than peace and compromise, they will be sad to learn that those who live by the sword also die by the sword.
Consequently, if a Trump Supreme Court pick is rushed through the confirmation process before the next Presidential inauguration, and the Democrats win back the Senate and Presidency…
The 2021 Democrats should balance the Supreme Court and appoint two additional Justices. They should also approve statehood for The District of Columbia and Puerto Rico to gain four more senators. These are legal maneuvers and turnabout is fair play.
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 bell inside the front door of apartment A1 at 2525 Bedford Avenue would ring loudly when the door was slammed shut.
I know this because — in a very Pavlovian way — I can still hear that bell ringing in my darkest moments.
I’ll never forget the days when I was 6 years old. It was 1992 and there I stood on that dark red carpet in front of the front door. My mom, dad, brother, and I lived in a roach-infested, two-bedroom apartment in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn.
My father had just sprayed cologne on his neck to leave the apartment. The way he carried himself, he had so much swagger and confidence.
“Dad, can I go with you, please?”
Often my mom would chime in to advocate on my behalf, “Jordache just take him with you for a little while, while I take care of Jeremy.”
“No, Madi. I’m just going up the road to come back,” he replied.
“Just let the record play and then switch off the power, when the record is finished,” he continued.
The heavy metal door would then slam shut behind him, causing the bell inside the door to ring loudly for a few seconds. Although he was leaving, the sound of the reggae music that was still pouring out from the industrial-size speakers in our living room was not leaving with him.
I remember going to my room to be alone and deal with my sadness. This pattern went on for many more years and the continued rejection gradually became too much to bear. The sound of him leaving had happened so often that I no longer heard the bell. Instead, a question ringing in my mind.
Neville Louison Sr. is a quiet man; his movements however, are loud.
He steps around the apartment so quietly that I am always startled by the sound of his deep voice, but his impact on my life has and will continue to reverberate well into the remaining years of my life.
It has taken me three decades to heal from the emotional abandonment of him leaving me again and again. It has taken me just as much time to fully grasp the impact of the greatest gift that he has ever given me.
My father has this cool confidence. Cool like a pleasant breeze on a summer night. It’s this cool confidence that gave him the courage to leave his small island of Grand Roy, Grenada, one of the least populated islands in the Western hemisphere. In the 1970s, millions of people had immigrated from the Caribbean islands to NYC. My father was one of them, and like many, he made a home for himself in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn.
It wasn’t long after that that my dad met my mom: a beautiful olive-skinned Puerto Rican woman named, Madeline Silva. It’s A classic Brooklyn love story — like something you might see in a Spike Lee film.
My mother had spent most of her formative years in Brooklyn and then a few more years on the island of Puerto Rico until my grandparents divorced when she was a teen.
By the early 1980s, my mother had made her way back to Brooklyn where she was attending Stony Brook University on Long Island.
His quiet confident cool draws my mothers gaze from across the room. Reggae music sizzles out of the stereo in a way that makes your hips sway, gyrate, and dip.
My mother leaned towards her best friend, Judy.
“Who is that cute guy with the black corduroy pants, moving his hips so nice in the corner by himself?”
“I call him Jordache because I always see him around the neighborhood wearing the Jordache Jeans brand,” Judy laughed. “Don’t worry Mads,” Judy continued. “I’ll introduce you to him if you behave yourself.”
Taking a swig of his beer, he asks her to dance.
Maybe it was the way his dark skin shone, the fluidity of his hips, the attraction of their African blood, or the rhythm of the music, but it was at that moment that their love story began.
After 3 years of dating, my father proposed to my mother in my grandmother’s living room.
He didn’t drop to one knee or make a grandiose proposal or anything like that. He just simply stated, “Madi, we must get married.”
My mother did not hesitate to commit to the guy she had gushed to Judy about all those years prior.
“Ok, Jordache.”
Every time they tell me that story, I can hear Beres Hammond begin to croon, “what one dance can do…” – that is one of their favorite reggae tunes.
If you have ever lived with or in the vicinity of my father, you’ve likely been jolted out of your sleep by the buzzing of the amplifier being switched on.
By the mid-90s, our family had expanded to four children: Andy, Jeremy, David, and Sarah. My parents and their four children lived on the first floor above the building’s garbage room. As a result of the trash below us, our apartment was terribly roach-infested, but the cheap rent enabled my parents to save money for a house. We were poor but we were rich in love.
Our block felt like the Carribean United Nations. There were folks from each of the thirteen sovereign island nations and twelve dependent territories. Each island having their own unique sound, flavor, and style.
My mom was the Puerto Rican ambassador. Since she was the only Borinqueña on the block, folks would call my mom, “the Puerto Rican lady with the four kids.” She kept us close to her at all times. We were inextricably bound together.
There was a strong sense of community on our block. Everyone called my father the mayor. Mainly because he was the unofficial disc jockey. DJ South as he is known locally built his own sound system in my bedroom — the one I shared with my two other brothers.
One closet had his DJ booth which included black turntables, grey amplifiers, black headphones, and a red extension cord. Everything connected to the two large speakers in the living room. Somehow he still found a way to neatly organize all of his clothes and belongings.
This was the stereo that woke my Black ass up. Every. Single. Weekend. At 7 am.
“Early to bed and early to rise, does make a Black man healthy, wealthy, and wise,” my father would say. My brothers and I would roll around, grumbling in our bunk bed. I’d be rubbing crust out my eyes, scorn stitched into my brow, while my dad fired up the speakers. It was surreal every time because I usually wouldn’t see him for the entire week. And yet, all of a sudden, there he appeared before us. Crouched down, calmly strumming through his records.
When did he even get home?
“I go play that record,” he’d say when he finally found the record. He was always rummaging for the same record anyway: Bob Marley & The Wailers’ 1979 record, Survival.
As the needle dropped on the record in the closet, the record begins to scratch as the sound blasts from the living room. The raspy soulfulness of Robert Nester Marley’s voice welcomes you to the album.
“Little more drums,” Bob says.
DJ South’s set usually began with the Bunny Wailers “one drop” drumbeat blaring from our living room windows.
Bob’s voice returned to the track to lament, “So much trouble in the world…”
“Remember son, life is about survival,” Dad chimed in as he increased the volume to an even more obscene level.
“Survival,” he said. “Survival.”
Boy, did I want him to shut up. But no matter how much I tried to drown out the sound, he just kept on doing his thing. Eventually, I just lay there silent and angry, staring at the ceiling.
As a thirtieth birthday gift to myself in 2015, I decided that it was time to learn more about my Grenadian roots. It was a season of healing for me and the island was calling me, so I booked my flight.
When I landed on Grenadian soil for the first time, it had been four decades since my grandfather’s untimely death and my father’s escape to survive.
Grandpa, as I would have called him, didn’t live long enough for me to meet him. Lewis Pierre was murdered at the age of 44 in St. George Grenada in September 1977. The body was never recovered.
My father was working on a cruise ship on the nearby island of Trinidad & Tobago on that day. He was nineteen.
He was selling oranges for five cents in Grenada and that hustle was no longer sufficiently providing for the family. As the eldest of his mother’s children, he had left his home two years prior in search for work.
My grandmother and grandfather were effectively neighbors in the late 1950s. He was a Fishermen and in his 44 years of life, he fathered at least six children. Four of them with his wife and the other two children with my grandmother. My father and his brother, Joseph Cadore.
My grandmother’s family was growing and she would move to the nearby village of Grand Roy, where she raised her children, a stone’s throw away from the sea. My grandmother and her three children lived in a small two-room abode.
My uncle Joseph, who we call Uncle Wayne, is one of my favorite human beings. Since I was a child, he would always drop by to infuse his fun, rebel energy into our apartment. The moments with him were short but we loved to roughhouse with our strapping uncle. What I love about him most is that he chose to be around.
Uncle Wayne is different from my father. He is broad-shouldered, gregarious, talkative, and bald. Despite their noticeable differences, I’ve always admired their close bond.
Always up for an adventure, Uncle Wayne had accepted my invite to accompany me to Grenada. He was beaming with pride to show me around his hometown.
Uncle Wayne picked me up in a beat-up grey 4×4 vehicle with a barely functioning CD-player. That was our mode of transportation for the week.
With a joint hanging from his lip, Uncle Wayne drove us to every corner of the island. A man of the people, he stops to talk to everyone, either greeting them with a boisterous “Hello/Hey/Something” or by the double toot of his horn. I am convinced he knows most of the 100,000 people that live on the island — if not all of them.
During one tour of the island, we stopped at the home that my grandfather, Lewis Pierre, had lived. The yellow two-story home that he built with his own two hands was still standing on the mountain roadside.
My aunt Jenny, who I had never met previously, was living in the home. As I was inquiring about the family history, Aunt Jenny brought out her father’s documentation in a blue tin cookie canister.
I slowly opened the blue canister of his life and pull out the contents.
I gave the documents a quick glance to begin to put together a timeline of his life.
I read the words, “Lewis Pierre born March 18, 1932, to Camilla and Joseph Pierre,” on his birth certificate.
My great-grandparents have names, I thought to myself.
My senses were alive. I was looking at my grandfather’s face for the first time in my life.
“Wow, I look just like him!”
The questions in my mind begin to swirl like water beneath a geyser. However, I remain focused on listening to Aunt Jenny’s every word.
After sitting with the documents for a time and asking a few more poignant questions, I returned the tin canister to Aunt Jenny. I almost don’t want to let the canister go. It held so much information about my life that I may never learn more about.
We said our goodbyes and I began walking back to the car with my mind continuing to swirl with questions.
As we pulled away from my grandfather’s home, Uncle Wayne turned up the volume on the music in the car. The questions in my mind are now rumbling even more loudly as Love African Style by The Mighty Sparrow plays in the background.
“I love to see when Black people make love,” Sparrow sings.
We slowly make our descent down the curvy mountain road. With the sun beating down on the gravel road beneath our tires.
“Now I’ll take you to where me and your father lived,” Uncle Wayne says.
“Wait, you didn’t live there with your father?” I asked. “I thought you guys were neighbors?”
“No. We’d have to walk for hours to get a piece of small change from him, every now and again.”
The geyser of questions in my mind have now erupted and are shooting into the sky. I can only imagine the jagged rocks pressing into their bare feet, the sun beating down on their little heads, and the sweat soaking into their clothing. I wondered what they were talking about. I wondered how they were feeling on their long journey to their father’s house.
Why didn’t he want to hang out with me?
Suddenly, I was transported back to 1992, grappling with my own brokenness behind slammed doors. Except now it feels as if there are two little boys on that dark red carpet. Me and my dad grappling together. I can hear that bell ringing again. I wanted to reach out to my inner child. He needed an explanation.
“Neville,” I said. “He didn’t know how to be a Dad and hang out with you because he never had a Dad himself to hang out with him.”
I was then reminded of this unfortunate truth: broken men tend to produce broken men in the absence of healing.
I see those two Black boys, my Dad and me, much differently now. I’m deeply overcome with sadness to understand we both have experienced this deep pain at the neglect of our fathers.
Immediately one of my Dad’s favorite records by Jimmy Cliff comes to mind, and the words begin to make more sense to me. It’s like I’m hearing them for the first time.
Many rivers to cross…
I felt more connected to my Dad and found my brokenness in his brokenness.
Many rivers to cross
And it’s only my will that keeps me alive
I’ve been licked, washed up for years
And I merely survive because of my pride
“No wonder he played this record so much,” I thought to myself.
The details of my grandfathers final moments in Grenada are limited to his official documents and hearsay accounts.
The death certificate issued ten months later in July 1978 mysteriously states, “Lewis Pierre came to his death by drowning in the parish of St. George and that no person or persons are liable for prosecution.” The hearsay version is that Lewis was thrown off a cliff by a man who was defending his step-daughter from him. Both the official documents and the hearsay accounts leave me with enough hesitation to no longer pursue any additional details of the life and times of Lewis Pierre.
In 1986, less than a decade after “no person or persons” were held to account for my grandfather’s murder, my father would have his first child.
Like many men of his time, my Dad was not overly engaged in my mom’s pregnancy. But he did request that his first-born son carry on his name, Neville. On a Wednesday morning in late January at 5:29 am, I was born — the first-generation American male of my ancestors lineage.
There were many rivers to cross in those early years for my mom and me. Dad didn’t know how to be a father, a husband, or an American – three roles that he had zero experience with. I guess we were all trying to find our way in those days.
Most nights after mom and I did homework together, I would wake up to her sniffles. She was crying. At some point, mom and I had learned that my father had fathered two children with another woman. He lived with his other family just a few blocks away. This tore my mother apart as she was dealing with her own responsibilities. While my dad was an outstanding financial provider, Mom was raising four children without help from her husband. She was a full-time NYC public school teacher and getting her Masters degree in English at Brooklyn College.
When my father did come around, they would argue constantly. I wished for years that he would leave for good so that I could no longer see my mom suffer through their relationship.
I now feel as if I suffered the consequences of my grandfather’s decisions. Neville was emulating Lewis’ behavior, leaving yet another Black boy yearning for time with a Dad who didn’t have the tools to deliver.
As I went through puberty and I grew into my adult years, my anger for my father also matured. I falsely believed that this anger had fueled my success, but in actuality, it was widening the gaping hole in me that my father’s absence had left behind.
The brokenness that had been birthed on that dark red carpet had hardened. I was no longer a boy. Instead, I was the “strong,” “resilient” man that had found his way in America without his father. I made a vow to myself when I was thirteen that this generational cycle of fatherlessness would end with me.
In my father’s absence, I developed my own criteria on what I believe it means to be a man. I would lose myself in books, magazines, mentors, coaches, and closely observed the good men my mom had placed in my life to help guide me. None of those books or people could replace my Dad’s quiet calm cool but they helped provide me with a solid foundation to build on.
At the age of 28, the same age that my father had me, we began to reconcile our relationship. On a quiet Sunday at my parents’ home, we both found ourselves at the dining table eating corn porridge. Mom had just left for church and there was no music playing yet. We both found ourselves quietly eating at the same time that morning. The table was silent except for the sound of our spoons clanging against the bowls. After years of silence on the topic, I muster up the courage.
“How are your sons?” I asked.
Not understating my question, he asked if I was asking about my siblings.
“No, your other two sons,” I sheepishly retorted back.
After taking a moment to gather himself, he stood up to take a walk to his liquor cabinet, and came back to crack open a bottle.
We sat at that dining room table for hours. Just two broken men named Neville exposing their hearts, wounds, and lack of understanding to the other. It was Sunday filled with words that had been previously unspoken and that I’ll cherish forever.
Later on that evening, my Dad asked me to help him fix a doorknob that was in slight disrepair. As he took a knee to unscrew the doorknob, he looked up at me with the glossy eyes of an aging man who had a few drinks.
“Son,” he said. “After today’s conversation… your daddy can now die a happy man.”
These were the words I thought I’d never hear as a little boy. Through his slurred speech, I could hear the sound of a Dad’s tender love for his son.
It’s a moment not many men get the opportunity to have with their fathers.
When I reflect on that moment, one of my Dad’s favorite records Tender Love by Beres Hammond comes to mind.
“First let me welcome you to my little world that was so torn apart. In case you don’t know, I’ve gotta tell you this. That all along I thought this world had no heart…” Beres sings softly.
The two little Nevilles together at last. This is our song now, in a musical language we both can understand.
You’ve been guiding me through the music all along, Dad.
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is a 29-year-old Hispanic woman from the Bronx. Despite being outspent 18-1, she defeated 10-term Democrat Joe Crowley in a New York Congressional primary before going on to win 78% of the vote in the general election. By doing so, she became the youngest woman ever to be elected to Congress. She’s everything the average Congressman is not… young, a minority, and an outspoken woman not afraid to speak her mind and ruffle a few feathers.
So yeah, Republicans love to hate her. And (top) Democrats, well… let’s just say they haven’t necessarily had her back and embraced her with love since she was thrust into the political spotlight. Nancy Pelosi downplayed her monumental upset over Crowley. FORMER Democratic Senator Claire McCaskill called her, “a bright shiny new object.” In the same interview, McCaskill went on to say, “I’m not sure what she’s done yet to generate that kind of enthusiasm.”
Politico recently reported that nearly 20 Democratic lawmakers, off the record, are fearful of her influence and her ability to overpower more established Democrats. And such fear probably makes sense considering she represents change, energy, and a new way of doing things and addressing issues. Off the record (again), a Democratic lawmaker said, “She needs to decide: Does she want to be an effective legislator or just continue being a Twitter star… There’s a difference between being an activist and a lawmaker in Congress.” This is probably worth an entirely different article, but why can’t she be an activist and a lawmaker? Why can’t she be both?
Shortly after that Politico news broke, Ocasio-Cortez responded by tweeting to her 2.2 million followers…
“To quote Alan Moore: “None of you understand. I’m not locked up in here with YOU. You’re locked up in here with ME.” ?
Basically, zero F’s given. Don’t forget the emoji.
Any criticism she’s doled out to the party is likely deserved. While many might not agree with her politics, her passion to create change should be admired by all who believe Washington is broken. Democrats shouldn’t shun her. By doing so they’re sending a few signals to millions of fairly new and inspired voters, many of whom are millennials, which could doom them and their party…
1 They think she is an anomaly and hundreds if not thousands of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s can’t pop up and take their seat like she took Joe Crowley’s… and 2 While they talk a good game about the importance of change, the moment it starts to threaten their position of power and the system which preserves said power, all bets are off.
Ocasio-Cortez is getting enough hate from the right side of the aisle, the left better embrace her. Because she’s genuine, her following is growing, and whether they like her or not… she’s going to be here a very long, long time.
For the Games of the XXX Olympiad (i.e. 2012 London Summer Olympics), I found myself standing in my living room in Sydney, Australia. I had only been living in the land down under for a few weeks and a strong sense of emotion came over me when I heard the announcers say to cheers, “And here come the Americans!” As I watched this multiethnic delegation process into London Stadium, a tear rolled down my face as I noticed that the Aussie announcer made no mention of a hyphen. There was no mention of the hyphen by which we Americans divide one another on a daily basis. There was no mention of African-Americans, no mention of Hispanic-Americans, no mention of Asian-Americans, no mention of Caucasian-Americans; just Americans. For the first time in my life, I was not African-American or Hispanic-American, I was solely an American; a patriot on foreign soil.
Over the last six years, I’ve studied to gain a deeper understanding – beyond what I was already taught in school – of American history. I’ve lost myself in various books and documentaries on how we have arrived at this place in history. I too, arrived at the conclusion that the founding documents of this Democratic experiment, known as the United States of America, was truly brilliant as you put it.
However, as I began to place myself throughout brilliant moments in American history I began to wonder what life would’ve been like then. I wondered what would life be like as a New Yorker in 1776, what would life be like to experience a young nation expand its territory in the early 1800s, what would life be like to see the first photographs in the 1850s, what would life be like to experience a nation take up arms against itself in 1861, what would life be like to witness her began to heal her wounds during the Reconstruction in 1865, what would life be like to hear about human beings taking flight for the first time at Kitty Hawk in 1903, what would life be like to experience this young nation embrace globalism and join its Allies in fighting the first World War in 1914, what would life be like to experience Americans flocking to cinemas to watch the nation’s first blockbuster film, Birth of a Nation in 1915, what would life be like to hear FDR announce the New Deal in the 1930s, what would life be like to experience Pearl Harbor and subsequently increase our participation in World War II in 1941, what would life be like to see my hero, Jackie Robinson, break MLBs color barrier at Ebbets Field, Brooklyn in 1947, what would life be like to see that New Deal become the engine of American prosperity in the 1950s post WWII, what would life be like to experience human beings landing on the moon and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s…
Sadly as I placed myself throughout American history, racism quickly ended my moments of wonderment.
Fast forward to the present and the meteor sized crater of income inequality between blacks and whites, the value of public education in lower socioeconomic neighborhoods, law enforcements disproportionate violence against black bodies, Flint Michigan still not having clean water, 4,645 Puerto Ricans dying in the absence of federal leadership, and the immense pressure that the current President is placing on the cornerstones of this Democratic experiment.
I can’t help but vacillate between being in awe of the brilliance of her ideological words and ashamed of her deeds.
As a black American, I can not bring myself to fully align and endorse Conservative approaches to the antiquated Documents by which we are governed. And with that being said, given that we are still governed by this paradoxical Document, I cannot accept America’s misconception that her values are morally superior to any other nation until she exemplifies those values in not only her words but in her deeds to all her citizens; specifically her citizens of color.
While this nation has had brilliant moments in its 242-year history, the backdrop has always been and will always be racism and the relentless preservation of white supremacy. So while I wish I could live my daily life in that tearful patriotic moment I had in Sydney; the consciousness of our collective experience impacts my ability to do so. In fact, immediately upon my return from Sydney in 2013, America found George Zimmerman not guilty in the murder of Trayvon Martin. So in a way, I am envious of your privilege to still believe in country and party but I, unfortunately, am unable to join you on that perch.
My patriotism lives in the steely resolve of my community and the soaring indelible impact that we have had on American history and culture.
Hurricanes have devastated the Caribbean over the past month. Two U.S. territories, Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands, have been hit the hardest. When Hurricane Harvey hit Houston, Texas, and Hurricane Irma hit South Florida, there wasn’t much wavering about when the president would visit or his administration’s urgency in responding with aid. The president actually received praise for his response in Houston and South Florida.
However, his administration responded much differently when Hurrican Maria struck Puerto Rico. [As a reminder, these are U.S. citizens – they pay taxes, have social security numbers, etc. According to a recent poll by Morning Consult, 54% of American’s did not know this.]
Many reports state that Peurto Ricans were still waiting for aid a week after the hurricane hit. It took Trump two weeks to visit the island, and it’s safe to say his visit didn’t receive the same praise and welcome he had previously received in Houston. Carmen Yulin Cruz, San Juan Mayor, heavily criticized the president and his administration for their lack of aid and urgency prior to his visit. In typical Trump fashion, he responded with no regard for her anguish and called her a “nasty mayor,” and joked that sending them aid would throw his administration’s budget “a little out of whack.”
All things being unequal in his treatment of Houston/South Florida Vs. Peurto Rico, at least he visited all three U.S. states/territories.
The same can’t be said for the U.S. Virgin Islands, which was ravished by Hurricane Maria as well. Where is the U.S. media coverage? With the exception ofMSNBC’s Joy Reed giving Rep. Stacey Plaskett of the U.S. Virgin Islandstime to detail their recovery efforts, U.S. news organizations have barely covered their devastation. Their devastation was obviously not as bad, not as important, or maybe they’re just lower on the list of priorities for this administration. And instead of the president visiting the capital of U.S. Virgin Islands, or one of their most affected areas, which is roughly a 30 min flight from Puerto Rico, Vice President Mike Pence is visiting instead.
Granted, the Vegas shooting is a tragedy and needed to be addressed. But if you’re a resident of the U.S. Virgin Islands, of whom 76% are African-American, how should they feel or perceive the president and his administration’s lack of aid and recognition in their time of need? The one state/territory that is overwhelmingly African-American receives the least aid, hardly any U.S. media coverage, less recognition from the president’s administration, and not even a visit from the president himself?
The president did meet with Gov. Kenneth Mapp of the U.S. Virgin Islands on a Navy amphibious assault ship “offshore,” but never stepped on land to visit residents or see the damage for himself. I guess if you’re a U.S. citizen in the U.S. Virgin Islands, that’ll have to be good enough.
This president is constantly called a racist regarding his rhetoric and how he treats and responds to black and brown people differently. It’s hard to argue that his response to Puerto Rico and even worse the U.S. Virgin Islands doesn’t add to that long list and justify anyone calling him a racist.
In the past few weeks, the Caribbean has experienced devastating hurricanes, which has caused millions to lose electricity and access to necessities like food and gas. Do you think looting, particularly stealing food, in the aftermath of such extreme weather, should be considered a crime?
We asked several of our contributors from across the political spectrum this very question, and this is what they had to say…
“Islands in the Caribbean are facing a major humanitarian disaster in the wake of the recent spate of hurricanes. This has forced some residents to loot and steal food and other necessities in order to survive. When you have no food or water your government has forgotten about you, and you have no other options – it is no longer looting, it’s self preservation. It’s the job of the government to ensure that its citizens don’t have to resort to such measures. If the government is unable to do so on its own then the international community has a responsibility to assist them.” – Center Left College Student
“Post-disaster looting is often polarizing: it’s an either-or scenario: loose morals versus survival instincts. I have personally witnessed firsthand three major hurricanes on the Texas Coast: Rita, Ike and Harvey. If coastal cities such as Houston are not adequately prepared for natural storms given their geographic location and flat lands, at or below sea-level, then they should be prepared for citizens’ survival instincts to kick in. Food banks and shelters should be stocked and ready, given the cities flood-prone nature. It’s important to distinguish between taking resources for survival and non-essential luxury goods. With normal life disrupted, and no way to pay for the goods, people may just take what they need to keep living. We can debate whether or not that is really stealing, but if it were me, I would take cheese and bread if I could not get to a shelter. A Rolex; however, is a different story.” – Right Southern Female
“In the aftermath of a natural disaster, the looting of basic, immediate necessities (food, water, clothes, supplies, and shelter) can be condoned and possibly forgiven. It’s the looters’ pursuit of long term gains (high priced, non-essential luxury items) at the expense of citizens and businesses that should be treated as crimes, just as if the disaster had not occurred.” – Unaffiliated Humanist Musician
“If you think of looting in a very narrow sense, I assume that one would call it a criminal act. Although the word “loot” has such a simple definition, in devastating situations such as in Puerto Rico currently, the act of looting to survive is not so cut and dry. People need to live. Plain and simple. And although a systematic distribution process would be the best way to ensure that everyone would receive what they need to survive, human instinct will not allow calm and rationalization in such an extreme crisis. Taking items such as food or medical supplies to assist your family should not be considered a crime under these circumstances; however, if it is shown that these scarce resources were stolen for any other reason, then criminal penalties should apply.”– Apolitical Elected Official
“The Caribbean is a collection of islands where the majority of residents are living well below the poverty line. Most of these people cannot afford a moral dilemma. I liken it to poaching the king’s deer in a medieval forest or even stealing a loaf of bread in eighteenth century Europe. Les Miserables, anyone?” – Registered Independent Voter
“When people are suddenly hit with a major weather disaster, resources become scarce. Those effected are compelled to rely on assistance from other sources, which is where the governmental should step in. However, the government isn’t perfect. With that being said, whenever the government fails to respond adequately there should be leniency on the people. If there isn’t any assistance following a major disaster in a reasonable time, looting for food in particular should not be a crime.” – Detroit Democrat Male
