Witnessing Jenna Ellis on Bill Maher a few weeks ago speculate that she will have to defend her right to practice Christianity under a Biden administration is reminiscent of other bad faith arguments (fear-mongering propaganda) made throughout history.
I performed at piano bars in Michigan when smoking publicly indoors was legal. It was horrible. My voice was constantly hoarse, my eyes agitated, my clothes always reeking, and my health in fluctuation. My exposure to second-hand smoke for 10 years will probably affect me later in life as if I was a smoker myself (I never was).
In the early 2000s, there were no gig opportunities that prevented smokers from blowing their poison into my lungs each night. Owners would never make a stand against this “bloc” of patrons. Many other performers and staff partook in the ritual so sadly, yet successfully peddled to consumers for centuries; only in the last 40 years proven to be a fatal and highly addictive (not to mention expensive) vice.
Luckily, good and healthy people fought like hell to outlaw smoking in public places in Michigan for the benefit of all, especially people like me.
It wasn’t easy. There was an army of propagandists and liars lead by the tobacco industry and legions of smokers, that tried to prevent their fortunes and way of life, respectively, from being changed.
“The bars will all close! You’ll lose all your business! You’ll drive away your best customers and thousands of bar owners, staff, and musicians will become unemployed!”
You would think the entire bar industry would close overnight if smoking was outlawed. The opposition to banning smoking was violent.
Of course, they were all not only wrong about these false narratives, but the complete opposite of their ignorant (and/or dishonest) predictions was true.
Smoking was outlawed. Bar business flourished. The lies were exposed.
It turns out that smokers still want to go out and socially drink regardless of their ability to smoke indoors. More importantly, an enormous chunk of the population who had stayed away from smoky bars now felt comfortable frequenting their local establishment.
“I can finally breathe when I go to a bar or restaurant. My clothes don’t reek anymore when I come gone from a long night. My allergies don’t flare up. I’m sick less often.”
*SMOKERS* were saying those things, not to mention the scores of non-smokers.
This phenomenon of lying, fear-mongering, and spreading propaganda to get what *you* want at *my* expense is par for the course for human history.
Now, they WERE right about a smoking ban diminishing smoking sales. That’s the only truth they could credibly argue. Cigarette sales declined and stocks went down.
Tobacco industry: lost money. Smokers: slightly inconvenienced. Everyone else: the quality of life, health, and opportunities skyrocketed.
So when I hear dishonest propaganda that communism will take root with a Biden administration (Biden is, was, and will always be a capitalist), or that religious practice will be oppressed (Biden is a devout Catholic), or that the military will be diminished (Biden’s son served), I just think of the smokers clinging to their way of life.
The stock market has already gone up. Biden attends church and prays the rosary, encouraging people of all faiths to worship freely as they wish. Biden has no plans to diminish or disrespect our military in any way.
However,
Trump: will lose power (and money). Rich: will be slightly inconvenienced (when they pay more in taxes). Everyone else: the quality of life, health, and opportunities will skyrocket.
For four years, it has felt like I have lost a little bit of my breath every single day. It seemed as though we as a country were losing hope by the hour.
Breaking News after Breaking News.
Lies and Lies.
Defeat after Defeat.
Can we the people just get a break to BREATHE?
We are all now masked up longer than should be, yes for safety but because a leader has failed to lead and it’s even harder to actually breathe. During the recent weeks leading to the 2020 Presidential Election, I could not stop thinking about an Atlanta-based church led by Pastors Gerald & Tammi Haddon called BREATHE ATL. I think about how this ministry not only teaches the gospel of Jesus Christ, but also love, restoration, reconciliation, and renewal. Amidst it all, the one thing that I always reflect on is stop and BREATHE.
Regardless if you’re a religious person or not, we all need a breath of fresh air. All the American people wanted was a chance to BREATHE Again. On November 7, 2020, the country elected a new leader. A very well capable leader that is not perfect, but he is the man to take us from chaos to a place of solitude and stability. History’s ceiling has once again been shaken, shattered and now broken at the celebration of the country’s First Woman as Vice President and first woman of color, Vice President-Elect Kamala Harris and President-Elect Joe Biden, the former Vice President of the country’s first African-American President Barack Obama.
Life will not be perfect. This day does not solve all our problems. This moment does not calm all of our fears. But, while we are looking for healing in the land, at the moment I am reminded of BREATHE ATL… no matter what life may hit you with, don’t forget to stop and BREATHE! I feel like I can start to BREATHE AGAIN!
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.
He’s neva’ gonna come see you play, he doesn’t love you.
Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.
You’re not good enough for him to come see.
I was alone at Monsignor King Hall before practice one morning, working on my footwork.
The neckline of my green t-shirt was soaked in sweat. I was in the gym working my eleven year old love handles off to perfect my patented “drop step to the baseline” spin move.
The sound of the basketball bouncing off the kelly green floor and the squeaking of my sneakers were like music to my ears.
The season before I had fallen in love with basketball as a ball boy for the Monsignor King tournament. I had to be close to the action for the LaSalle high school game to witness one the nation’s top prospects, Ron Artest, play in the championship game.
My first teammates at St. Thomas Aquinas (STA) were a group of special kids: Izzy Bauta, Mike Blake, P.J. Marshall, Joey Romano, Nick Russo, and myself. We were coached by local mailmen, Joe Romano Sr., who was Joey’s dad, and John Browning.
Our team was good. Like, legendarily good. Our first season together we made a splash in Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) with an outstanding record. We’d easily score about 60 points a game. Any given game each of the starting five players could score 12-14 points each. I am still waiting for the local Catholic newspaper, The Tablet, to do a documentary on our successful run. We were unstoppaBULL. Get my drift? It was 1997 and who didn’t wanna be like Michael Jordan? Chicago was on fire that year, and so were we.
That year, people started to talk about how historically dominant we could become if we continued to play together throughout the summer.
And that’s saying somethin’. NBA Hall of Famer, Chris Mullen, used to workout on that floor and rumors have it that he once broke the backboards at Monsignor King Hall while practicing for the Dream Team before the ‘92 Olympics.
Yeah, so you could say that we were almost NBA Hall of Fame, Dream Team level nice, ok?
Anyway, that spring, we had won our first championship on a corner buzzer-beater against St. Rose. We had tasted the sweetness of victory and I wanted to improve my basketball skills over the summer.
But inside our apartment on 2525 Bedford Avenue, my world was crumbling. Dad was never home and the only time I’d hear from him was when he played music on Sunday’s. Sometimes he’d be so into his records that it felt like I was invisible to him.
With the hurt and anger towards my father growing, basketball was a much welcome distraction to muddle the chaos going on in my home and in my young mind. I had asked Mom if I could join karate to blow off steam but my mom felt that I might have been too much of a brute and injure the other kids my age. Not to mention that she just did not have the time to take me to practice with all that was going on in her life.
So when I came home from school energetically rambling about my desire to want to play on the basketball team, my mom initially rejected the idea. But she saw how excited I was and she finally relented with a little persuasion from another parent who offered to take me to weekly practices twice a week.
The turbulence when my dad would come home and the size of our cramped apartment felt like flying through rough air in a small airplane. The uneasiness from the tension created a cagey atmosphere that left me suffocating with resentment from how he had treated my mom and me.
Basketball was an escape to another dimension where I could be free to release the stress of my emotions. The more I poured my energy into the game, the more it gave me the fulfillment I was desperately searching for.
(Silverback’s Note: Read Power of Love Part: I, here. Remember, click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
Inside Monsignor King Hall, her voice rumbles across the court.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN! LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
My mother, sitting in the wooden bleachers, leans back, takes a deeper inhale and continues to bellow. I can hear mom’s voice from the center circle.
Just like her prayer time every morning, that voice got louder, and louder, and louder.
I adjusted my yellow Rec Spec goggles as the referee was giving our team’s final instruction. I can’t even hear him.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN!” “LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
Soon it’s the only voice that everyone can hear in the gym. There’s six minutes on the game clock to begin the first quarter and the scoreboard is buzzing with electric current. Adrenaline is running through my veins. The referee toots his whistle and lobs the ball into the air.
I won the tip-off, and Mom switched to a more provocative cheer.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!,” she shouts as we got into our positions to run our first play of the game.
Looking back, her volume was a somewhat obnoxious level of support considering that our team was about to dismantle our opponents during the first few minutes of the basketball game.
Monsignor King Hall was the home court to one of the most ferocious boys junior high school basketball teams in the history of Brooklyn CYO sports.
From 1996 to 1998, the STA boys’ basketball team would rack up 149 wins and 1 loss. We didn’t have a team mascot or a nickname so our fans would cheer for us using the color of our green cotton t-shirts. Our loudest super fan was my mom, Madeline Louison. At 330 pounds, she was also our largest and most gangster, cheerleader as well.
I can feel her fierce love and undying support with every echo of her voice that rang through the gymnasium. It’s that same voice that I can still hear in the echoes of my mind, passionately encouraging me to push myself to be better to this day.
She’s still cheering me on and is the driving force behind my competitive passion. She’s still in my corner encouraging me to strive for more through the power of her love.
You see, Madi has always been the personification of the Bible. She embodies the ruthless ferocity described in the battles of the Christian Old Testament combined with the warm loving narrative of the redemption story told in the Christian New Testament. That’s how I described her to my therapist, anyway.
“You know I am an atheist, right?” Dr. Brown says to me in one of our early sessions.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I respond as I am sitting across from him at a wooden table inside his apartment office.
“Tell me about your mother but with less Biblical references so I can understand,” he says with a slight grin that accentuates the shine in his brown skin.
I had just completed unpacking my father’s story of origin to my therapist and it was time to discuss my mother. I found myself in the therapist chair because I was experiencing an emotional block in 2014.
The woundedness of my father’s absence during my childhood and the effects of two colossally failed romantic relationships as a young adult had left me broken and searching for healing. I was struggling with emotionally connecting with humans – I felt unable to love.
“My mom and I have a really close bond,” I respond. “We’ve had to be there a lot for each other through the years…”
My goggles were foggy from the perspiration. It was scorching outside and I could feel the heat rising off the gravel courts in the Coney Island public housing complex.
Our Dream Team was playing in our first summer tournament. We had made it to the championship of the 2nd Annual Stephon Marbury Basketball Classic.
Our team had not played hard enough in the first half to be competitive. It was halftime and Coach Romano was red in the face.
“Get your heads outta’ your asses and focus!” Coach Romano growled at halftime. He usually didn’t cuss at us but when he did his Brooklyn-Italian accent really came out.
Izzy and I plop our dense 180-pound frames into the lawn chairs. We both stood about 5’8 and our knees were protruding off the edge of the nylon seats. I cross my arms in frustration.
The PA announcer had been talking nonstop during the first half and it was good to finally hear some music blaring from the speakers set up near the courts. Jay-Z’s debut album, Reasonable Doubt, was playing during a break in the action.
Our team was not accustomed with losing and we began allowing the unfamiliar territory to disrupt our flow.
One of the parents passed around a bag of frozen orange slices to cool us down.
“Put those orange slices down and focus, Andy!” my teammate P.J. shouted. “You’re not boxing out!”
Focus, I thought.
How could I focus when all I wanted was for my Pops to come watch me play ball? I had so much heaviness on my heart. All of my teammates’ dads were there to watch them play. Even the ones that didn’t get much playing time.
Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me? I got game.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my mom being there. It was just that she didn’t know much about sports and I just wanted my dad’s guidance like all the other boys. Some of my teammates wondered if I even had a dad at home.
Basketball apparently was a “waste of time,” according to him but the game I loved had already given me more than he ever had.
“Pick your head up!” my mother commands. “Get your head in the game. You’re letting those little guys get the rebound over you!”
We were playing in a rough neighborhood against a gritty team of all Black players from Coney Island. I was the only Black kid on our team and you could tell that my White teammates or their parents had never played in such a lively environment. Matter fact, they were the only White people participating in the tournament, the only White people on the basketball courts, and most likely the only White people for a few blocks.
Far away from our home court and in strange surroundings we were down by 15 points. We had been down before but not by this large of a margin. The pressure of the deficit and the exuberance of the crowd was becoming increasingly stressful.
Maybe we weren’t as good as we thought?
The horn sounded to start the second half. I looked on as all of my teammates’ fathers assured their sons and provided final instruction.
At that moment, something switched inside of me. The separation from my own father felt more pronounced. I felt so alone, so unprotected, so wounded. In order to protect the vulnerability of my feelings, a menacing ball of anger ignited inside me.
Enough.
We inbound the ball and I beeline to my spot on the post and call for the ball with gusto. I wanted to get a bucket.
The shot went up and I found a body to crash into as the ball was in the air. I boxed out, snatched the offensive rebound out of the air and scored on the put back layup.
“Oh he’s a beast on the inside!” the color commentator says to start the second half commentary.
Damn right I am a beast! I’ll ball out without my Pops.
The sound of male validation sparked such a self-confident feeling inside of me that I began to chase it by playing harder.
“Great rebound, Andy!” shouted one of the White dads.
Keep rebounding, they can’t stop you.
We score on a few back to back possessions and cut into the lead going into the final quarter.
Every time I glanced over to the stands and remembered that my father was not there I felt my blood boil hotter and hotter. I wanted every damn rebound. I wanted every freakin’ loose ball. I wanted to squeeze every pebble on the basketball’s leather skin.
Who needs a Pops anyway?
I was on a roll and our opponents didn’t seem to have anyone on their bench to match my ferocity in the paint.
I began mouthing off at the referee after he called a loose ball foul on me. I was being too aggressive positioning for the rebound, he said.
“I didn’t even touch him!” I lashed out.
Okay… so I elbowed the kid. But I had no capacity to care even if I was playing on their turf.
“Callate la boca,” my mom shouts. I am chewing on my jersey to keep from erupting and I softly whisper into my jersey, “That’s such a bullshit foul call.”
Well, at least I thought I whispered it, as the referee whistles me for a technical foul.
Coach Romano is besides himself and Coach Browning has to hold him back from yanking me off the court by the strap of my goggles.
He decided he can’t take me out of the game, we had the momentum and we needed a big body in the paint for rebounds.
Coach Romano found his composure and Joey huddled up our players at the center circle.
“Keep your head in the game big guy,” my teammate Joey said, slapping me on the head. “We need you in the game to win this.”
With Joey’s pep talk, I regained my composure and got back to dominating in the paint.
The game was back and forth as we entered into the final minute of the championship. We had clawed back to take the lead by one point with 42 seconds remaining on the game clock.
Just then, out of nowhere, a rainstorm soaked the court. Everyone scattered for shelter ending the game with mere seconds left.
When we all returned the following week to play, we had found our winning confidence. With NBA rookie sensation, Stephon Marbury, watching court side, we walloped their asses for the remaining 42 seconds left in the contest.
Marbury, A Kid From Coney Island housing projects, had just completed his rookie season for the NBA’s Minnesota Timberwolves as a member of the now iconic 1996 NBA rookie draft class that featured future all-time greats Allen Iverson and Kobe Bryant.
It was an odd way to end such a hard-fought game but we were going to meet an NBA player and take home a giant trophy. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I didn’t care much for Marbury at the time, other than that I could brag to my friends that I was somehow closer to Michael Jordan.
I can still hear mom as we victoriously left the basketball court that day.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!”
My mom and I were in a joyous mood on that drive home in the minivan. Boy, did we need that victory to lift our spirits. Winning gave us something to celebrate. I still wanted my dad to be there, but it was great to look up from the passenger seat and not see her tears.
Mom switched on the ignition of the minivan to pull off. The choir picks up mid track where the song had left off earlier in the day. This time the choir sounds so angelic, so sweet.
“Jehovah Rapha” the choir croons.
“You’re my healer…” mom and I triumphantly join in unison as we try to hit the high notes of the songs crescendo. We both sound terrible.
It was in Coney Island that I began to understand what the lyrics of that gospel song really meant.
Basketball had provided a space to set my pent up emotions free. Jehovah Jireh.
The game had supplied me with the confidence and male validation that I was craving in my father’s absence. Jehovah Shamma.
All undergirded by the support and the healing love that my little heart so needed. Jehovah Rapha.
In addition to my teammates, Mom and I have always been a team. I consoled her through the sting of her tears and she soothed the intensity of my rage. Our wounds shared a common source but the power of our love was more than enough to bring us through any challenge we faced together.
When I reflect on that era of our lives together, one of the tracks on my favorite album by Jay-Z comes to mind. The lyrics on Blueprint (Mama Loves Me) remind me of the things I asked God for in my nightly prayers as a child.
“Mama loved me, Pop left me…” Jay begins. “Mama raised me; Pop I miss you. God, help me forgive him; I got some issues…”
Thanks for always being more than enough for me, Mom. You’ve always been the answer to my prayers.
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.
According to Merriam-Webster’s dictionary, patriotism is “love for or devotion to one’s country.” As an American Muslim female living in the United States, my patriotism is likely different from that of a typical American.
I was born in the United States to an immigrant father and an American mother. Three of my four grandparents are immigrants. My grandfather came to the United States to flee religious persecution in his home country. Although he was raised in a small village, his migration to the United States led him to pursue a college education and eventually end up as a professor with a Ph.D. His love for his country stems from the opportunities that his immigration afforded him, both religiously and professionally. Most immigrants in his situation feel similarly in their devotion to this country.
Being born and raised in the United States, my situation is slightly different. While the US was a second home for my grandparents, it’s the only home I have ever known. I can only call myself an American – I was born and raised here, and the only language I speak is English.
This past year’s presidential race changed the way I conceptualized patriotism. I have always been fairly aware of people who have racial, ethnic, and religious prejudices, but I always found solace in the idea that these people do not represent the majority. However, witnessing Trump’s presidential campaign forced me to reconsider. If someone who not only condoned but also promoted intolerance and bigotry gained traction with so many people, what did that say about my fellow American citizens? Regardless of whether or not he ended up becoming president, I no longer found solace knowing that many Americans supported him.
When Trump enacted a travel ban that prevented immigrants from seven Muslim-majority countries from entering the United States, it made me rethink my patriotic ideals. Yes, I still have the opportunity to practice my religion freely. But the man who is leading our nation explicitly stated that he wanted to find a way to ban Muslims from entering the very same country that I cherish for its religious freedom. He regularly equates Islam with terrorism, whether explicitly or implicitly. To think that the nearly half the country thought Trump would be fit to be leader of the free world was mind-blowing to me.
Seeing people’s reactions to the ban; however, restored my faith in the citizens of the US. Several demonstrations were planned at our local airport and around the city as soon as the ban was enacted. Much to my surprise, the majority of people protesting were not Muslims or immigrants. They were concerned citizens who were not okay with Trump’s attempt to prevent an entire religious group from entering the “land of the free.” Several non-Muslim friends reached out to me that week. One of my friends texted me to say that he was sorry that there were people in this country who were intolerant enough to support these policies, apologizing on behalf of people he had never met. While I was comforted by the unconditional support, I was forced to make peace with the fact that there are still a significant number of people who will never accept me or my fellow Muslims as they accept others.
Perhaps naively, I have always believed that people who have racist and prejudiced beliefs cling to them out of ignorance. Yet, even if out of ignorance, those people elected a president who reflects many of the dark aspects of America – aspects that most of us would rather live without.
Do I love my country? Yes. Does my country love me? That’s more complicated. I am fully aware that a large portion of this country, including its leadership, will always view me as an outsider. But I am American born and bred. I love watching football, July 4th fireworks, and a good barbecue. I’ve never sung another national anthem, and I never will. Others may doubt my patriotism, but I never will.
“Welcome, Brother.” These were the last words of the first victim in the line of 50 other victims who would be killed in the Christchurch massacre. Brenton Harris Tarrant, who is currently the only suspect in the barbaric killings, sent an 87-page manifesto to the Prime Minister of New Zealand moments before committing himself to a long line of terrorists, whose sole purpose in this world is to sow discord and create chaos.
He streamed the killing live on Facebook, utilizing a feature we all use for showcasing funny cat and dog videos, birthday celebrations, or surprise engagement proposals. He used a feature that was meant to connect people in far away distances and bring them together, to showcase his hatred, rage, and intolerance of a specific religion, and its people.
Some of his victims had escaped war, genocide, persecution, and political discourse. Some of his victims were children, coming to their house of God with their loved ones, eager to show their devotion and then hopefully be able to play or spend time with their families afterwards. Some of his victims showed bravery in the line of fire. They were protecting their sons, and daughters, and strangers. They were facing the ultimate test of being courageous and paying for it with the highest asset they had – their lives.
Support has been outpouring for this tragedy, with the Prime Minister of New Zealand showing real leadership, by donning a hijab as a sign of respect and mourning, to paying for all 51 funerals and financially supporting the families of the victims for as long as they need.
However, at some point, I ask myself is this indeed enough? What the Prime Minister is doing and how the world feels outraged and disgusted is a good sign, a great sign that unity is slowly finding its way against the tide of hatred and injustice once more, but the question remains… is it enough?
We go through these spells, don’t we? Every decade or so, there is a monumental struggle between ideologies, religions, belief systems, or perceptions, that cause the loss of life for so many, only to prove what?
A point? Is anyone genuinely victorious when the death of innocent are involved? When we live out our lives, doing our best to be successful, and happy, and safe in this world, is it enough to “give our thoughts and prayers” to these situations, and their victims?
Are we doing enough? Collectively as a society?
I do not have the answer to this question, and maybe that’s because I have become so numb from screaming out my frustrations to anyone and everyone who will hear me.
I have exhausted myself from seeing another group of people cruelly gunned down for their beliefs, race, or perceptions.
Exhausted of seeing individuals defend terrorists by claiming there was no outpouring support when another tragedy occurred on this date, at this time, or this place. Tired of the political manipulations and control the so-called leaders of the western world and its media try to spin to get our attention and dictate the narrative.
I am tired of seeing innocent people torn apart because of blatant ignorance and hatred. Tired of having to continually view the media and the joke of leadership we have in this country criticize individuals for who they are, what they wear, how they wear it, gender, sexuality, the color of their skin, the faith they belong to, the geographical location they hail from.
Whatever you believe in, or don’t understand, whatever you align yourself with politically, or don’t align to… remember this, our planet is on the brink of natural disasters changing the very landscape of which we live in, fanaticism and fascism are on the rise and threaten to overcome all sensibility and logic around the world, and the gap of wealth and development is widening at an alarming rate.
We are the generation that will define what it means to be human. Whether we want that responsibility or not. We who live in this time and era will collectively define our mark on this planet.
I learned about the history of blackface in my music history class back in my junior year of college. It focused on popular music and blackface was a prominent form of entertainment dating back to the 1830s. In the late 1850s there was a surge of Irish immigrants due to the famine that overtook Ireland. The crops failed, leaving death to claim the Irish by means of hunger and/or disease.
At this time, they weren’t considered White. According to author and historian Christopher Klein’s article published on History, they were even considered lower than Blacks for not being Protestants. American Protestants were afraid that the Pope was sending his army to take over America. This fear stemmed from when America’s forefathers fled Britain for religious freedom (Klein). While they lived in the same slums as Blacks, they were still not accepted as White.
In an interview with author John Strausbaugh published on Vox, Strausbaugh states that blackface was taken up by Irish immigrants in order to set them apart from Blacks. At the end of the day, they were still just as fair skin as Whites. At the end of each performance, they would wipe the black off their faces, to say that well, at least we weren’t actually Black. Through the popularity of these performances, they gained White status (Strausbaugh).
Blackface, I thought, no longer held a place in society. I thought we made progress. However, our black skin is still worn by white sheep who want to be the big bad wolf. With Gucci’s sweater that has an extended turtleneck which covers the face but has a large mouth printed around the hole in the neck, how were we not supposed to understand that as a new form of blackface?
It would have been a completely different story if the turtleneck was simply longer than normal because in my opinion, the extended neck isn’t blackface. It just functions as a scarf and ski mask without all the extra material and allows for warmth without the bulk. But I and others like me cannot just look past the glaringly obvious. Apologies are not enough when discrimination, bias, and ignorance are stigmatizing our black skin. More has to be done. Reformation needs to start now.
Daniel Day, affectionately known as Dapper Dan, is an African-American fashion designer who continues to work in collaboration with Gucci after this incident. It is a bold move that I believe others are not willing to take. Day is thinking about the future of Black fashion designers.
The fashion industry is notorious for being racially exclusive. Take a look at advertisements in magazines and on television. Take a look at the runways. While the magazines might feature designers and models of color, the runways have always contrasted it with the whitewash. As Day has said in several interviews, he went through a lot to understand the industry/business and to keep his brand growing. These large brands are the stepping stones for Black designers to use to catapult their careers.
By boycotting Gucci, that is a “now” solution. This will only resolve people’s gripes now but what about later? If we continue to boycott every incident individually, nothing will ever get done. Think of it as constantly pausing a movie every two minutes. It makes the movie much longer than it is, the plot gets disjointed by the constant stop and start, and the end gets pushed farther and farther away. By trying to handle each incident in real time, we are stopping and starting, pushing off the reformation that we seek. Reform will not happen if we keep getting in our own way.
To make change, we have to be the change. We need to take a stand for the future and not everything that happens in the present. This is not to say that Gucci should be given a free pass, but as Day said in an interview with The Huffington Post, “this is an opportunity to learn.” This incident with Gucci is another moment that you could call a pause. There have been several pauses before this one and can be several pauses after this, but why not make this incident the last pause? In this pause, we can initiate the process of change and let it develop over time like a plot in a movie? Otherwise, we will always be dissatisfied with how things are and always call for change.
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.”
Think about a group of people who were persecuted, tortured, and put into internment camps for no other reason besides their religion. The first thing that probably comes to mind is the Jews during the Holocaust – something that happened in history and will never occur again. However, there are people in 2018 who are being subjected to some of the same horrors that those people faced during World War II.
The Uyghur Muslims are a group of Muslims who live in a territory occupied by China. They have their own flag, culture, and language that separates them from the rest of China. Over the past several years, they have been persecuted by China’s government for their religion (China’s Muslim population is approximately 1.7%). Most recently, the Chinese government has detained hundreds of thousands of Uyghur Muslims and held them in internment camps, or as they call to them, “re-education” camps. They justify their actions by claiming that it is an effort to prevent terrorism fueled by religious extremism. Muslims in these camps are being brainwashed and forced to watch propaganda. They’re also being forced to participate in activities and renounce their faith and culture and pledge allegiance to the Chinese Communist Party. They’re children are often separated from their parents and put into state-run orphanages. These camps have also been referred to as “hospitals” since China views religious beliefs as a form of mental illness that must be cured.
We have seen this happen before. When the colonizers came to North America, they forced the native people into camps in an attempt to “re-educated” them by stripping away their language, culture, and customs in an effort to control them. The Nazis forced Jews into concentration camps where they tortured an entire group for no reason other than their religion. Today, we see it happening again, and it is clear that the world’s promise of “never again” has once again been broken.
One can only imagine the outcry if this was happening again similar to the atrocities during World War II. It seems that the same heinous behavior taking place towards Muslims in an age of readily accessible information cannot even get basic media coverage. This isn’t the first time a massacre towards Muslims has been largely ignored. The 1995 genocide in Srebrenica is still unbeknownst to most people, where more than 8,000 Muslim men and boys were murdered for their religion and the rest of the world stood by in silence (the UN declared the city a safe haven for Muslims before the massacre occurred).
“Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
