WHAT'S WRONG WITH BLACK FOLK!

A few of my friends shuddered when I shared the title of this book with them.  However, they were a very small minority.  The majority of people with whom I shared this idea voiced tremendous support.  They were simply wondering just how long I was going to take.  Well, as you can see, I'm not finished.  The below is an excerpt from the forthcoming book.  It's heated, passionate, something that comes from the core of my being, an opinion about ... a happening.  The happening?  It's the story, the tale, and it's all completely, horribly, unequivocally true.  Only the names have been changed my friends, only the names.

THE DESCENDANTS OF THE EMANCIPATED


Hands trying to remain calm, fear squelched but nonetheless real and palpable; pain, suffering and possible death, all for a purpose which must rise from peaceful protest, a movement rooted in freedom and justice for all, worth the fear, worth the dog bite, worth a bullet.  From this real nobility of humanity, not some erstwhile fattened, socially justified, so-called divinely ordained mandate are we descended, true nobility of self worth, and the display of the exemplary example, true courage without the contrived benefit of land or title, no Baron, No Duke, No Lord is he, but a King, a true King in all the ways that it counts.  From this are the Emancipated Descended.

As I write this I am critically considering the Descendants of the Emancipated, those descended from people that suffered for centuries, that remained resolute in the face of tyranny, hate, maniacal mayhem and murder.  Descendants of the Emancipated is a term, a concept I coined in 2008 to describe with strength and passion what I believe to be the true mandate of a people.   The definition has never been truer to me than in the moments I reached for it to aid me in gaining some mental clarity as my mother relayed to me another pervasive and sickening example of Black bullshit. 

Yes, I cursed ... I was just that disgusted.


The beauty of a people, a heritage that spans cultures and colors.

I can't begin to tell you how this pains me.  I will come back to the full definition of The Descendants of the Emancipated at a later date.  Know that it does mean what you think it means, those Black Americans who are descended from slavery.  However, the term is not meant to be exclusionary or restrictive.  In fact, the Descendants are a rather large population within and without America's borders.  Many who would be considered white and therefore not a Descendant are in fact truly Descendants of the Emancipated, both knowingly and unknowingly.  Some may lay claim to their black heritage proudly.  Others have hidden it as a stain, a point of shame and ridicule.  Others, don't even know.  However, the true spirit of the term is very inclusive in that it relates a state of mind, the mind of a people, those people that choose, that have decided that they too have descended from those that suffered, strived and succeeded, that even if the blood does not flow through their veins in fact, it does so in spirit, that it looms large in their hearts, as they face the world with the very real intent to make CHANGE.

Some will not like the story I'm about to relay to you.  Some will say that we should not air such dirty laundry, that we should not put it out there for public consumption.  I believe the very thought, the conception of keeping this hidden is asinine in the extreme.  It's out there on display for anyone who wants to see.  It's in the news.  It's in our entertainment.  We, as those that eschew responsibility and waste the precious gift bequeathed to us by past generations, don't care about airing dirty laundry because we act with reckless abandon and commit lascivious, immoral, and violent acts by the light of day.  There is no hiding it.  So, those of us that do choose to get involved, that do maintain accountability and responsibility, we must tackle this ignorance head on.  We must face it where it lives, and enlist the aid of others that care.  Know that I'm speaking of this in terms of American Black folk, African-Americans, Negroes, but it is by no means just a Black issue.  



Human beings that love justice, freedom, and liberty have a long history of coming together for a cause that is true.  Unfortunately, a common historical refrain is the descendants care nothing for those that came before, that blazed the path, that suffered for change, that died to provide the blanket of freedom and liberty under which so many of us blissfully live, love, and far too often take for granted.

Indeed, it is not just a black issue, it is a human issue.  All over the world, our fellow human beings act in a manner similar to the story I'm going relate to you. They do it within their own cultural norms, but the example is still valid.  They don't need to be this way.  They shouldn't be this way.  No matter the circumstance, they must recognize the nobility in being, the value of life, the responsibility they must hold fast too as the most recent in a long line of genetic confluence, the line of the living, the attempt at perfection through the proliferation of life.  They most recognize their own mandate, and strive to be the very best human being they can be.  They must grow to think, to understand themselves, to apply whatever gifts they have been given to lead a productive life.  This is the mandate of The Descendants of the Emancipated.  In this, we must all hold fast to an ideal, to believe in ourselves, and what we can achieve both individually and as a collective, a community, The Tribe of the People, The Tribe of Humanity.

What I'm going to share with you is the height of American Black Ignorance.  It is the result of the confluence of genetic potential wasted, a possible predisposition to stupidity, and an environment that is awash in Spoon Culture, the preponderance of MDC (Media-Driven Consumercelebreality).  As always, I ask that you pay attention to my words, that you think, that you consider.  This is in fact, a true story, and a very sad one.  It is an example that needs to be shared.  It needs to be held up high in the light of day, and discussed frequently, as the prime example of what not to do, of how we MUST NOT LIVE! 

Many of you will find it distasteful.  I have also taken some artistic license, which you will clearly be able to identify, but this in no way diminishes the truth of the tale.  Still, this excerpt, and the book that follows, may be very off-putting to many of you.  For this, I do apologize.  The word usage, emphatic characterization, and striking visual examples are not in the least exaggerated (save where I fabricated the ultimate perspective).  I endeavor to the relay the truth.  So, even as you are put off, I would ask you to remain focused, see the image I form in your mind's eye, scrutinize, learn to recognize it, and then as our President has asked, go out and do something about it.   



There are far too many of him in our space.  He is anathema to a progressive, healthy, and whole way of life.  He is a child in a man's body.  He is the result of sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.  He lacks education.  His environment is the result of neglect, no compassion, the proliferation of aggregating ignorance, life in a world on the periphery, viewed by others as something dangerous and wicked, but just not that real.  He is out of sight, a TV, newspaper, and magazine boogey man, until the worlds of prosperity and poverty collide, and crime is the result at the zone of conflict.  What happens with him and his is something just out of view.  We fear him, and he knows it.  He feeds on this fear.  He lives for this fear.  He is nihilistic.  He is armed, armed with stupidity, armed with attitude, armed with anger, armed with an illegally obtained weapon, and bullets, which he will gladly feed to anyone who happens to cross his path, at which time he becomes noticed, and after he feed bullets to innocents, because his innocence was never valued, nurtured, and grown, he is fed into a system designed to rob him of dignity, rob him of hope, class him as an animal, and justify robbing him of life ... because whether morally justified or not (due to socio-economic starvation that impacts the mind, body, and soul), punishment is fitting, if in his loss of innocence, he sees fit to spread hate, rob and steal, and take lives.  He will be dealt with.  He is precious, but he does not know it.  He is precious, but he is ruined.  If he takes life, before acknowledging how special he is, before knowing and acknowledging his heritage as a Descendant of the Emancipated, then he is lost to fate, his soul consigned to hell, and those that take his life, are justified.  So be it ... a waste ... dealing death ... he is given death ... wasting his legacy.  What is wrong with Black Folk?

As Dr. Bill Cosby said, far too many aren't holding up their end of the bargain.  Some are part of what I call Entitlement Nation.  Through their sincere ignorance they live a life on the dole.  They truly do feel someone somewhere owes them something.  They look for their government check at the beginning of the month.  They haze friends and family, looking for handouts.  If they can't get a handout they steal and kill.  Some kill ... just because.  They are what the far Right smile at gleefully, point and say, "See, look at 'em, they're good for nuthin'!  On top of that, they're always killing each other, and if you're not careful, they'll kill you too."   They are what many on the Left look at with sincere concern, but no fundamental plan and say, "We've got to help them.  We need more government dollars to help them out, to give them food, and health care, and education."  The last point, however, is so very important. 

Education. 

Aspiring Republicans campaign against these people.  Aspiring Democrats campaign to them.  Education is what is missing.  The teeming masses on the dole are not holding up their end of the bargain, their votes are for sale, and they constitute an inordinately large part of our population.  Unfortunately, the majority of people on planet Earth fall into this category.  They are in our face, and we still choose to not view them critically.  We're often given a choice between ignoring them, or taking care of them at a nominal level in perpetuity.  We need critical people, with critical minds, to put together fundamental critical plans that help these people become upstanding citizens, educated and progressive.  Why should we do this?  Because they are truly our brothers and sisters, our family. 


Jiffy Jack Cold Jacked Himself via his best-friend.  

Margaret Williams walked into the house behind Lori.  It wasn't well kept.  From the outside, it was non-descript, a row-house, on a row in any-hood USA.  This was Atlanta's middle gritty, populated by people and homes that were still called ghetto, but it could best be described as a mixed cross-section of pessimism and prosperity.  Crack houses were on the same street as the gentrified.  Parts of the neighborhood were experiencing the city's latin motto, Resurgens, like the phoenix, the new and shiny was rising from the flame of pain and despair.  However, this house was no benefactor of gentrification.  The walls needed painting.  The furniture was dilapidated.  Gracie sat in a faded black leather la-z-boy.  She looked as dilapidated as her house.  Still, she wore a smile on her face, a shining smile, that evened out when she put the newport cigarette in her mouth, the cigarette that seemed to dance between index and forefinger as if it had been born there.  Her eyes were red, from crying surely.  However, Margaret wasn't sure if it was from the smoke, or her loss.  Gracie smiled when she saw them. 

"Heyyy, Lori!" Gracie said, getting up from the chair.  "Margaret, hey!  How ya'll doin'!" 

"We're doing fine," Lori said.  "But girl, how are you doing?  Are you okay?"

Gracie hugged them both, showing a smile full of yellow teeth, age and decadence, a life lived hard, in a hard part of town, a life and a style she had bequeathed to her children, lacking lessons, lacking knowledge of history and self.  She smiled, and it was the smile of the vacuous, the inane.  Margaret smiled back, but it was a half-hearted attempt. 

"I'm 'bout as well as can be expected,"  Gracie said, sitting back down in the la-z-boy. 

She picked up her newport, which she had balanced on the ashtray, which itself was balanced on the armrest, a successful exercise that came with decades of practiced skill.  She took a long drag.  

"You know?  It's been hard, but ..."  She inhaled deeply, and exhaled with clear satisfaction.  The killing cloud encircled her head.  She smiled.   "Ya'll have a seat.  You know the ladies.  Yeah, just sit on down."

Lori sat on the sofa next to a woman who must have weighed 300 pounds.  The sofa seemed to groan as she added her own weight to the load.  Lori glanced at the mass sitting next to her and thought to herself, folks definitely aren't going hungry in the hood.  The leather seemed to squeal under the stress.  Margaret sat on one of the kitchen chairs.  It looked as though it was manufactured in 1978, but still appeared to be sturdy enough.  

"Well," Margaret started.  "We're just worried about you."

"I'm holdin' up.  I'm all cried out.  Nuthin' to do now but deal with this mess.  It hurts, you know.  But my child was just the way he was.  Weren't nuthin' I could do then, and it ain't nuthin' I can do now."

"This was so ... tragic," Margaret said.  "I just can't believe it."

Gracie chuckled.  "Well, my son was certainly the kind to make you believe in the unbelievable.  What was I just sayin' ladies.  My son was always prepared." 

She leaned forward, a wry smile working its way across her face.  "My baby boy stayed on ready, right?  What did the police say?  How'd they say it.  They said, ma'am, when we checked your boy's pockets, he had several condoms in one pocket, and three-thousand dollars in the other.  Hot damn, my boy was always ready!  You hear me?  He was ready!"

Margaret's eyes went wide for just the briefest of moments.  The other women were smiling, chuckling.  She could barely stomach the ignorance evident in the other women, and in what she had just heard Gracie say. 

"We hear you, Gracie!"  Exclaimed one of the other women.  She got up and leaned over from her chair to give Gracie a high five.  "Yo son just like mine.  He stay on ready."

"Lord yes.  These boys may be hard-headed, but what you gon' do?"  

"Best we can, baby," said the large woman on the sofa.  "Best we can."

Margaret was sincerely considering getting up and leaving.  However, she had rode with Lori.  And even though Lori was not joining in this expression of ignorance, she seemed content to listen.  Margaret had met Gracie through Lori over two decades ago.  Gracie was a constant at Lori's house for years.  However, she was a much wilder woman, not as a result of birth or social station, but just because.  Gracie had moved from Detroit as a teen, complaining about strict parents and stuck-up siblings.  She moved to Atlanta, and forgot her family.  She got a good job and proceed to live the life of the sixties almost fifteen years too late.  She slept with many, married and divorced one, stayed broke, lived and loved the hood, and gave birth to three children by two different men.  Her first born, her son, was now dead at twenty-two. 

She raised her children in her own mold.  She was their example.  As such, they had not been raised at all.  Whenever she visited Lori, she was introduced to how other children were being raised, but she never seemed to want this for her own.  Parenting was simply too much trouble.  Besides, Gracie firmly believed children should be treated like little adults, given respect, allowed to do for themselves, given the freedom to grow and be.  It's what she had always wanted.  It's what all children really wanted, right? 

"Well what happened?"  Lori asked.  

Gracie took another drag.  "Like I was just tellin' these ladies, I don't really know how this happened.  I mean, my boy was always one to keep up some shit.  You know that Lori.  One minute I'm in here relaxin', the next I hear a gunshot, and I'm holdin' my boy in my arms, watchin' him die ..." 

There was the sound of man-made thunder, unmistakable, and very familiar.  Gracie had heard it many times before.  Her son had never purchased a gun at the local gun shop, but still he had purchased more than his fair share, from where she could guess. She knew the streets.  Right now, the streets was intruding on American Idol.  She cursed.  Whoever the hell it was out there bangin' and blastin' she hoped they would smoke whoever it was they were trying to smoke and quiet down. 

"Little shits," she muttered, pressing the up arrow on the remote.  "Get it over already." 

As the volume increased on the television, she heard a banging at her front door.  The banging was quickly followed by screaming.  The screaming seemed as if it had been going on for some time, as though it had coincided with the man-made thunder.  She had not heard it before, but now it was clear ...  those girls.  How had she not heard it?  The TV?  But it was so loud.  The scream of the dead, dying, or even ... the witness to death.  The banging at the front door was intense.  There was yelling.  Her eyes went wide, and she ran to the front door, dreading what might be waiting on the other side.  She opened the door and her son's best friend Dre was standing there.  He had blood on his hands. 

"I'm sorry, Mama!"  He said.  "I'm so sorry!" 

"Where's Jack?"  Gracie asked, more frantic and angry then scared. 

"I shot him, Mama," Dre said, tears and snot obscuring his words.  "I shot him by accident." 

He turned.  She followed his gaze.  There, on the sidewalk, next to the car, was Jack.  He was lying down on his back.  Blood was pooling beneath him.  Just as she focused on her son, the piercing noise from one of the girls came back into audible focus.  It almost hurt, this awful wailing.  The girl bobbed up and down in her tight miniskirt.  Gracie acknowledged her as one of Jack's many friends.  She wanted to wring her neck and make her shut up, silence through forced consent.  Some of his little friends she just hated on general principle.  They were nothing but young ho's.  The other girl was crying as well, but she was talking on her cell phone.  Suddenly, her anger at the girls and Dre, her irritation at the piercing cry, all dissipated, and the sight of her only son lying on the concrete came vividly alive.  He became her only focus, banishing everything else around her.

"My boy!"  Gracie yelled, running past Dre to Jack's side.  "My boy!  My baby boy!  Ohmygod, my baby boy!" 

She cradled his head in her arms.  He was coughing up blood.  He looked up at her, but it seemed as if he could barely focus.  She looked at his stomach, at the very visible two new holes on either side.  Blood leaked from the wounds, brightening the concrete a rich red.  She began to shake, as she watched the bright-red life of her boy spread out beneath her feet. 

"It was an accident!"  Dre yelled behind her.  He was sniffling.  "I'm gonna kill myself!  I'm just gonna end it!"

"What did you do to my baby?"  Gracie said, no real question.  She looked in her son's eyes.  She tried to smile.  "What did you do?" 

This last was more a question to what remained of Jack.  His whole life had been leading up to this moment.  They both knew it.  The same could be said for Dre, the girls, the neighbors, none of which had even filtered into the streets.  The entire area of the city was a microcosm of barbarity mixed with the best of American cultural prosperity, money, cash, cars, and ho's ... money, cash, cars, and ho's.  A repeated refrain that exemplified a fast way of life, complete with surface moments of happiness and joy, thoroughly intermixed with violence, hate, and death.  One hundred thousand dollar cars frequently traveled the streets, and there was a satellite dish on every roof.  Trap boys made money, slung crack, and dealt death beneath the shadow of the towers of the wealthy.  Sometimes, the horrors of this life made the nightly news.  More often than not, it didn't.  Gracie considered this as she watched the life leave her son.  She wondered if he would make the nightly news.  One moment, he was there, eyes wide, frantic, wondering, scared, more blood leaked from his mouth, the next moment, he was gone.

"My boy," she said, rocking back and forth.  "My boy ..."

Gracie cried.  She wailed.  She felt a deep abiding hurt.  She had lost her son.  He had died in her arms, outside her home on the street.  Gracie's world had been filled with the excitement of the street.  Emotions had always flowed through her like life's blood, the high's, the lows, both real and artificial, enhanced with the drug of the moment, or alcohol.  The night life, the street life, had been her way, and though she had never actually wanted it for her children, it was what they had learned, learned by example.  Her son was dead.  Her older daughter was somewhere living the same life she had led when she was her age.  The youngest was still living at home, doing whatever she liked.  Many was the night she brought home her boyfriend, took food from the kitchen, and went to her bedroom, and locked the door.  Gracie didn't have the strength to argue with her.  Gracie had sense enough to the know the truth of her world, her life, and how her boy had wound up on the concrete, dead in her hands.  Where was her youngest right now?  Out in the streets.  She would have to tell his sisters, his father.  Jack was gone.  One final wail.  One final cry.  Then, Gracie was done.  This had happened, and this would pass.  This had always been a possibility.  Against reason, against understanding, against what should have been between mother and son, something new crept in.  It was ... relief.

Jiffy Jack Johnson died surprised and shocked.  He was twenty-two years old.  As darkness descended, and the edge of his vision was slowly crowded out by the night, his anger and shock became overwhelming.  He was the man.  He was Jumpin' Jiffy!  He cooked 'em up, cut 'em out, and clocked much cash.  He had way too many ho's left to fuck.  He was just about to break that ho off that had been sittin' on the back seat with him.  He had been loving the thought of mashing her head against the back window, as he tore her ass up doggy-style.  Now, instead of fucking, here he was dying.  DAMN!!!  And she was supposed to have that FIRE-HEAD, able to suck a quarter through a straw!  He wasn't supposed to be dying.  What's worse, is he hadn't been capped by the cops.  No rivals in his business had taken him out.  Not even some random shit with them crazy ass niggas cross town.  No, instead his best friend had shot him.  Just imagine that shit!

There they were, chillin', laughin', having a real good time.  The weed and liqour was in free-flow.  They were in the car.  The moment was just right.  The girls were gettin' ready to break 'em off with some fire-head.  JIffy Jack had his zipper down and he was just getting ready to pull out.  Then, he remembered he wanted to show Drevon his new gun.  Bad timing, but the gun just made him more excited, more horny.  He decided he would show him and the girls the gun real quick, and then they would get 'bout it-'bout it.  He had just picked it up, a sweet .45.  He handed it to Dre.  Dre checked it out, felt the weight.  Smiled, he did.  He was liking the gun.  Nice, he had said.  Then, as he proceed to hand it back, the gun went off.  The sound was so loud it made his ears hurt.  Jiffy didn't know what the hell had happened.  He heard thunder, and at the same time felt excruciating pain.  He glanced down, his eyes wide.  The .45 had blown his side open, and done pretty much the same as the bullet came out his other side.  His car had a hole in the back, just as big as the two holes in his body.  His stomach was destroyed.  His insides were a complete mess, far beyond repair.  He could hear the girls screaming.  No head tonight. 

The next thing Jiffy knew he was lying on his back.  He could see the stars.  They looked extraordinarily bright, brighter than usual.  But then again, so did the dark.  It looked darker than usual.  The world seemed truly more alive in these moments.  He looked at the woman breaking his field of vision.  His mother was cradling him.  She was shaking her head back and forth.  He had always loved her.  She was stupid, dumb, a fiend, and a ho, but he loved her anyway.  And there was Dre, standing right behind her.  That bitch-nigga had the nerve to be crying.  His whole body was shaking.  He was wailin', talkin' about killing himself.   Blow nigga!  Jack thought.  He wished that bitch-ass mothafucka would kill himself.  Bitch-nigga!  The thoughts were slow, clear, full of anger, slow clear, and winding down, transitioning.  Nifty, Jiffy, cut-it-and-stack-it Jack fell prey to the night.  As his head fell to the right, his last thought was ... damn, my whip got blood on the back seat.  Then, he was gone.

"Oh my God," said Lori to Gracie.  "That's just terrible.  Are you sure you're okay?'

Gracie waved her hand.  "I'm fine, girl.  You know can't nuthin' keep me down.  I'm all cried out, you know?  I'm gonna miss my boy, but God saw fit to call him home.  Guess it was just his time."

"Yeah," Lori said, nodding in unison with the other ladies.  "I guess it was."

Margaret was shocked.  She wasn't used to this kind of ... ghetto madness.  She did her best to hide her shock, but it was difficult.  This just wasn't her type of crowd.  This woman's son had just been killed in front of her house, and here she sat ... smiling?  She had a cigarette in her hand, talking about condoms and cash in her son's pocket ... with pride?  Margaret knew if her son had died she would be a basket case.  Oh, she figured she would survive, most people do manage to work through such tragedy.   However, she knew she was not the kind of mother that could sit, and be calm and rational two days after a bullet had ripped through her son's abdomen.  This was just crazy! 

Margaret did critically consider these events, what was happening around her, what had happened.  The only thing that kept her from getting up in that moment and leaving, was her son.  She knew his passion for writing, and working with people to affect change.  He would want this story.  He would want to share this story, as an example.  So, she nodded, smiled, and remained silent.  She would not be giving high-fives, or chants of I know that's right girl, or Child please.  Silence would do just fine, as she worked to remember every detail.

The Jack Johnson Funeral A Black Ghetto Serenade

Margaret had arrived at the church early with Lori.  She was looking at the funeral program.  It appeared to have been made on a cheap copier, four folded pages in black-and-white.  On the front it read, Homegoing Ceremony for "Jiffy"Jack Johnson.  The Jiffy in quotes was Jack's street name, according to her son.  She couldn't believe they put his street name on the program.  She turned the makeshift funeral program over, and looked at the names of the pallbearers on the back.  At least they had not used the names they were going to use.  That was three days ago.  Again, Margaret had sat in shocked silence as one of the ladies started taking notes for the program.  When she asked Gracie for the names, she had used Jack's friend's street names.  Margaret wondered why Gracie was so comfortable with the street names, and didn't even refer to them by their given names.  Her son had explained the situation to her, but Margaret had only shaken her head.  It didn't make sense.  Still, at least she didn't see Pookie, Hot Pocket, Trap, Boom Box, Fridge, Tap Dat, Kilo, and MW AKA Major Weight as the names.  And what kind of person actually has people call him MW AKA Major Weight?  Gracie said you have to say the whole thing, the whole thing!  How did she know?  Margaret couldn't understand why she was part of all this nonsense.

Still, she knew this funeral was going to be something she had never experienced.  She was sure of it when she and Lori went to the casket to pay their respects.  Jiffy Jack Johnson lay in quiet repose.  He was definitely dead.  However, if this had been something on television, or in a movie, then perhaps they might have laughed.  Humor would have seemed appropriate.  This would have been some kind of dark comedy, certainly.

"Lori?" 

"Yes, Margaret?"

"What is he wearing?"

"I have no idea." 

They both looked at each and shook their heads.  Jack wasn't wearing a suit.  Instead, he had on a blue T-Shirt.  On it was a circular symbol with what looked like a finger giving the bird.  Beneath it was the word, MACK.  He had a thick gold chain around his neck.  A dollar sign hung from the chain.  It looked like platinum.  He had on heavy denim blue jeans.  They looked very expensive.  He also had on a thick leather Gucci belt with a huge gold belt buckle.  The buckle was a circle with four huge dollar signs adorning the face.  Neither of the ladies had ever seen anything like it. They shook their heads, briefly prayed for Jack's eternal soul, and went to sit in the pews.

As the people started to filter in, Margaret's shock only increased.  She wished she had a camera, better yet a camcorder.  She was just going to have to make sure she remembered everything.  They came dressed in orange, lime, pink, sky-blue suits with canes, hats, and gator shoes.  They came in designer jeans, hanging off of their butts, held up across the crotch by thick belts with huge medallion sized buckles.  They had on caps, hanging to the side.  The had on T-Shirts that said things like Psychotic Killers, Murderer for Hire, Ho Back Breaker, and Scut Twister.  The women came in with skirts that just barely covered their front and back.  Some peeked their panty covered unmentionables out the front.  Some peeked their bottoms out the back. They had on shoes with clear-bottom heels.  They had on shoes with laces that went up to the thigh.  They had on blouses with cutouts that showed all of the breasts save the darkness of the areola.  They came in dragging newborns, babies in carriages, and toddlers three and four at a time.  They came to a funeral looking like hookers and pimps, video extras, and wannabe stars.  It was beyond comprehension. 

"Do you see this?"  Margaret asked Lori.

"Child, I sure do," said Lori.  "Surprised the Lord himself don't come down here to strike down some of these kids."

"How can they come to a church looking like this?"

"No respect.  No home training."

Margaret didn't add her assumption that Jack had been part of this group, kids with no home training.

"Does that girl have green hair?"

"Yes, yes she does."

More of the ghetto fabulous poured into the massive church.  As they entered, they paid their respects.  There was a great deal of crying, screaming, yelling, and wailing.  Women were catching the holy ghost like the spreading of the common cold.  They entered, walked, and wailed until there was standing room only.  Margaret had no idea the child had been so popular.  There were young people everywhere.  Still, it looked like some kind of club scene had invaded the house of worship.  You had to look really hard for a suit and tie, as well as a respectable dress.

"Look," said Lori, elbowing Margaret.  "Look at that."

Margaret turned to look at what had caught Lori's attention.  "Oh my, they look scary."

A group of five young men had walked into the church.  They were going down the aisle.  People were giving them a wide berth.  They all wore shades and black outfits.  Margaret looked at these young men, and only one word came to mind ... dangerous.  They walked down the aisle and paid their respects.  One of the young men put something into Jack's casket.  Margaret looked at the Pastor and the Reverend.  They had both been frowning the whole time.  Now, as the young men hovered over the casket, they were positively brimming with disgust.  Margaret thought that if they had a vat of holy water in that moment they would have poured out the entire contents over these young men, not to absolve them of sin, but to rather disintegrate them, like vampires.  The men in shades ended their brief vigil and walked out.  They apparently had no intentions of staying.  As they left, some visible tension seemed to leave with them.  More women caught the holy ghost, with increased decibels and multiple crescendos.  

As the service commenced, things seemed to settle down.  The women singing had powerful voices, and looked very respectable.  Margaret wondered if they felt out of place, a rarity to feel out of place in one's own church to be sure.  Everything seemed to be fine until people were invited up for remarks.  It was then, that Margaret once again found herself in a state of shock.  She made sure to focus.  She wanted to be able to remember every detail.  It was so awfully ludicrous that she had to keep herself from laughing.  It was darkly humorous.  It was ghetto.  It was not fabulous.  It was just plain ignorant. 

A very overweight woman stepped to the front, her hefty arms jiggling with loose flesh that undulated back and forth.  She threw her hands up in the air as she walked, threatening to holy-ghost.  Up and down, up and down her arms went as she sighed, hymned, and half-cried.  She was flanked by two big young men, decked out in the latest baggy jeans belted below the buttocks, platinum on both hands, and in their mouths.  One wondered if these strapping ghetcho-money fabOlus, young men would be enough to hold the woman's tremendous weight if she chose to suddenly faint.  That was a grand question, but not one to be answered.  

As she arrived at the front her waving and whining stopped.  Something seemed to pass between her and the woman that had just finished speaking.  Margaret thought for a moment that they might fight.  However, the moment passed and she proceeded to the microphone.  Margaret had noticed this huge girl earlier.  She had cried, wailed and holy-ghosted herself down the aisle to the casket, on the casket, draped the casket, kissed the casket, kissed Jack, and then on to her pew.  She had ghosted for ten more minutes before finally shutting  up.  She shook her head back and forth as she grasped the microphone.  Margaret wondered if she was about to ghost again, or was she really going to speak.

"Hello," she said, just above a whisper.  Then, "My name is Jenasayqua Green!"  She said in a voluminous voice the resonated throughout the sanctuary.  She made more than a few people jump. 

"I loved me some Jiffy," she said loud enough to be heard across the street.  "I loved me some Jiffy because he was the boss.  I had one job with Jiffy, and that was gettin' his ho's--excuse me, girls."

"What did she say?"  Lori asked. "Did she say what I think she said?"

"Oh yes," Margaret said.  "She said exactly what you think she said."  

There was no more than a whisper and a chuckle throughout the church.  Her misstep, the utterance of the word ho in the house of the Lord, seemed to have no discernible impact on the congregation.  It was safe to say, this was not the usual Sunday crowd.   

"JIffy had the most beautiful dreads," she said.  "Ya'll seent 'em.  Ya'll know how they lookededed.  They was just beautiful.  That's why the girls liked him so much.  And it was my job to pick out the girls.  We'd be up in da club and Jiffy would say, "that one."  And I would say, "that one over there?"  And he'd say, "yeah."  And that was it.  I'd go talk to the girl, tell her what's up, and it was on, like hot buttered popcone.  Ya'll know what I'm talkin' 'bout.  But when Jiffy went to jail.  Lawd, ya'll know what happened.  They cut off Jiffy's dreads.  That was one of the worst days a my life, when they let him out and I saw him, and he ain't have his dreads.  I couldn't get him no girls.  They didn't want him without his dreads.   So I told him I said, "Jiffy, you gotta grow  your dreads back baby."  And you know what he did?  That's right, he grew his dreads back.  And me?  I got him his girls.   Lawd yes.  I got Jiffy any kinda girl wanted, yes I did.  I sho' is gonna miss Jiffy.  Lawd have mercy I's gonna miss Jiffy."

The two big men that accompanied her to the microphone placed their hands on her gelatinous elbows as she threatened to pass out.  Apparently she thought better of it, and had only a half holy ghost moment and she wailed and lamented the loss of Jiffy all the way back to her pew. 
 
The next person to step up to the microphone was a young man that appeared to be about the same age as Jack.  He was wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a black tie.  He had an old face.  A wise face, hidden beneath his youth.  As he grabbed the microphone, he surveyed the entire congregation.  He slowly cocked his head to one side and sighed. He appeared to be shaking his head in shame at everyone he could see. 

"Jack was my friend," he started.  "We used to be best friends.  But times change.  People change.  Unfortunately, some don't.  The last time I went to jail was with Jack.  We were both eighteen, and had just graduated from high school.  We spent three months in.  For Jack, that seemed to make him stronger in the ways that mattered to him.  For me, I think it made me stronger in ways that mattered to me.  I took more to reading.  He took more to talking.  I was really sad about that.  When I made my decision, Jack wasn't with it.  Still, he didn't get mad.  In fact, he smiled and laughed.  He said, "No thang, bruh.  One day, you gonna need someone like me.  I'm gonna keep them thangs.  And when somebody or somethin's on your back like no other.  Pick up the phone, I'll be there in a Jiffy." 

The church laughed.  The young man half chuckled, half cried.  However, he held on to his tears and continued.

"Well, Jack had it wrong.  As time went by, I feared it was going to be him needing me.  And I hoped I would be there to help him change.  I graduated from Devry over a year ago.  I've been working in IT for almost two years.  I'm not doing good.  I'm doing better than good.  And I'm going back to school to get my MBA.  I realized the truth.  I'm living the truth.   And I'm just upset that I didn't get a chance to show my friend, my brother, the truth before the end."

As the young man put down the microphone, the sanctuary erupted with applause.  Those pieces of pepper in the sea of illicit salt were standing and clapping.  Suits, shirts, ties, dresses, and bonnets, people who looked respectable, beautiful, learned, and ashamed by the display around them.  They applauded this young man as he walked back to his seat.  Margaret and Lori were on their feet as well.  Both of them wanted to look at the thuggery and ghetto fabOlusness all around them and start wagging fingers and admonishments.  You see him?  You see that young man?  That's who you need to be like.  Start working today, you little heathens!

Finally, it was time for the Reverend to speak.  She and the church Pastor had been glaring at the crowd during the entire funeral.   The only time their faces seemed to soften was when the young Devry graduate had spoken.  As she took the pulpit her braids seemed to be blazing a fiery black, matching the heat in her eyes.  Margaret looked at the middle-aged woman, and wondered if she was going to explode.  She could feel her anger. 

"You should all be ashamed of yourselves," the Reverend said.  "I'm going to be straight with you.  You should be ashamed.  You young people are in the house of the Lord.  This isn't a night club.  You need to not only start respecting yourselves, but respect God and his house of worship.  What is wrong with you young people!  How many of you have to die?  How many of you are ready to follow Jack to the grave tomorrow, next week, next month, next year?  How many?"  She demanded.

"No, not you?  You don't think so?  Well I do.  You come here in your fancy clothes, and expensive cars.  You come here with day-glo hair, and you still stay in dilapidated shotgun houses and holes in the wall.  Don't get mad at me, get mad at yourselves.  I'm just telling you the truth.  Why don't you take the money you've got, the money you've made and get off the street?  You need to stop selling drugs!  You need to stop drinking and doing dope!  You need to be in school!  You need to get an education!  You need to want to succeed, and you will succeed!  You need to stop and think.  Listen to your heart young people.  God is there.  He is talking to you.  You just aren't listening.  God does not want his sons to be killers and his daughters to be whores.  He sent us his only son to take away your sins.  Jesus Christ is the light and the life, and here you are running away from him with everything you have.  YOU MUST STOP NOW!" 

The congregation jumped.  The Reverend's voice was louder than Jenasayqua's.  One might imagine she could be heard up in heaven, and that her voice was indeed most pleasing.  Her eyes still burned bright, like possessed things, burning, seeing into the hearts of the entire congregation.  She stepped away from the pulpit.  The sanctuary was shrouded in silence.  She took her seat next to the Pastor and for almost a full minute they both looked at the people who filled the standing-room only church.  It was as though they were mighty saints given the power for just a moment to touch each and every soul.  Margaret felt it.  She hoped some of these kids did too.  Unfortunately, she wasn't holding her breath.  Just wait until I tell my son about this. 

And thus ends the tale.  Consider it, critically.  Remember, it's a true story, and a very sad story.  It's a shining bit of ignorance and stupidity, and what's worse, is it's not isolated.  Remember, this is a Black-American tale, but it is also a White-American tale, or a European tale, or a Middle-Eastern tale, or an Asian tale, examples of the aggregation of ignorance and its dire results can be found all over the world.  We must become more effective as examples that are seen, that are pervasive, that are infectious, and internalized.  From one point of the globe to the next, education is paramount, and the desire to succeed is key. We must work together to move forward the human agenda.  It's a responsibility to which we must all be committed. 


This is a collage of the person who I personally believe may one day be considered one of the greatest President's in American history.  I wanted to end on this because it shows the power of human potential.  It shows the majesty of the confluence of genetic possibility.  It shows the truth of ethnic and cultural diversity and the positive impact it can have on the lives of one, two, three people, a family, a community, a nation, a world.  I want people to see the beauty in family, and how through the very act of existence, this family is indeed Descended of the Emancipated.  They are descended physically, through genetic material, culturally and ideologically, through the creation of such a diverse family, and symbolically, through the powerful image they provide to others.  They are a shining example of what we must all aspire to be, honoring the gifts that have been given to us by those that came before, from antiquity to now, by being the absolute very best we can be. 

We must strive to learn, to grow, to achieve critical success.  We must endeavor to expand our horizons, to be giants, to be courageous examples for ourselves, and for others.  We must learn to be cognizant of those around us, and the spirit that dwells within.  We must live everyday as best as we can, as honorably as we can.  Indeed, we must be the change that we seek.  We must do this, in order to show others, and thereby continuously reforge the bond implied by the gift of life we have been given.  Honor thy mother and father.  Go forth and do good works.  See yourself, and know the truth of yourself, no matter how tragic, and then move forward from there with hard-won strength and positivity.   In striving, in reaching, in becoming, we will honor the past, we will reforge the bond, and we will ensure the growth and sanctity of our posterity.   We will acknowledge the children for the precious gifts they are.  Through our love, in words and in action, they will know we are being our best for them, to keep them safe and nurture them, and preserve the world in which they live, and will eventually inherit.