Apology for slavery accepted?

Apology for slavery accepted?
I think ... not.


VIDEO: YOUTUBE

Unless there was a full roll call taken of evey congressional representative, cabinet member and President SOON to record a vote that determines how sincerely America feels sorry for the way it exploited slaves, how legitimate would that expression of regret be?
For as long as I live, I'm going to have to try and be there for my young son and struggle to answer how slavery and racism and intolerance came to be and still plague him. His Pre-K intellect _ astounding as it is _ won't fully grasp some proclamation voted on anonymously by a bunch of politicians who can't explain away the horrific past, much less chart us a comfortable future.
By some strange coincidence, my last name's the same as one of the original (slave-owning) signers of the United States Constitution. There are sub-divisions, parkways and schools named after him all over these parts.
Every day I park in a lot at the intersection of a street named after him.
None of US Jeffersons or Washingtons or Franklins or Adamses who probably descend from some of the "founding fathers" benefit at all from the birthrights. We can't claim the bloodlines, nor deny them.
So why, really, rehash that phase of our collective past now? To stir up a futile call for reparations?
Put this distraction to rest already.
What's done is done.

The sins of the father...

Ebony magazine raises an intriguing question about parent-to-child disclosure in its latest issue...you know, the one with a bootylicious shot of Serena Williams on the cover.

In essence, the article debates whether your kids need to know all about the offenses you (allegedly) committed in your past; and if they might benefit from rehashing your mistakes.

There's not a "yes" or "no" answer to this one.


VIDEO: YOUTUBE

I'm comfortable with openness where that sort of thing's concerned. But the outcome of telling (almost) all could be "iffy", at best.

To me, a son should by all means be told about what went right and wrong with his dad's signigicant relationships with women. And he might as well be clued in as well about what casual flings can lead or succomb to as well.

Of course, the timing of such frank discussions is crucial. But they have to take place.

Nature hates a vacuum. Boys can't help seeking clues for conduct.

Surely, if f I'd been forewarned about the pitfalls of wantonly making whoopee, not to speak of the perils of office politics, I'd be regret-free (not that I have may, far from it) today.

As I'm reminded every time I listen to Sam Cook and the Soul Stirrers: "This is a Mean Old World."

So why shouldn't a father divulge to his son everything he's learned from avoiding the land mines?

If I could turn back time...

Supposedly, Spike Lee's got some new project up his 40 Acres and a Mule sleeve.

It's being reported that Lee _ who more readily specializes in revisionist history _ will take on a sci-fi film inspired by Robert Mallett's ground-breaking pursuit of a theory to explain a way to reverse time. Mallet reportedly was just 10 when he lost his father. The ensuing longing, and scientific study, led to a memoir,  "Time Travel: A Scientist's Mission to Make Time Travel a Reality," which Spike will develop for screen.

Variety quoted Lee saying: "Time Traveler is a fantastic story on may levels (and) also a father and son saga of love and loss."

Enough said.

We all know by now how harshly the lack of Black fathers in homes across the U.S. is felt. Kudos to Spike for sensing the need for a story that acknowledges it, and could potentially spur a remedy.

As for me, thank goodness a time machine like Mallett envisioned would be of little use. (Or, I admit I'd likely use it for no good.)

Going back 10, 20, even 30 years wouldn't change much about my ties to my dad; even though my parents split up, gradually, between my elementary and middle school years. He never talked much, but he always meant what he said.

He didn't live with us during my potentially disastrous teenage years; but he never lived more than a determined 10-speed bike ride away.

His efforts at parenting might not have consisted as much at times than picking up for breakfast at the downtown greasy spoon where cops ate for next to nothing; but he set an example for me to be patient and 'yes, ma'am' a lot.

He was a lousy husband. But he taught me people skills.

Since, I've set seemingly unattainable standards for myself, no awards for "Greatest Dad Ever" appear on the horizon. But I do try to instill lessons that the II will benefit from 10 years hence; whether I'm around (physically) or not.

Be nice to girls. Get a job. Take care of Mommy. Practice your left hand. Save money.  

That sort of thing.  

Whatever it is you believe, make sure to say it. There's no time like the present.

Nas is whipped!

I can see it now: Obama's standing stiffly at a podium in some cross-over state, trying to look all commander-in-chiefly to sway skeptical voters, when all of a sudden some hack of a reporter rises to ask his impressions of the latest Nas CD cover.

Insert: Pregnant, awkward pause.

For more than a year, the gifted rapper Nas has threatened to use the N-word as the title of his highly-anticipated, and often delayed follow-up to his 2007 anti-prophecy, "Hip Hop is Dead".


The backlash to the very notion of using THAT for a title is well-documented. So, instead, Nas revealed in a recent New York Magazine profile that he's going more stoic with the next CD's packaging. It'll just depict him with his name slashed across his back in the form of whip marks.

Now THAT'S keeping it real. A young and famous black millionaire can think of no better way to portray himself and his talent than referring to a slave-era atrocity that the poseurs he calls his contemporaries could hardly endure.

In the same article, by the way, Nas showed himself to be so careless and ill as to roll and smoke a blunt in the presence of a reporter wondering what's taking so long for his next "joint" to be released. He was also written up to be clueless as to who he'd be sharing the CD's production credits with.

Nas's next release may turn out to be an aural masterpiece. But it's marketing will prove to be another setback for father's trying to shield their sons from imagery that sends such an irresponsible and confusing message.

So pardon Obama, you hack reporter you, when you ask him to comment on Nas' CD cover and he goes into, 'Let me clear my throat' mode.

The BET AWARDS' soul redemption: Quincey Jones

The 2008 BET Awards counldn't have been further off our household's radar last night.

Mommy had to clock in with three or four girlfriends before she went back to work to sort out some files and then come back to make dinner.

Me and the II had to go and keep honing his basketball skills; at the playground two blocks away, the one mommy deplores due to how ghetto the action is. We got in a good 15 minutes of practice (impressive, I must add) before the hood rats to run full-court on the beat down indoor court we'd sought haven fromthe heat in.
Pause: Nelly and Jermaine Dupree. Grown men showing their underwear unnecessarily onstage.

Q _ as in quality _ has left the building.

NOBODY HAS TO STARVE WHILE I EAT QUINCEY QUOTING PUSHKIN


WHEN IT RAINS GET WET. LIVE YOUR LIFE AND LIVE IT WELL.


YOUCAN'T GET AN A IF YOU'RE TRYING TO GET AN F.

BET: Black Enanbler Television?

It's probably too late to apologize.

There's this special BET's airing this week that essentially pulls a scab off a wound the network itself played a large part in causing.

"Where did the love go?", indeed.

Let's just take a guess and say that the unstoppable slide of black men and women's levels of disrespect, scorn and manipulation of each other started some time around the time of Ja' Rules short-lived days of heavy rotation (give or take a few years). Suffice it to say the damage started long before anyone considered that a festering sore was born.

Thank goodness no one in our house grows weary of watching "The Wiz" on DVD and soaking in Quincey Jones' orchestrations and the phenomenal cinematography and mind-blowing costumes.

Funny, how a fantasy film can ground you, whether you're 4 or 44, in realistic principals far better than the rhythmic tales from the 'hood that the entertainment channel supposedly by and for us ever could.

But enough of my preaching. Time to TiVo "The Jeffersons", let the rest of Hugh Masekela's "Time" download, and think of other creative things to do with my wife and child while the question of how love got "lost" gets skewered as a lead-up to an awards show celebrating music that caused its disappearance.

Spare the rod?

The ribbons of irony that come with playing daddy to the tilt twist with irony.

I walk into work this morning with a younger brother who's around my age, but just seriously dating a woman with a grade-school-age daughter. He chides me about my only child winding up spoiled, because there will be no siblings. I pass him _ who has no clue _ off with platitudes dealing with college financing and age and energy and extra-curricular obligations.

I don't think he heard me.

Later, I meld with Dan-O accidently on a trudge down the Fairlie alley to the Korean store that sells good sunflower seeds in salted shells. On the way back, I related how the II had earned a few firm love taps on the bottom the previous night for acting out egregiously at a fairly nice restaurant.

We were there with the parents of his main pre-K squeeze and the two of them had shown out all through dinner, dessert and the long-ass good-byes outside. Mommy made me out to be the villain for swatting him in public. (Public being a make-believe "green" community of overpriced custom dwellings with chi-chi services and eateries sprinkled among them.)

Anyway: I read today that the Indiana State Supreme court ruled today that "corporate punishment" was not punishable by law. The ruling came down after a woman petititoned for the right to beat her son with belts and extension cords to punish him for stealing her clothes.

I risked getting whupped while growing up in the Hoosier state for infractions no worse than setting foot in my mama's pristine living room. I endured "corporal punishment" from the toddler stage through 12th grade, in many and bizarre shapes and forms. I got caught and suffered the consequences. In the long run, all those paddlings and spankings, I think, helped more than hindered my upbringing.

I wish all those I grew up with who wound up in jail or leading shiftless lives had been touched as many times by the cruel hand of love as I was.

It's almost comical to me that the sole dissenting voice in the 4-1 vote to allow whuppings in the Indy judiciary hails from my hometown, which has grown exponentially more violent since I left right after high school. In his opinion, an allowance for parents to whup their kids' asses undermines efforts to spot and prevent abuse.

There may be grains of truth in that argument.

But I remain convinced that a boy's better off learning that a S.W.A.T. operation could confront him at any given time.