An A-Ha Moment/Al Gore's Nobel Peace Prize

Guest Musing
By Morenike E. Evans

It's like an A-Ha moment!
Anyway just a thought.

Sometimes we want something so badly in our lives. In fact, we craft our entire career toward that end.

We do the work, we put in the time and we STILL don't get it! Sometimes this can be devastating, humiliating, definitely disappointing. Having invested so much time in a dream only for it not to come true.

But this is when it's time to examine the soul of that dream or desire. What is it we really want to achieve? What passion or cause are we trying to fulfill?

Perhaps our notion of how that dream will be fulfilled is not God's plan. This doesn't mean that the dream itself won't be fulfilled.

Take for example Al Gore. His entire career was built to serve society through politics. He was a congressman, a vice president of the U.S. I'm sure he felt his best way to envoke change and touch people's lives was by having the most powerful job in the world (arguably)-- President of the United States.

He worked hard, tirelessly but the dream was cruelly (if not illegally!) taken away from him. It almost seemed as if he had no more fight in him. How infuriated and slighted and humiliated he must have felt! But he went underground for a while. He reenergized and found his passion and was fueled by that.

Today he is an Oscar winner, an innovative tv exec and a Nobel Peace Prize recipient! He has fulfilled his passion of effecting change and empowering people, AND has achieved things he probably never dreamed of.

So remember this as you go through your days trying to navigate life. It may not be how we see things happening. It is how God wants it to happen. And it WILL happen if you keep moving toward your passion, but open your mind to how it will manifest itself.

A Wink and a Nod

By Marlene L. Johnson

Sept. 16, 2007, 12:30 a.m. - Hispanics have become the favored minority and now outnumber blacks 43 million to 40 million, according to census bureau statistics.
This fact has set up a dynamic between the two groups. Blacks have fought hard for their civil rights and now see many of the things they fought for being usurped by a sizeable number of Hispanics, who have sneaked, swam or otherwise crossed the borders into the U.S. and can be counted among the “illegal” immigrants.
In many instances, such as employment, our political leaders have given them a “wink and a nod” rather than reforming the immigration policy.
Many Latinos hold jobs they claim Americans don’t want to do, like construction jobs for individual tradesmen or small construction companies. They gather in specific areas in the city hoping to be hired for day jobs in the construction industry.
Concessions are made. Employers have found another way to line their pockets—offer Hispanics economic crumbs in the form of lower wages than African Americans and others would accept for the same jobs. Then they bring over caravans of Hispanics and put them up in houses so they can have a private workforce. Then they start a disinformation campaign that Hispanics are doing the jobs Americans don’t want to do.
They give another wink and a nod when the “illegal immigrants” demonstrate in the streets of Los Angeles and other cities against deportation or being required to go through the immigration process. They want jobs and freedom. Yet they are flouting our immigration laws.
How dare they, you ask? They dare because unlike the Haitians, who came over in shabby flotillas, some drowning on their attempts to reach American shores, most Hispanics were not turned back. It is estimated by the U.S. Border Patrol Local 2544 in Tucson, Ariz. that there are between 12 million and 15 million. illegal immigrants in the U.S, mostly Hispanic. They dare risk crossing the borders because they know they can. They dare hang around work sites and pick up day labor, because they know they can. They know they won’t get thrown into jail, or worse yet, sent packing back to their home turf. Like the Haitians were.
They dare do what blacks have been killed and jailed for doing—hanging around in public places in groups of more than two or three.
They dare because the U.S. has accommodated them by favoring their language and by making life for them more comfortable than for some of its own citizens. Unlike Blacks who were forced onto these shores, stripped of their language and culture, and ridiculed for the way they spoke the new foreign language—English—Hispanics don’t have to learn it. Just check out your voice phone messages—“if you want English press 1, Spanish, press 2.” Or brochures giving directions on purchases you have to assemble—half is in English and another half is in…guess what?
What about other immigrants—like the Irish, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Italians, Haitians, Nigerians, Greeks and other ethnic groups—who came here legally. Why not make them more comfortable by using their languages in phone voice messages? Or why not use the many American Indian languages. Let’s be fair. Can you imagine how long that would take before one could even gain access to the person your are calling?
English is the language of this country…the country they have broken the law to enter. I say let them learn English. Let them embrace our language, just as they embrace all that America has to offer, jobs and social services, like WIC for mothers with infants.
They have imported their language and their gangs, like MS-13 (Mara Salvatrucha). And some have become “Americanized” in their view of blacks. They want to keep blacks out of neighborhoods in Los Angeles and elsewhere where their population is large. Black males, especially, who unknowingly cross the line into their ‘hoods, risk being shot or killed.
Or they adopt the mentality of the oppressor who sees little value in black lives. Like what was done to the four black college students in Newark where, police said, a Hispanic criminal lined them up and shot them execution style. One, a girl, lived. Another girl, and two young men died. One of the perpetrators Jose Carranza, 28, was not only illegal, but had a long criminal record, including assault and child rape charges, and shouldn’t have been let out on bail and back onto the streets of America. He should have been deported after committing the first crime, and not allowed back in the country. A second 15-year-old suspect was unidentified.
I’m all for people making their way to freedom, economic or otherwise. But I don’t agree that law breakers who come to the U.S. should be given “favored” status and accommodated where others are not.
Let them get in line behind those who are already here and have worked hard to make whatever gains they have made.
Unless the U.S. reforms its immigration laws and comes up with a remedy for the rampant “border crossings” and for dealing with those who are already here illegally, America may lose this country. It’s been done before. Just ask the American Indians who were benevolent to the early settlers and now live in walled off places in their own country. Hispanics already have taken over large parts of Miami and Los Angeles without firing a single round, while the politicians have given them a wink and a nod.

CABBIE TAKES ON IMUS AND RAPPERS

By Marlene L. Johnson
4/15/07

“Hey, aren’t you the cabbie that used drive columnist Bill Raspberry around a lot before he retired from The Washington Post?” I asked as I entered the taxicab.

“Could be,” the cabbie said as I settled in. “Why you wanna know? Cab won’t be no cheaper.”

I know, I said. I just wondered because you used to give him a lot of wisdom.

He gave me a wry smile and said, “Yea, but that don’t come free. I paid a lot for it in drivin’ around town and hearin’ folk bad mouth each other. Blacks talk bad about whites. Whites talk REAL bad about blacks. Funny thing, though, they don’t talk to each other, just about each other… Like that Cowboy Imus, talkin’ about those girls and don’t even know them. He thought what he said was funny. Said he was jokin’. But he ain’t laughin’ now. Got hisself in big trouble.”

You’re right, I said. Calling the Scarlet Knight players “nappy headed hos” was like painting a scarlet letter on them. It was public humiliation. But some folks say that’s Ok because rappers do the same thing, call black women vicious, vile names just to sell CDs. And Imus has insulted lots of people and didn’t lose his job over it. He called Colin Powell, the first black secretary of state a “weasel.” He called former New Mexico governor Bill Richardson a “fat sissy,” and he called black journalist Gwen Ifill a cleaning lady. Now Imus spewed his venomous remarks at a group of innocent young college women and tried to hide behind the excuse that he learned it from rappers.

“He was right about one thing, though,” he said turning to me. “TRUTH BE KNOWN, black women do have Nappy Heads. N-A-P-P-Y !! Well, unless they use hot combs, perms or buy those mega-weaves and extensions. The man ain’t blind, just not as smart as he thought he was. Nothin’ wrong with him telling the truth. But there’s somethin’ wrong with callin’ black women hos. And that radio jockey says he didn’t mean nothin’ by callin’ them hos. Claims he’s a good man who done a bad thing. Wants us to forgive him,” the cabbie said scowling.

Yes, but with forgiveness comes consequences, I said. Forgiveness doesn’t mean he should just go on his merry way without repenting and suffering the consequences of his actions. He blames rappers, claiming he got the language from them, but white men have been calling black women hos and treating them like that since slavery days.

“It’s kinda funny him blamin’ rappers. Far as I knows this the first time a white man readily give a black man credit for anything. B’sides he shudda asked somebody if he don’t know what he’s doin’, like one a them well spoken black professors,” he said.

Yes, I don’t even know the hip-hop and rap culture all that well. To me ho is a five letter word that begins with and w and ends with re so I was thrown off by the rappers spelling. But I do know they were disrespecting black women.

“Yea, I don’t think those rappers shud be doin’ it either, disrespectin’ they mommas and sistahs on them CDs and videos,” he said.

Maybe they’re just trying to make a living the only way they know how. But that’s no excuse for degrading black women in their music. It sets a poor example for our youth, and as we found out, gives other folks license to do the same.

“What I say is that rappers are pimpin’ off black women. Sellin’ them out just to make money. Just like street pimps. They’re pimpin’ black women for white record labels,” the cabbie said.

Maybe it’s time we get serious about the issue of degrading black women and using derogatory language like the N word against our own folks. We shouldn’t allow anybody to do that, black or white.

“Right. If we don’t respect our women and ourselves, nobody else will. White guys already think all black women are loose. We gotta get those young rappers to stop putting dollars before good sense,” he said as he pulled up to my stop.

Imus has paid the price. He lost both of his gigs, radio and TV. Now maybe it’s time for the name calling rappers, and those who give them big bucks to do it, to pay the same price. Maybe that’s the only way to get them to stop spewing vile language about black women. Then maybe the females will start acting like ladies again.

“Yea, man, I agree, it’s time,” the cabbie said.

Catch you later man. Thanks.

A SEAT AT THE TABLE

By Marlene L. Johnson

Remember those family meals when you were a kid and had to sit at the “kids table” when company came? Remember how you kept “fighting for a seat at the table” with the grown ups, so you would be as important as they were and share in the camaraderie?

I remember those days. And in remembering, I know that race, poverty and gender can keep you from having a seat at the “company” table. I wore three of those labels. I worked hard to overcome being labeled as poor. Because the other two labels are God-given and innate, my life has been one long fight for a seat at the table.

My first memorable struggle was to be just like the other kids, even though as a foster child I was taunted by for being a “welfare” kid and seen as different by the other kids and adults saw me as a child to be pitied because I would grow up to be worthless.

That’s how too many whites still see all African Americans.

African Americans have been fighting for a seat at the table ever since we were brought to America and enslaved. After building this country, African American men had to prove they were worthy of defending it. The Tuskegee Airmen proved it as did other black military men. Black soldiers returning from the wars still had to “fight for a seat at the table” of equality for themselves and their families. They had to march in the streets for the right to vote, for the right to send their children to public schools, to protect their families from hooded white terrorists who hung them with impunity, dosed and destroyed their homes and churches with fire, and white farmers who stole their labor by underpaying them or paying them in pig guts and overripe vegetables from the fields.

But getting to the table may have been the easiest part. Once you got a seat at the adult table you were seen as a nuisance to be put up with and still were not part of the camaraderie. When the food was passed, you didn’t get to help yourself, someone gave you a scoop of this or a spoonful of that, as if you couldn’t do it yourself. And they watched for you to “mess up” saying ‘Don’t spill your food, wipe your face with the napkin,’ as if you they didn’t have food around their own mouths.

It’s like finally landing a job for which you have studied hard to educate yourself and finding that as an African American and as a woman you are undervalued, underestimated and marginalized. But we still go to that hard-won job where we are grudgingly dolled out this assignment by folks who don’t really want us to be there, who believe our skin color or gender means we are not up to the responsibilities of the job, and who don’t value our work unless someone wants to go on vacation, then we get to do their jobs as well.

The best assignments are deemed to be beyond the realm of our capabilities and are given to others, although we know full well we could handle them. We are either intentionally given more work than any one person can do and are scolded for “messing up” or are stripped of all but “make coffee” type duties that make it hardly worth getting out of bed to go to our jobs. But we do.

It’s time America sets the table for all of us. African Americans and women have earned a place at that table, so say the blessing and pass the potatoes please!

Marlene's Poetry

Twice Lost Identity
(1965)

I asked her why she cried.
She sniffled,
Then spread the mingling wetness
across the Nubian planes of her nose
and cheeks.
Sad brown eyes, swimming in the
ebony velvet of her face
looked out at me.
She said,
“Not to know once
is bad enough,
but twice
it’s happened now…
I cry for all my ancestors
whom I can never trace,
And for my father.

© Marlene L. Johnson 2007

ORPHAN
1970

He was abandoned,
a small bundled spark of life
left to be snuffed out by the bitter cold.
But someone heard him cry
and took him to a place
he would come to know as home.

He grew up in this walled off place of stone
and fenced-in hearts.
Inside there were no trees to climb
and dangle limb from limb;
or creeks in which to sail a twiggy boat,
and watch the fallen autumn leaves float
in it to their graves.
He found no trails he could explore,
or caves in woody places he could hide
and dream forbidden dreams
of baseball bats and bicycles to ride;
or snakes and rocks and balls of string
(all sorts of curious little-boy things)
to stuff the pockets of his patched pants.
He grew up in this walled off place,
no place like home. Never really living,
but with too much life in him to die.
The boy became a man,
and nobody had heard his cry.

© Marlene L. Johnson 2006

MUH DEAR
(1973)

Mixed gray wool, done up neatly in geometric plaits,
Washed out flowered cotton dress, but wearing no hat,
Singing the blues and wearing rocked over shoes,
ironing starch white shirts for stiff white folks,
while papa wore the faded denim kind,
worn out and elbow-frayed, from sweat and years the
price was paid.
Dusting nailed together furniture with care
Crocheting doilies from bits of string
And singing nearer my God to thee and
in the Sweet By and By.
Drying my tears when I came home crying
’cuz someone called me nigger.
Muhdear, you took me in your big, wide lap and held me close.
“Now hush, your cryin’ chil’,” you said.
“Youse old enough to know
Just ’cause someone says bad things
Don’t really make it so.”
Muhdear was always there
to braid my hair
to teach me how
to make my bed
and iron starched white shirts.
She could always find a dime for me to see
the Saturday afternoon matinee.
Calling you Muhdear was the only way we knew
to let you know we understood the many things you suffered through,
You were always working,
singin’,
prayin’
teachin’, and
lovin’
and we know we can never, ever repay you.

© Marlene L. Johnson 2007

Guest Musings

Make the Best of the Worst of Things
© Jason Blake 2007

Happy summer time everyone. I hope and trust that you guys are enjoying some much needed time off and are spending some quality time with your family and friends. I wanted to drop a quick thought, which I hope will encourage you right where you are.

I heard someone once say that, “Anger is just love disappointed”. Love has many faces and fortunately not limited to our own imaginations. You have a love that is between a parent and a child, between siblings, another that lingers between friends, between a man and a woman, and most importantly between God and His people. In our coming and goings we can easily hurt the ones that we love the most. It may never be intentional, but when we commit such acts it often can be difficult to heal the wounds that have been created by such encounters.

If you would, allow me to extend to you a thought. No one is perfect and we all will fall short of each other’s expectations, and that is where disappointment comes into play. Our disappointments are manifested when our expectations are not met and then we think to ourselves how can that person who is close to us let us down? Perhaps the closer the person the more let down we feel.

Though it is hard, let me encourage you to reach out in love to deal with and heal the situation(s). God loves us so much that despite our flaws He loves us unconditionally. I’m sure that is a tall order to fill when you think of the fact that God is God and we are just people, but remember that we are made in his image and so that means that we have deep within us the characteristics of Him; we to can love and forgive. When we step out side of our pain and our actions we can comfort people with love and love can cover a multitude grievances and sins. True and compassionate love can bring restoration, it can restore things that we thought was lost forever to hurt and pain. Granted a relationship may never ever be the same again but we will indeed find peace.

When we take a second to really examine a situation remember to stay focused on that situation and not a list of things that may really not matter cause it is at that time we can maybe even easily heal a situation that was consumed by misunderstandings and bitterness. When we have been wronged, let us not shut people out and withdraw, approach the person that has hurt you in love and if we have wronged our fellow man, let us put our pride and arrogance aside and approach the person that we have hurt in love; in other words, let us get back to the heart of the matter and begin to heal. Oh yea, and let’s try to be approachable, cause even the best fall down sometimes.

Folks, let’s begin to really take care of each other and ourselves. Be Blessed and have a Happy Summer J

Peace,
Jason B.

A QUESTION OF FAITH

“Fides Quarens Intellectum”
© Marlene L. Johnson 2007

St. Anselm of Canterbury’s definition of theology in his Pros Logion speaks of using reason to try to understand God’s truth, a truth Anselm already had accepted by faith.

Discourses on faith include a number of definitions. One is that faith involves believing and trusting that Christ was born for us personally and achieved salvation for us. To have faith means more than just believing something is true, it means we are prepared to act and rely upon that belief. Our faith comes from God, just as our understanding does if we are open to receiving what He wants to reveal to us. As John Calvin explains, “There is within the human mind, and indeed by natural instinct, an awareness of divinity.” Faith is the human response to this Divine initiative.

Because humans desire to experience the transcendence of God, in theology faith seeks understanding. Theology once a discourse about God, now is an analysis of religious beliefs, and according to John McQuarrie “seeks to express the content of this faith in the clearest and most coherent language available.” But whatever answers we come up with will fall short because we are ill-equipped to unravel the mystery of God and his creation. The use of reason to reflect on and understand the meaning of our existence and our relationship to God involves human thought and language.

While theology invites us to make connections between the tradition of faith and the language we use, this pursuit becomes difficult because the meaning of our language changes based on its context. Moreover, we humans use language that tries to create God in our image, rather than accepting that God created us in His image.

So, despite our best theological efforts to understand our faith, the existence of God remains a conundrum.

I apologize

Reflections On “Linda Brent, Incidents In The Life Of A Slave Girl (1861)”
By Marlene L. Johnson

Virginia has done it. Now Maryland is about to do it--apologize for participating in the enslavement of blacks. For those who might think the apology is frivolous or unnecessary, I offer my personal reflections about a book I read recently entitled, “Linda Brent, Incidents In The Life Of A Slave Girl (1861),” which represents a true account of her experiences as a slave, and may offer sound reasons why the apologies are in order.
Reading the account of Linda Brent’s life had an impact on me similar to what happened when I visited Goree Island, off the coast of Dakar, and the Door of No Return in 1971. I was so overcome with emotions that I had my Senegalese guide take me through alone rather than joining with a group of Europeans there to visit the point of departure of Africans bound for America and enslavement. My reaction wasn’t unique. I witnessed a similar reaction from Gus, a black aviator who flew to the South Pole alone, and was partnering in the Amazing Race TV show with his daughter. He too was emotionally overcome when he stepped on the ancestral sacred ground. About three years ago, when I visited a plantation near Charleston, S.C., I had similar emotions after touring the kitchen where slaves cooked the meals, and walking in the courtyard. I had to step away from the group as tears poured down my face. In the same way, I often had to step away from this book by Brent.

I believe the experiences of our ancestors as they departed from the Motherland voyaged through the Middle Passage to enslavement in this country is imprinted in our bones and spirits and still causes African Americans all manner of emotions and behaviors. For example, just as some of the male slaves in Brent’s story helped with the defilement of their wives and daughters hoping to be spared from the master’s lash, some of our brothers and sisters deceive us and try to curry favor with white bosses on our jobs.

This significant story paints a dismal, but realistic picture of the institution of slavery and raises a number of important themes. Miscegenation, slaves as property, lust and rape, the relationship between the mistresses and slave women, the strong love of black slave mothers, injustice and the courage of slave women. These issues are discussed against the backdrop of the quest for freedom and justice, and the Christian beliefs held both by the slaveholders and those who were enslaved. The latter notion may seem like a contradictory reality, but because the Bible is subject to different interpretations, those who seek to do evil can find passages to support their beliefs and agendas.

Many of these issues are still evident in today’s society when it comes to relationships between the races. There is the still brewing controversy of skin tone and “good hair” versus nappy hair, although that is dissipating somewhat with the advent of dreadlocks, thanks to Bob Marley and the Rastafarians. But many of our prominent black men still pursue lighter skinned women in social relationships, even though some of our sisters of darker hue may have the same qualities, education, manners, and characteristics. Still, they often are overlooked by available suitors who are only interested in white-looking “trophy” wives.

Relationships between black women and white women haven’t progressed much since Brent’s time. Most white women tend to be civil, but stay away from having real friendships with black women wherein they socialize together, visit each other’s homes and go places together. I can count on one hand the number of white women whom I consider to be real friends who will come to my home, go out socially with me, call me just to laugh and talk and with whom I can share problems and vice versa. One case in point is a staunch Christian I was able to tell that I stopped attending a Christian Journalist meeting after a white female speaker used the “N” word in recounting an incident. And there I was the only black person among some 40 people in the room. Not one of those white Christians rose to object to the insulting racial slur, and I left the meeting soon afterward. Had I spoken up I would have been seen as “an angry black women.” The woman I spoke to in confidence about the matter is still my friend and has tried to get me to return to the meetings. Someday I might.

In the employment arena, most blacks are still undervalued, underestimated and marginalized by their bosses and some of their coworkers. They either provide too much information about simple tasks, or offer no explanation at all, leaving us to figure out how things work, a technique that programs many of us to fail. Some whites tend to disbelieve African Americans are capable or qualified to do a job for which they’ve been hired and question their abilities even when assignments are carried out successfully. This kind of treatment keeps many blacks moving from one position to another in hopes of finding one where their work will be recognized and they will be rewarded appropriately for their achievements. We often have skills and education to surpass that of our bosses and work hard, but still are treated much like our enslaved ancestors were treated.

Lust and rape continue to be a problem for black women and all women. The advent of the MTV videos and the inappropriate deportment of some of our young black women on camera is just another form of sexual enslavement. Although the way a woman dresses is no excuse for rape, allowing up the skirt camera shots of their backsides sends the message that they are open to any sexual advance made by anybody. Many young women are in bondage to their sexuality and find themselves caught in a cycle of “hooking up” and living with first one man and then another, being dumped, becoming depressed and doing it all over again. Morality is off the charts on a downward slope. Hopefully the pendulum will swing the other way and our young black women will grow tired of exposing naked midriffs and as much of their bodies as they can get away with on television.

Brent and the women in her family were courageous. They were willing to do anything to keep their family together and spare their children from the degradation of slavery. Most black men and women are courageous today, even those who have given up on life and have succumbed to drugs and alcohol. Every day we put on our emotional armor and go out to face what is mostly a hostile world. Honest, hardworking black men are insulted by cab drivers, both American born and immigrant, who pass them up believing they are a threat. White women still cling tightly to their purses when passing groups of black males on the streets. Black men still can’t protect their families in the same way white men can. And there are still some ignorant whites who think blacks are lazy, just as they did during slavery days when white overseers stood around waiting for the slightest infraction by blacks who were doing the work. They meted out cruel treatment and whipped the blacks they didn’t think were working hard enough or fast enough. And whites had the nerve to call blacks lazy. Blacks carried this nation on their backs.
There were a number of instances in this book where you can really see who was lazy. Imagine having a slave woman lie on the floor outside your door in case you wanted a drink of water during the night. How lazy is that? Or a black mother having to stop weaning her baby so she could provide nourishment from her body for a white infant. With all of this intimacy going on, including the rape of black slave women, why does white hatred of blacks run so deep and why is it still so pervasive?

One of the most ludicrous incidents in the book was the preacher using the pulpit to castigate slaves, calling them “rebellious sinners” whose hearts were filled with evil, as a means of extracting loyalty from them for their masters. What could be more evil than the institution of slavery, than one human being owning other human beings? What could be more evil than a cruel slave master lashing slaves nearly to death or raping slave women and selling the children that resulted from this lustful, sexual abuse? Imagine, selling your own children.

Another evil was the method slaveholders used to get rid of elderly slaves by selling them for little or nothing. This society still doesn’t revere its elderly. President Bush wants to push older persons into poverty by removing the Social Security safety net under the guise of saving for future generations. Some older Americans are barely surviving on Social Security because their wages weren’t high enough when they were working. The same situation exists today and younger workers aren’t making sufficient income to put aside any of their earnings in private accounts, as has been proposed. Many Americans are living pay check to pay check, working hard, and barely making enough to take care of their needs, while the fat cats make multimillion dollar salaries to keep the masses down through sleight of hand economics.

Future generation may find themselves standing in line at soup kitchens if they invest in private accounts tied to the stock exchange. When the stock market drops, away go all your savings, never to return. The stock market crash of 1929 and the steep decline of the market a few years ago ought to be a lesson to Mr. Bush and everyone else who thinks that plan is a good idea. People who can save already are doing so through the 401K plans. The working poor can’t afford to join one and must rely on Social Security as a base .

Finally, on the question of faith, many black men and women are still sustained by their faith in God. The church is an important aspect of life in the black community. It’s a place where blacks can find solace and joy, release pent up emotions and achieve spiritual rejuvenation, which allows us to face the world where we’re “invisible” and too often mistreated. Just as blacks face injustices every day, Brent’s story is replete with instances of injustice. Enslavement of one human being by another is an injustice in itself and everything that flows from that dastardly circumstance is an injustice.

© Marlene L. Johnson 2007

Memories of my growing up years

As far back as I can remember, I lived in foster homes. Actually there were only two--one in Rochester, N.Y., where I was born at Strong Memorial Hospital, and the other in a small farm town, Avon, in upstate New York. It is the second home that I remember most fondly.
I remember the happy times, living on a farm and doing all the things kids can do...running free...exploring nature...bringing the cows in from the meadow...gathering black walnuts...having a small garden all my own...planting seeds and watching them grow...yanking carrots from the earth, brushing them off on my clothing and eating them, dirt and all...bellyflopping down an icy hill on my Red Flyer sled.
I remember spending many a long winter's day squeezed in my secret place behind the huge wood-burning stove in the kitchen, my back against the wall, reading, reading, reading the book resting on my tented knees. My favorite stories were about otters, rabbits, beavers and other small creatures portrayed as humans. I read exciting biographies about Lincoln, Washington and other famous Americans; the story of Booker T. Washington (Up From Slavery) Bible stories; and scads of comic books, which quickly bored me. So I traded them or gave them away until my three-foot pile had dwindled down to nothing.
There were long rides on the yellow school bus, which sometimes got stuck during those harsh winters when snow came down until it was as high as the tops of cars. School was fun to me...I was an eager student and a better- than- average athlete, despite a brief bout with polio when I was age 12. I remember that it rained hard as we waited to catch our bus home after a week at Bible study camp. The next morning my throat was sore, my head ached, and I couldn't bring my chin to my chest. My mom took me to our doctor's office. Our regular doctor was on vacation, but lucky for me a new doctor, just out of the Navy examined me and diagnosed polio. It was in the early stages and I was hospitalized for about three months. Fortunately, I fared better than my room mate who was in an iron lung, and subsequently died. So I was able to play my favorite sport in high school--basketball, and became the team captain in my junior year.
My love of the printed word never waned, but destiny and reality led me to major in secretarial science in the first Associates Degree program at the University of Buffalo. I had received a partial scholarship for the two year program, but the offerings in this new program were very limited. But I was certain I could always find a job as a secretary, which proved to be true, although I left that field to become a journalist. My first job as a secretary was at the Veterans Administration. My first job as a journalist was with the Associated Press. Both in Detroit, Michigan where I took up residence after graduation. More about Detroit in another posting.

© Marlene L. Johnson 2007

I am inspired by

Frederick Douglass who wrote the following on August 4, 1857:

Those who profess to favor freedom,

and yet deprecate agitation,

are men who want crops without plowing up the ground.

They want rain without thunder and lightning.

They want the ocean without the awful roar of its waters.

This struggle may be a moral one;

or it may be both moral and physical;

but it must be a struggle.

Power concedes nothing without a demand.

It never did, and it never will.

Find out just what people will submit to,

and you have found out the exact amount of injustice

and wrong which will be imposed upon then; and

these will continue until they are resisted

with either words or blows, or with both.

The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the

endurance of those whom they oppress.

My Inspiration

My daughter, Morenike, whose Yoruba name means "I have someone to cherish" is my inspiration. She inspired me when she was a beautiful, happy baby (See left)...and she inspires me now as a beautiful grown up woman. She is creative, ambitious, extremely intelligent, humorous and loving. I really do cherish Morenike. If you want to know more about her check out her blog: http://www.blackpearlfilmworks.blogspot.com