Quote of the Day

“104″ - Tiger Woods’s new world ranking. He’s out of the top 100 for the first time since the ’90s. Elin’s doing just fine. H/T The Daily Skimm

Bad Day?

H/T The Huffington Post

Fly On!

H/T The Root

1st Black Woman to Pilot the Cool Spy Plane That Captures Intelligence for US Leaders

Merryl Tengesdal grew up in the Boogie Down Bronx and pursued her pilot dreams despite being told that human beings weren’t meant to fly.

BY: DIANA OZEMEBHOYA EROMOSELE

Posted: March 31 2015 1:14 PM

 

Lt. Col. Merryl Tengesdal, 9th Reconnaissance Wing inspector general and U-2 “Dragon Lady” pilot, in front of a U-2 plane Feb. 9, 2015, at Beale Air Force Base, Calif.  BEALE AIR FORCE BASE

In order for Navy SEAL teams to hunt down terrorists, or for foreign policy analysts to track the movement of WMDs—or to detect whether Iran is, in fact, developing a nuclear weapons program—our leaders rely on special pilots to capture that type of intelligence through the use of spy-plane cameras.

Merryl Tengesdal (that’s Lt. Col. Merryl Tengesdal to you) is the only African-American female pilot to man—or, rather, woman—the U-2 spy plane, a highly complex aircraft that captures that kind of valuable imagery.

As Women’s History Month comes to an end, Tengesdal, 43, spoke with The Root from an Air Force base in California about her journey growing up in New York City’s Boogie Down Bronx, and how she climbed the ranks in both the Navy and the Air Force to become such a distinguished spy-plane pilot.

Tengesdal said she knew pretty early on that she wanted to be an astronaut, or some sort of pilot, but she got pushback from her dad, who questioned whether human beings were even meant to fly.

“My father always said that if God wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings,” Tengesdal said. “He was not a big proponent. He didn’t think it was an idea that was suitable for me,” she explained, and especially for a black woman.

But Tengesdal was adamant about her vision and excelled in math and science. After graduating from the University of New Haven in Connecticut with a degree in electrical engineering in 1994, she enrolled in flight school and found that she was learning how to fly alongside a surprising amount of other African Americans.

“It was kind of surprising to me because there were a lot of black people there,” Tengesdal said, recalling a situation that many African Americans can relate to: when black people in a predominantly white setting magically find one another and assemble in one spot just to kick it.

“It was fun. I remember, we were in the hangar, and there was a bunch of us out there,” Tengesdal said, laughing, “and we were like, ‘OK, we have to break this up now.’”

Lt. Col. Merryl Tengesdal undergoes a full pressure-suit maintenance check by airmen from the 9th Physiological Support Squadron Feb. 9, 2015, at Beale Air Force Base, Calif.  BEALE AIR FORCE BASE

When asked how “race” has affected her training and her time in the various posts she’s held during her military career, Tengesdal explained that because she was often one of few African Americans, that always motivated her “not to mess up.”

“I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to say that I was here because I was a minority or a female,” Tengesdal said. “I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to doubt why I was there.”

Tengesdal said that it doesn’t hurt that military professionals are trained to be extremely confident and, well, a bit egotistical. Pilots and soldiers are dealing with complicated weaponry and equipment, Tengesdal said, so there is really no time for second-guessing yourself or walking around wearing your insecurities on your sleeve.

That kind of self-deprecation, she argued, can cost lives.

“That’s how our community is,” Tengesdal explained. “Typically there is a lot of ego to go around, and as a pilot, you have to be pretty confident in your abilities.” After all, in the Air Force, she and her peers are “trusted with high-volume equipment that can harm people or destroy property.”

Tengesdal said that she had little time to be concerned with how others perceived her as an African American. Rather, she was obsessed with being the best pilot she could be and with conveying her skills to her superiors and her team members, who were relying on her to complete the mission.

When people question the patriotism of blacks in the military, I think it’s kind of strange. When you look back at the Revolutionary War, black people fought for independence here. ... We’ve always been fighting for freedom.

When asked if she ever feels conflicted as an African American working in our nation’s armed forces, given the checkered relationship between black Americans and the government, Tengesdal took apart the entire premise of the question, pointing out that black Americans have been fighting for their freedoms and their rights since they were brought to these shores.

“When people question the patriotism of blacks in the military, I think it’s kind of strange,” she said. “When you look back at the Revolutionary War, black people fought for independence here. Even though we were enslaved, we still fought for what we believe in. We’ve always been fighting for freedom.”

“It’s something that I do willingly alongside other people who have those same ideals, regardless of their background,” she added.

Tengesdal went on to speak about that camaraderie among pilots after she was asked about the Germanwings disaster last week, in which a German pilot is suspected of intentionally flying a commercial airliner into the French Alps, killing everyone on board. She said the story made her extremely sad, not only because so many people lost their lives but also because of the negative light cast on pilots.

“When another pilot dies—civilian or military—it’s a sad day. [I] know the training that is required [for pilots] is extensive, it’s hard. It can be mentally, physically and emotionally hard,” Tengesdal said. “There’s a lot that goes into [being] a pilot.”

No. I'm Not Getting Paid For This . . .

But I should.

Seriously, what will they think of next?

Just Like Us

This is a four minute clip of a slice of life in Baghdad.

In it we see that the Iraqis are just like us.  Doing what they can to enjoy life.

She's On Fire!

Move over world!  This kid is destined for something big!

A Second Chance

This is huge!  

       Campus Services at RocketSpace is a program that provides job training and so much more to convicted felons who are re-entering the world.

  

       Note the sea of black and brown faces in the photo. 

 

       In our efforts to make our world safer by jailing folks and throwing away the keys, we have destroyed individuals, their families, their communities, and to a large degree, our society as a whole.

       This program is an effort to right the ship, if you will.

H/T The Huffington Post

From Life in Prison to a New Life in San Francisco Tech Scene

Chrisfino Kenyatta Leal, Manager of Campus Services at RocketSpace

I'm the manager of Campus Services at RocketSpace, a technology campus in San Francisco. Along with my team, I help manage the environment and experience for tech entrepreneurs trying to create the next big thing to hit the market.

In 1994, I was sentenced to life in prison, and up until 20 months ago, I was known as inmate H10983. In some ways, my journey from a young kid living the street life to a tax-paying citizen invested in his community is a miraculous one. In other ways, it is a path taken by countless people before me, whose footsteps I followed to find freedom. It is the path of self-reflection, hard work, and hope.

Every day, men and women are released from prisons and jails across the U.S. after taking this same journey. Most incarcerated settings do not provide programs that teach relevant job skills for reentry to society. As a result, recidivism -- the rate at which people return to incarceration -- is enormous. Society blames these individuals for their failure. Had I not been fortunate enough to be a founding member of a program called The Last Mile, I too could have ended up back in prison.

Founded in 2010 by Chris Redlitz and Beverly Parenti, The Last Mile is a six-month business and entrepreneurship program. The goal is to provide skills needed to succeed in today's business environment and provide opportunities for paid internships within companies in their business network. They believe that having a job is the key to successful reentry and breaking the cycle of incarceration.

The program is divided into three phases: Learning about social media and the current technology and business environment; business ideas and planning; and the art of pitching a business idea. I entered the program with a great deal of excitement yet not knowing exactly what lay ahead. I had spent 17 years locked away in prison trying to understand how the world was changing around me, but The Last Mile helped bring the world to me so that I was better prepared to enter it when I got out.

In the first phase, we read books about technology, entrepreneurism, and how to utilize social media to re-create our personal brands. This was key because, at that point, had you Googled me the search results were all about the crimes I committed. TLM homework included writing posts on Quora and tweeting thoughts and ideas, all of which were uploaded by volunteers (since we didn't have Internet access). We quickly gained a huge following on social media and the world began to see the members of The Last Mile as human beings with thoughts, feelings, experiences, and perspectives. This changed everything. 

In the second phase of the program, we learned about business planning and development. We identified our passions and were taught how to use our passions to help solve a problem in the form of a business. I took everything I learned and came up with an idea for an app called Coach Potato. The other participants focused their businesses on their individual passions.

The third phase of the program focused on developing a one- and then five-minute business pitch, in which we identified potential customers, market opportunity, and a revenue plan. TLM culminates in a Demo Day, where we pitched our ideas to a live audience of VC's, entrepreneurs, media (including the likes of CNN, USA Today, Forbes, and the Wall Street Journal), and our fellow incarcerated peers. After our presentations, we had a short time to speak with the audience. It was here that I was offered a job upon my release at RocketSpace, by its Founder/CEO Duncan Logan.

In 2012, California's 3-strikes law was changed by voters and I was eligible to be considered for re-sentencing and release if the judge who originally sentenced me in 1994 could be convinced that I was no longer a danger to society. In 1994, he had been certain that I deserved to be in prison for life. In his consideration of my re-sentencing, he Googled me. The search results contained my writings on Quora, blog posts, and information about The Last Mile. He was able to "hear," in my own voice, how I changed and what my thought processes were today. He mentioned in his ruling that those pieces helped to convince him that I was no longer a threat to society and if released I would not return to prison. He gave me a second chance .

I was released on July 3, 2013, and began my internship at RocketSpace on July 17th. The training in technology and business planning from TLM definitely helped me to assimilate into my job. In fact, in my position, I am responsible for providing an environment to help technology entrepreneurs thrive. TLM also taught me that if you work hard, people will recognize your value. I have been dedicating myself to the success of RocketSpace since day one and, as a result, was promoted to the Manager of Campus Services in 2014. And in my capacity as Manager, I was able to hire two other graduates of The Last Mile Program for my team, Caleb Hunter and Floyd Hall. Helping to "Pave the Road to Success" for other people coming out of incarcerated settings is one of the greatest passions of my life and with help from TLM, I hope to share my passion with the world.

This post is part of a Huffington Post What's Working series, in partnership with #cut50, co-sponsors of the recent Bipartisan Summit on Criminal Justice Reform (Washington, D.C., March 26). The Summit was part of a movement to popularize support for criminal-justice reforms while also having comprehensive discussions about the policies, replicable models and data-driven solutions needed to achieve systemic changes. The series will focus on such solutions. For more information on #cut50, read here. And to read all the posts in the series, see our What's Working coverage here.

Same Old. Same Old.

This article calls out "religious liberty" folks and reminds us that this same play book was used to foster the blatant, hood-wearing, in-your-face racism/terrorism.

http://thinkprogress.org/justice/2014/02/26/3333161/religious-liberty-racist-anti-gay/ 

Sharing the Love

Tyrese, one of the star of Fast & Furious 7, discusses his love of the UAE in this article.

http://www.thenational.ae/arts-lifestyle/celebrities/furious-7-star-tyrese-gibson-on-his-second-family-in-the-uae-dune-bashing-and-a-possible-furious-8

Trevor Noah: That's Racist - Tacos

This is Jon Stewart's successor.

I love this kid!

Blind Trust Project

Check this out.  It's two minutes of truth.

What's the message to you here?

What's your takeaway?

Calling All Cooks!

I avoid cooking as much as possible, but for those of you who do, here's a handy guide for splitting recipes in half.

H/T The Huffington Post

Chimamanda Adichie: The danger of a single story

Here's a message we all need to hear.

The Church

I was raised Catholic.

I . . .

Went to mass every Sunday.

Helped my Mom clean the church each week.

Searched out churches to attend in college.

And I was . . .

Married in the Catholic Church.

Soon after, being the dutiful wife that I was, I followed my husband in the Charismatic Movement, and started to attend nondenominational churches as we moved from place to place while in the military.

As his military career was coming to an end, Frank decided to attend a bible seminary in Oklahoma, intent on becoming a pastor.

Now I was never too keen on that idea, and God knew I cussed way too much to be considered pastor's wife material.  So, I was relieved when it was clear that would not happen.

After this, Frank got a job in San Francisco and we settled in Sacramento, where we would spend more than twenty years.

He was knee deep into all things "church."  I realize now this was his way of fitting in the world, but it was isolating and off-putting to those of us closest to him.

This era was also wrought with some of the most painful, hurtful, spiteful times in my life that were caused, in large part, by the Christians in my world.

To say I was disillusioned would be an understatement.

So, I left the church and everyone in it.

I walked away and didn't look back.

I was angry, bitter, and resentful.

I was done with the hypocrisy of the church and the people who represented it.

Even when Ben was fighting for his life in the hospital after his horrific accident, a chaplain came by and I absolutely lit into him.  I didn't want to hear a word he had to say.

Of course, I know now how wrong that was.  This man was only trying to help, but I couldn't see past the pain that Christianity represented.

Life continued, and . . .

I was principal of a poor school.  There was several churches in the neighborhood who helped us.  One in particular was so kind and generous, and the people so warm and helpful.  On occasions, I was invited to the church to talk about an upcoming event, or to thank them for something they had already done, and I enjoyed those times.

So, every now and then, I'd attend a service there.

Then I decided it would be nice to hear a rocking' choir, so I went to a black church down the street from this one.

By the time I left Sacramento, I was attending this one on a fairly regular basis.

But . . .

I could never fully commit.  Each time I went, I had one foot in the door, and the other one headed toward the exit.

One wrong move.  One wrong thing said, one perceived slight, and I would have been outta there.

Nothing happened, so I continued down this path.

Now that I've been away from the US for three plus years, I've attended church only a handful of times, and yet I'm stronger in my faith than I've ever been in my life.

With the technological advances, I'm able to listen to podcast sermons that have been, and continue to be, rewarding and edifying.

I've gotten over the resentment and hostility toward the church folks back in Sac. The older I get, the more I realize that for the most part, people are doing the best they can.  I don't believe that most people wake up to do others harm.  Mostly it happens out of ignorance or good intentions gone bad.

This may be a naive way of thinking, but it is the mindset I choose to have.

So my journey has gone from the ritualistic canons of the Catholic Church, to the bombastic blowhards of the Charismatic Movement, to the peaceful, fulfilling contentment of my current state.

And now . . .

I can say with confidence, I'm truly experiencing a peace that surpasses all understanding.

Trying to Right a Wrong

This article is about the lead prosecutor in a death penalty case, where the accused was found guilty and spent decades on death row.

New evidence lead to the defendant's release from prison in 2014.

The prosecutor is taking a stand in this man's defense now, trying to make sure he is compensated for time served.  Of course, this begs the question of how do you determine what a life is worth?

Two quotes that stand out:

“Glenn Ford deserves every penny owed to him under the compensation statute. This case is another example of the arbitrariness of the death penalty. I now realize, all too painfully, that as a young 33-year-old prosecutor, I was not capable of making a decision that could have led to the killing of another human being.”  A.M. STROUD

How totally wrong was I.
I speak only for me and no one else.
I apologize to Glenn Ford for all the misery I have caused him and his family.
I apologize to the family of Mr. Rozeman for giving them the false hope of some closure.
I apologize to the members of the jury for not having all of the story that should have been disclosed to them.

I apologize to the court in not having been more diligent in my duty to ensure that proper disclosures of any exculpatory evidence had been provided to the defense.


http://www.shreveporttimes.com/longform/opinion/readers/2015/03/20/lead-prosecutor-offers-apology-in-the-case-of-exonerated-death-row-inmate-glenn-ford/25049063/

Remember Tower Records?

I used to love shopping there.  Before iTunes, it was state-of-the-art because it was the only place you could listen to music before you bought it.

I also loved the eclectic folks who worked there, from the real old lady who wore hot pants year round, to the flaming gay guy who provided the best customer service.

Anyway, Colin Hanks, Tom's son, who was raised in Sacramento, remembers it too and has made a tribute documentary that premiered at SXSW recently.

This article about the movie is from Rolling Stones.

http://www.rollingstone.com/movies/features/the-rise-and-fall-of-tower-records-colin-hanks-on-his-tribute-doc-20150327?utm_source=newsletter&utm_content=daily&utm_campaign=032715_16&utm_medium=email&ea=ZmF5ZXNoYXJwZUBnbWFpbC5jb20=

Words of Wisdom

Priceless.

H/T Forrest

Great App For Finding Kids' Books

"We Read Too!" is an app that is a wonderful resource for finding books from authors of color featuring characters of color.

https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/we-read-too/id908782619?mt=8

Read on!

Designing Better Schools

Ben shared this article on the state of education today and the many ways we're trying to use technology to address the social and political reasons for it's current state of affairs.

It's a long read, but quite interesting and worth the time.

https://www.jacobinmag.com/2015/03/education-technology-gates-erickson/

Three favorite quotes are below:

But one laptop per child can’t lift communities out of poverty, because technology is not an alternative to wealth redistribution from the top 1 percent to the bottom 99. There is a disconnect between what we imagine technology and education can do, and what they actually do.

The fact is, education is not a design problem with a technical solution. It is nothing like building a spaceship. It is a social and political project that the neoliberal imagination insists on innovating out of existence. The most significant challenges faced today in education are not natural obstacles to be overcome by increasing productivity — they are man-made struggles over how resources are allocated.

When people of color are taught to accept uncritically texts and histories that reinforce their marginalized position in society, they easily learn never to question their position.

Another Dirty Old Man

Woody Allen represents the scum of the earth.

If any other man was in a relationship with his step-daughter, we would all scream FOUL.

Woody Allen does it and he's a creative genius, so he gets a pass?

He's a . . .

NASTY.

DIRTY.

LOWDOWN.

SCOUNDREL.

No amount of work/films/art can make up for his despicable behavior.

And let's not even talk about the very real accusations that he molested another daughter when she just a tike.

It makes me absolutely livid that this man is celebrated.

(Here's the link to the article that started me down this ranting path.
http://www.salon.com/2015/03/26/its_worse_than_just_woody_allen_middle_age_men_younger_women_and_the_true_horror_in_mariel_hemingways_new_disclosures/?source=newsletter)

You can rest assured that I stopped watching his movies, which I always thought were mediocre at best anyway, years ago.

Of course, if he were the only one, that would be bad enough, but he represents so many old, nasty men in powerful positions who use their power to pick up young, impressionable girls.  And they are either too naive to understand what is happening, or they'll looking for an easy way up the ladder.

Either way, if "Faye's Justice" ruled the land, in this case, Woody Allen be hanging by his balls from a marquee in Times Square.

Justice in America

God knows our judicial system in America is flawed at best, especially when dealing with people who look like me.

But I've really come to appreciate it, flaws and all, after having a peek at the court system in a foreign land.

You never, ever, ever want to land in court outside of the US.

Everything you know about the law and the legal system gets thrown out of the window, and you're at the mercy of the courts in the local land, of which you will probably have no knowledge.

The good news here is that because justice is harsh and swift, crime is extremely low.  The not so good news is if you're on the receiving end of it, things will not be pretty.

Lesson of the Day - when you're in another country, always remember you're a guest in their land, and like a guest in someone's home, remember to be on your best behavior.

The President and The Wire

Without a doubt, The Wire was one of the best television shows ever.  The depiction of the war on drugs as seen from the people on the streets of Baltimore and law enforcement agencies trying to get a handle on it, was some of the most realistic and heart wrenching.

Each of the five seasons featured a different aspect of city life, but the common thread was the role of drug culture, and how in too many cases, dealing drugs was just a means of survival where there were few other opportunities for employment and upward mobility.

Season 4 was about the educational system as it followed four kids in high school who were trying to stay on the straight and narrow path, but were pulled in by the forces around them.  It is by far, the most realistic view of inner city public schools ever portrayed in the media.

Below the creator of the show, David Simon, is in the White House, talking to President Obama about the frugality of the war on drugs and the consequences of massive incarceration of non-violent drug offenders.

Before He Was A Lyon

Terrence Howard talks about his mom and the impact of her death from cancer.

Skin Tone in the Comics

This is a really interesting comic strip.  It's coloring of characters was questioned as too dark.

https://thenib.com/lighten-up-4f7f96ca8a7e

Swim On Ladies!

From Th Root - 

What Was That About Black People Not Being Able to Swim? 

In a landmark finish, African-American women swept the top three spots in the freestyle at the NCAA championship.

BY: THE SHADOW LEAGUE

Posted: March 25 2015 2:10 PM

 

Lia Neal; Simone Manuel; Natalie Hinds
MIRA/AFP/GETTY IMAGES; IAN MACNICOL/GETTY IMAGES; TWITTER

I

t was an unprecedented event for NCAA swimming. It was as symbolic as it was historic in that it provided a revealing reality concerning the sport of swimming and marked the official introduction of African-American women as a force in an arena that has failed to attract or embrace them in the past.

It was not too long ago—in 1987—that the legendary racist rant by ex-Dodger Vice President Al Campanis on Nightline, then hosted by Ted Koppel, harshly and bluntly expressed what a large portion of America still felt about African Americans. Campanis said that blacks lacked the “necessities” to be managers or executives, pitchers and quarterbacks.

His most infamous quote came in defense of his absurd assertions. Campanis asked Koppel, “Why are black people not good swimmers?” Then Campanis answered his own question: “Because they don’t have the buoyancy.”

A flabbergasted and obviously agitated Koppel responded, “I’d say that it’s because they don’t have access to the country clubs and the pools.”

It wasn’t just that the remarks were foul, racially charged and outdated. Those comments by Campanis—a respected and powerful baseball executive who once roomed with Jackie Robinson when they were members of the barrier-breaking Dodgers organization—sparked a storm of criticism, particularly from the black community, and put Major League Baseball’s hiring practices under intense scrutiny.

Campanis was fired shortly afterward. Black swimmers have since proved their “buoyancy” and have more access to the country clubs and swimming pools than ever. 

Similar to sports such as golf, ice-skating and gymnastics, swimming has long been considered by primitive minds to be an athletic endeavor that is an “unnatural” fit for African Americans. But with three African-American swimmers sweeping the podium in the 100-yard freestyle at the Women’s Division I NCAA Championship this past weekend (a feat recognized by the national governing body of swimming in the U.S. with a celebratory tweet), it’s clear that a swimming “blackout” is upon us.

Freshman phenom Simone Manuel of Stanford set an NCAA, American, U.S. Open, championship and pool record when she clocked a time of 46.09 in the women’s 100-yard freestyle.

Manuel’s Stanford teammate Lia Neal came in second with a time of 47.13.

Neal is no stranger to star-studded success. Raised in the Fort Greene section of New York City’s Brooklyn borough by her parents, Rome and Siu Neal—who are of African-American and Chinese-American descent respectively—she is already a pioneer for black women in swimming: Neal won a bronze medal in the 4x100 free relay at the 2012 Olympic Games in London.

Her being part of this landmark moment in NCAA swimming makes total sense.

The University of Florida’s Natalie Hinds swam a time of 47.24. Hinds reset her own school record in the event during competition.

We Could Learn a Lot From This Kid

From The Root - 

Mo’Ne Davis Takes High Road, Asks That Player Who Called Her Awful Name Be Reinstated

The 13-year-old and her coach emailed Bloomsburg University’s president to ask that the school reconsider Joey Casselberry’s dismissal from the team.

BY: STEPHEN A. CROCKETT JR.

Posted: March 23 2015 1:45 PM

 

Little League Baseball pitcher Mo’ne Davis reacts after she throws out the ceremonial first pitch before Game 4 of the 2014 World Series at AT&T Park Oct. 25, 2014, in San Francisco. KYLE TERADA-POOL/GETTY IMAGES

Over the weekend a Bloomsburg University of Pennsylvania baseball player took to Twitter to call 13-year-old Mo’ne Davis, the star pitcher who shook up the Little League tournament, a derogatory name.

“Disney is making a movie about Mo’ne Davis? WHAT A JOKE. That [s--t] got rocked by Nevada,” Joey Casselberry tweeted.

It didn’t take long for the university to announce that Casselberry had been booted from the team.

On Monday TMZ Sports reports that Mo’ne and her coach emailed the Bloomsburg University president and asked that Casselberry’s dismissal be reconsidered. 

“While Bloomsburg says they respect Davis’ opinion and praise her for being incredibly mature about the situation—the school will NOT reinstate the baseball player,” TMZ Sports reports.

A Blustery Day

At about 6:45 this morning, we experienced hurricane force winds that made it nearly impossible to walk outside.

I took the garbage outdoors at 6:40, and when I returned outside five minutes later to load my car, I couldn't get two steps past the door.

Imagine a field of salt that is being blown into you by an industrial size fan.  Now imagine that fan is on full blast with "knocking you over" kind of force.

I'm not sure what was worse - the stinging of the sand hitting my face/body, for the wild winds pushing me back.

Things were so bad, I couldn't move.  I just stood by the wall, hoping that the winds would calm down soon.  One of my neighbors drove up and saw me struggling, and offered to take me to school.

What a blessing that was!

He broke with protocol by doing this.

Women are not supposed to be in cars with men who are not family.

Thankfully, he ignored that rule when he offered me the ride.

Soon after it began, the winds did indeed die down, but not before engulfing our school with sand galore in every room and in every nook and cranny.  It was even foggy in the building, making this a real Winnie the Pooh Blustery Day.

Monica Lewinsky: The price of shame

She's found her voice.

Good for her.

Talk to Me Official Trailer #1 - Don Cheadle Movie (2007) HD

Cookie has been baking for a while.  Check her out in this trailer below.  This is one of my all-time favorite movies.

Overcoming Impossible Obstacle to Soar

This video is five minutes long.

Please take the time to watch this young woman who was born with no legs, overcome impossibly tough obstacles to become a champion gymnast.

And then, please pass it on.  This girl's spunk needs to be shared with the world.

https://docs.google.com/file/d/0ByFUzo9KwryWWkRwUEw4bmZNaVk/view?sle=true

H/T Forrest

Homesick

Today I longed for the US.

It doesn't happen much, but . . .

It started last weekend when I got a haircut.

My hair was shorter, but it was not what I wanted.

So today, I went to another salon, about an hour away.

And again, it's shorter, but it's still not what I wanted.

The problem is, almost everyone here has very long hair, so the ladies in the salons don't get any practice cutting short hair styles.

In desperation, I even went to a barber shop, but with the very distinct gender rules, the guy wouldn't give me the time of day.

Honestly, if I could, I'd be on the next flight out to Sacramento just to get a decent cut.

Yes, I miss my family and friends, but today I miss Willie Mae.

There is no one who cuts my hair better than her.

~~~~~~~~~~

I know.

I know.

A very recent post was about choosing to be happy.

Yes.

I see the irony in my whining.

And yes . . .

I will get over it . . .

Soon.

One Guy's Story

From Salon - 

I was the black guy in a white frat 

Nothing about the racist OU chant surprises me. I spent years ignoring white prejudice just to fit in 

KASAI REX

•  Share 236
 
•  481
 
 
 
• 43
 
 

TOPICS: RACISM, LIFE STORIES, COLLEGE, FRATERNITIES, FRATERNITY LIFE, AFRICAN AMERICANS, MASCULINITY, TOXIC MASCULINITY, EDITOR'S PICKS, SAE, LIFE NEWS

A photo of the author, second from right

“There will never be a nigger in SAE!” chanted a bunch of Biebers from the dark side. The OU frat video released earlier this week shocked the nation. But not me. I never believed the lie of a post-racial America, so new heights of white shittiness don’t surprise me. Instead, my mind went to that kid who still longed to be the unwanted “nigger” in a fraternity where he’d be like Baldwin’s “fly in the buttermilk.” That black boy or girl who has no idea who the hell s/he is, who thinks that finding a home in places like the SAE house might offer some desperately needed sense of belonging. I write this in the hopes of reaching that lost black body floating adrift in the chaos of racial identity — just like I did for much of my life.

In the fall of 2003, I pledged a fraternity, the only chocolate member in the whole house. White kids trying to be black don’t count, of course. I was a blackout drunk, and I resolved long before setting foot on campus to surround myself with other blackouts, even if they were all white. Never mind that I was the first in my family to go to a proper university. Academia was the last thing on my mind. Fraternity culture gave me a place where I could indulge the way I wanted, without loved ones or teachers or longtime friends to slow me down. During orientation, I asked which houses hazed the worst and drank the hardest. It was nothing short of a drunk’s providence that landed me at 3 Frat Row.

In the house I settled on, the hazing was mental from the jump. Older guys seeking to humiliate me and 10 other strangers laughed when, after being told in a “lineup” to actually “Fuck the wall like I meant it!,” I asked said wall if “she” enjoyed my black cock. It was a stupid bit of levity in an otherwise out-of-control 10-week hazing process. (My hell week ended with someone losing the top half of a finger. The chapter has since been shut down.) I took a bleak sort of pride in making the house’s worst hazer laugh so hard he had to leave the room, but I couldn’t see my shucking and jiving for what it was. I signed up willingly for the puking and the push-ups and the fists through panes of glass and the destruction of property and the coke-fueled misery that led to my half-assed suicide attempt and the being shitty to women and all the clichés of being a “frat dawg.”

When I passed the old group photos hung in the frat house, I would scan previous chapters for other chocolate faces. There was one from ’96-’97. Another from ’81-’82. Whooooaaa. One from 2000-’01. That was recent! “They’re probably all proud Republicans,” I couldn’t help but think.

At the time, I saw nothing wrong with this environment. During pledging, there was a frat brother who’d make me sing country music at dinner; no way the house colored boy would be into country, he probably wagered. Clearly, he didn’t know how white my childhood surroundings had been. In school settings, at least.

I came up in a decidedly middle-class, entirely black neighborhood in Baltimore. My mother was a government employee who worked impossibly hard, as black mothers with hardheaded black children often do. My father was a Vietnam vet who quit his warehouse job upon the birth of my younger sister to become Mr. Mom to both of us. My parents went to great lengths to assure that I received the best education the city could offer and a shot at opportunities they never got. My first and only year of public school was overcrowded and out of control: A classmate told me to say ahh, then promptly stabbed me in the roof of my mouth with a pencil. My parents’ had seen enough, and worked their magic to get me a shot at testing into the Calvert School, alma mater of John Waters, which I attended until sixth grade.

In my teen years, I went to a private school held up by many as the best in the area, but I quickly learned I wasn’t like the other boys, virtually all white and upper-middle to upper class. I spent those years being reminded of my blackness, mostly in negative ways. This alienation — coupled with static from black friends in my neighborhood for “acting white” — properly knocked my racial identity off its axis. Attempts to thrive simultaneously in both the black world at home and the white world at school soon gave way to a misguided quest for assimilation into the latter. I fried my scalp with relaxer to straighten my hair. I lusted after white female classmates, while denying that anything black could be beautiful. My father had hit me before, out of the frustration and pain of losing my older half-brother to violence and seeing me repeat his mistakes. But he didn’t touch me when I told him that black girls were ignorant and ugly. I will always remember the disappointment and heartbreak etched into his face that night.

Years after my private-school stint, my mother would ask why I didn’t tell her how I was treated at school. I mean, yadda yadda yadda, “snitches get stitches,” I’d rationalize to myself. But I also didn’t want to visit any more hurt and stress on a strong black woman who’d already sacrificed plenty. I still hear echoes of my father’s reminders that in this white man’s world, I had to be at least twice as good as my white counterparts. This was the real affirmative action. Affirm yourself, your black skin and your big lips and your big nose and your hair, even at its nappiest. Fucking love that shit, because they don’t feel obligated to. And take action, even when you don’t feel like it, even when it’s the unpopular move, because to regress is to die.

I’d gotten the the memo outside of home as well. I just never opened the envelope. “You can fuck ‘em, but you can’t be ‘em,” warned a concerned black coach who’d noticed my group of friends’ attempts to “be” white. We could dye our hair blond and date white girls and listen to Smashing Pumpkins, but we were still black as all hell. I thought he was being harsh, but I can see now it was a message of self-love and self-acceptance I simply wasn’t ready for.

It didn’t take long for me to learn where I stood in this environment of prestige and tradition — “a diverse community of racist white people,” as one older classmate put it to me. On an overcast September day at recess, one of my first few days in this school, I was called nigger to my face for the first time. All I did to provoke this was introduce myself in an attempt to make a new friend.

And while I wanted nothing more than to put my fist through the back of that kid’s skull, I receded in the face of this ugliness in what would be the beginning of a pattern of turning more cheeks than I probably should have. Even as a pubescent little shit, I knew I had what Toni Morrison referred to in a 1998 interview with Charlie Rose as a “moral high ground” in the face of these not-so-microaggressions. Yet, it was hard to see the tactical advantage, as these classmates of mine, reflections of the bigots in their homes, like all those spiritually sick individuals suffering from the diseases of racism and prejudice, felt they occupied that high ground as well, the delirium of white supremacy making them believe their own bullshit. It took some time and some sobriety to get in touch with gratitude for attending these schools, but at the time, I wanted nothing more than to get the hell away.

I held a naive notion that college would be different. But wherever I went, there I was. During the two-month period of pledging, it seemed like that long sought-after feeling of being “a part of” was within my grasp. But it was soon after that an older brother mentioned, in an “I don’t care how this makes you feel” way that one is afforded by the cashmere womb of white privilege, that the reason people didn’t fuck with me during that time was because I was black and no one wanted to be known as the “racist house.” I was crestfallen; I’d thought it was because they really liked me. This house, racist? No! Never mind that my pledge brother had been called a “spic” in front of 100 people at a tailgate weeks before.

When asked why I didn’t go Omega or Alpha, prestigious black fraternities known by my family and neighbors, I used the excuse that black frats were kind of a joke at my school, disorganized and sparsely populated. Yet I wouldn’t have joined them even if they were legit. The insanity and idiocy of (white) Greek life was the only normal I knew then, and the next logical step in a life of seeking white approval. Admittedly, being a lone black face in a patently white space had been my default setting throughout most of my life.

Today, I want to go back and tell my younger, frustrated, confused self that it’s going to be all right. That I’m enough. “Don’t let these Lacoste-wearing motherfuckers get you down. Your black features are beautiful. Your heritage is fucking awesome!” The self-doubt of my formative years can still creep up on my ass, and I can still feel burdened with the daunting task of “Keeping It 100″ (read: keeping it real). But most of my life I’ve either kept it 17 or kept it 1000 while trying to color within the lines.

Today, I seek that middle ground, that lofty state of being: “Yourself.” All of that noise in my head — from the committee that led me through those frat house doors telling me I belonged there to the insanity of trying to spike my hair like Pauly D — stemmed from a virulent self-loathing that I’ve thankfully surmounted in the years since. It’s taken me damn near 30 years, but I’m finally learning that what other people think of me is none of my damn business and that chasing white approval, even as a means of survival, is a fool’s errand indeed.

If I’m honest with myself, there’s still work to be done, and I still find myself struggling to find equilibrium occasionally. When even the most well-meaning friend/co-worker/girlfriend throws the “You’re the whitest guy I know” at me, it’s like Nat Turner’s ghost taps me on the shoulder and says, “Just do it.” And conversely, whether it’s at the barbershop or at a cookout, I still get the “You ain’t a real nigga ” look/line/whatever. (Was it my skinny jeans that gave it away?) I want to ask: If I walked up in Barney’s, would I not get followed, scoped out, harangued, even after droppin’ hard, legally earned stacks, only to be stopped and frisked once out on Madison Ave., cuz I should know better, right?

I like what I like, and I am who I am, But most important, I can look myself in the mirror today. In essence, I’m connecting to my own sort of black privilege. For me, that privilege is a silver lining resiliency, a mental toughness whose bedrock was laid down centuries ago by ancestors who lived more hell in 24 hours than I will in a lifetime. Through the cascading pain and injustice dealt us, and through all the shit we’ve put ourselves through worshiping false idols in innumerate forms and complexions, we have built a spiritual fortitude that can be tapped into not only to survive, but to thrive. I strive for an unshakeable pride in myself, one that must be rediscovered on a daily basis most times.

Eventually, I had to come to grips with my drunken lifestyle and start living as a sober man. So too did my blackness require a rehabilitation. All of it’s been a process not without some pain, but it’s brought me to a point where I will never be anyone’s “nigger,” in SAE or anywhere else.