A Special Birthday

Today my baby sister turns eighteen.

Wow.

In spite of years and miles passed and tears and smiles of the past, i have no trouble going back to that balmly Miami day during my senior year of high school when my first sister born. I remember being pulled out of class with a phrase that most high school students are not used to hearing, "Your mother has gone into labor."

I remember stopping by my home on the way to the hospital to partake of my first ever attempt to make sweet potato pie. I remember wondering if it was the pie that induced my mother's labor since the contractions started while watching a Star Trek movie the night before with her sister-in-law - after she had ignored my brothers' warnings that the pie was inedible at best.

I remember getting lost on the drive to the hospital.

I remember my brothers and I seizing control of the maternity ward waiting room television and, thus, seizing control of the waiting room itself. I remember watching the Super Bowl-bound New York football Giants dominate the 49ers in San Francisco's Candlestick Park on one of the more memorable Monday Night Football telecasts.

I remember my older brother spending a good portion of the evening on the waiting room pay phone doing what he did best: be a Romeo to any one of a number of Juliets-of-the-moment.

I remember one of my mother's coworkers, who was the only girl in a family full of muscle-head boys, teaching us how to best cradle a newborn ("Hold it like a football," she said - I still do).

I remember getting the news - after midnight - that the little baby girl that my younger brother had lobbied to have named after his favorite NBA player under the false pretense that the name in question belonged to one of Hollywood's hottest box office draws of the mid-eighties (his efforts were successful) was finally out in the world.

I remember my brothers and I standing next to our maternal grandmother as we watched a nurse give our baby her first bath. I remember with every swoop and dip and wipe and rinse and scoop that the nurse executed with deft movements of grace and control how we all held our breaths during this roller coaster of hygeine.

I remember when she finally came home watching her nap in her crib one afternoon. All in the house was quiet and tranquil. In spite of that tranquility, a battle was about to be fought. This battle was one that set the tone of greatness for a great soul in a tiny package.

I watched in silence as my sister - who was laying on her stomach - tried to readjust her position. Her head was turned to her left and she wanted to turn it to her right. As many of you know, a newborn's head is disportionately larger than the rest of its body. Many of you also know that a newborn's neck is not strong enough to support the weight of that big head. Human infants also do not have enough upper body strength to push up from a prone position.

The problem with the aforementioned pediatric facts is that no one bothered to tell my sister - or maybe she knew but did not care.

With amazement, I watched this tiny baby try to turn her head. She would try to lift and head and stop. She would try again to lift her head and stop. She would try yet again to lift her head and stop. I noticed two important things: she kept trying and, as she kept trying, her head kept getting a little higher, she came closer to reaching her goal.

I was, by now, on the edge of my figurative seat with more anticipation than watching a seesaw battle between two athletic champions locked in sudden death.

My baby sister's umbilical cord had not even fallen completely off and she was already asserting her will.

I did not want to disturb her but I was cheering for her with great fanfare - silently containing my fervor within my proud heart.

As I continued cheering, she kept fighting.

Eventually, my sister succeeded in turning her head from her left to her right and went right back to sleep.

I realized at that unforgettable moment that my hermanita was born with the extraodrinary indomitable resolve that God gives to Its most favored creations.
I knew my sister was special from the very beginning but she convinced me that afternoon.

Sometimes the greatest wars are won in the smallest battles.

It is an eternal truth that sages throughout the ages have taught their students. I did not learn that from any of my gifted teachers, passionate professors, or inspired clergymen.

My sister taught me.

Tavis Smiley is a hypocrite.

You read correctly: hassan said that Tavis Smiley is a hypocrite.

I've been of this opinion for quite some time and, ths morning, Uncle Tavis proved it in about a strong a fashion as he ever has.

In discussing, wait - this is Tavis .... In telling us what to think about and how to see the debate, he talked about John Kerry pledged in last night's presidential debate to raise the national minimum wage to $7.00 (which is a joke to begin with because the m.w. actually varies from state to state but I digress). Tavis (I can reference him by his first name because he has actually tried to cultivate a friendly, trustworthy, down-home, round-the-way common sensible image - most notably on the Tom Joyner "Uh oh oh" Show - by having folk address him by strictly his first name) then pointed out how George W. Bush avoided answering the m.w. question which Tavis said bodes well for "the rich and lucky" (I concur with Tavis in this assumption).

From that point, Tavis then stated - with no hint of laughter in his voice - that this means that the working class folk of America are going to continue to be screwed.

And a few moments later, Tavis signed off ("Bye Tavis!!") with Tom Joyner reminding us that Tavis is sponsored by ... Wal Mart.

SMH.

To those who say that Tavis is using Wal Mart's money to hurt Wal Mart, I say that I don't see how what Tavis says can ever hurt Wal Mart as much as his being recognized as a pitchman for this corporate monster will benefit Wal Mart.

If I was a pimp, I wouldnt care WHAT my "employees" said as long as they made more money for me than they made for themselves.

This brings me to an expansion of my opinion as expressed in the title of this thread:

Tavis Smiley is a hypocrite and a hooker.

Okay, in fairness to Tavis (who I readily acknowledge is a smart, smart, shrewd brother), he is not a hooker but more of a call girl - you know, the high-paid hookers.

My enemy would not pay for my living if I was not making his living more pleasurable, more lucrative.

Crooked as I see Wal Mart, I acknowledge that they do goood business and good business people are not stupid.

Of course, if Tavis is smart, then what is the connection betwixt this blatant conflict of interest and integrity as it relates to speaking out for workers while being bankrolled by the most notorious exploiter of workers in America today?

How is that reconciled?

The way it appears is that either (A) Tavis does not quite see the unmistakable incongruity of the current situation or (B) he is very aware of the conflict between populist rhetoric and elitist action and he is too busy cashing checks to give a flying flip.

Of the two possibilities presented, I see the latter as the more pathetic.

For people who say that all Tavis does is "talk," I respond with "his talk" is his "business."

Like a charlatan preacher, Tavis generates virtually all of his revenue from his "sermons."

Whatever investment capital he is making fiscally-sound and financially-insightful headway with was and is derived from his fame as a pseudo-conscious lecturer-activist.

I hear in the back of my mind that old Whodini song that has the very appropriate line "mouth almighty, tongue everlasting."

Of course, think mentioning Tom Joyner is this discussion clouds the fundamental issue about Uncle Tavis. True, Joyner is the person that first gave Tavis wide exposure to the larger Af-Am market; however, Tavis has moved on to do a lot more beyond what a friend of mine in the D.C. Beltway refers to the 'Tom Joyner Minstrel Show.'

Now, regarding the point raised by the two posts cited above, I think that there are many regular people that do "sell out" to make a dollar but that is just it: they are regular people. They are not acknowledged as spokespersons, leaders, nor do they have their smiling photograph on the cover of Jet magazine with a subcaption that states how Black America always listens to what any of the aforementioned regular folk say.

¿Dig?

Yes, many of "our leaders" have played both sides of the fence in the interest of "the bottom line" but - to do so - their ethics had to be rock bottom too.

If a leader is lacking in ethical purpose and conviction, ¿what can be hoped for in his/her charges?

Booker T. Washington was a prime example of that shameful fence-jumping. Mr. "Cast-down-your-bucket" is no hero to me. No disrespect to the Tuskegee alumni at all - especially those that do have a level of progressive consciousness and refuse to sell out but their proud institution's founder was just that: a sell-out.

Dr. W. E. B. DuBois was not a sell-out. In fact, I am so confident that Dr. DuBois' record as a true and unwavering champion of African-American freedom and dignity that I defy anyone to post any credible and verifiable information to the contrary about him.

X, Hamer, Garvey, Padmore, Kenyatta, Davis, Shakur, et al: no sell out.

I'll even add John Brown's name to that list because he was so much more of a champion for the cause of Af-Am liberty than Uncle Tavis probably will ever be (i'm not holding my breath).

There are also the Uncle Tavis apologists that maintain that Wal Mart hired pimps, um, employs Tavis to help repair their image. I dont doubt that Wal Mart is working to change their image but image-schimage - i'd rather see them work to change their practices.

Image can change but what counts is practice.

Even the Klan works to change their image...

"Win-win" is correct - Wal Mart gets more Black customers, Tavis gets more greenbacks, and American workers get more blues.

thumbsdown on Tavis

*BTW, i'm not saying that he "has no ethical purpose or conviction" - heck, that is the troubling part about it. If he had NO ethical purpose or conviction, then there would not be much too talk about.

Oh, and for the people who insist that Tavis is a "journalist" because he appears on television and radio and talks about issues and interviews people, please allow me to remind them that Bill O'Reilly does the same thing for FoxNews (Tavis Smiley is as much a "journalist" as Armstrong Williams.)

So, ¿what's it going to be Tavis?

The Bible says you can't serve two masters.

Like Dr. Eric Williams said not so long ago:

MASSA DAY DONE

Mama's Revenge

When I was in the second grade, my teacher told my mother that I was an "idiot." That was her exact word. I know this because I remember this. I remember this because my mother would not let me forget it. No, contrary to the over-zealous meddling of today's PC-inquisitors, my mother made sure that I knew and I remembered my "teacher's" assessment of my intellectual capabilities not because she was trying to ruin me for the sake of more convenient manipulation later on in my life or any other cock-eyed "rationale" the aforementioned annoying liberal busy-bodies might self-righteously stamp on my mother's motives. My mother wanted to make sure that I knew what I was fighting against in my perpetual quest of self-actualization.

My mother barely graduated from high school just four months before her twentieth birthday so it is unlikely that she was formally aware of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. What I believe was more responsible for my mother's attitude towards this whole ugly rearing of a Southern liberal's unsolicited bourgeois commentary (okay, I'm being kind - the woman was one of the last remanants of Dade County's white trash who was lucky enough to secure an undeserved white collar post) was instinct. My mother may have never ever given herself enough cognitive credit but she was thoroughly endowed with God-given common sense. She might not have known about the intricacies and innerworkings of an organism's digestive system but she knew that isht stunk.

Also thoroughly imbued in my mother was what I like to call the "Mama Bear Syndrome." Individuals who seek comfort in more academic affectations are familiar with this eternal and universal phenomenon's other label: the maternal instinct. Mama may have been a push-over sometimes when people were trying to take advantage of her in some way or another but if she even thought that someone wanted to slight any of her children in any way ... woe unto them. Indeed, before my mother really got into someone's business end defending us, supplications to the Almighty Himself for mercy via a divine smiting were already in full stream heavenward.

My mother was my first cheerleader. In a lifetime full of more than the fair share of geniune supporters and unceasing boosters, Mama era la prima, la maestra. Most of the people that I know today are people that I have only met in the second half of my current existence on Allah's peculiar creation called Earth. Virtually everyone of those people that have only seen half of my moon will swear if so compelled to the apparent fact that I am a self-contained and self-generating confidence power plant. Most of the aforementioned are so convinced, in fact, that even my own testimony to the contrary will not sway their conviction about my perceived essential nature. However, with the Creator of the Heavens and Earth (Al Fátir) as my supreme witness, I attest to my constant struggle against my introverted personality and my afflicting insecurities.

My first victories against my self came when my mother was Angelo Dundee to my Muhammad Ali.

My God-given cerebral talents and Divinely-guided analytical skills were first forged against the backdrop of adjusting to life as a first-generation American in an America that even more firmly-entrenched Americans could make no heads or tails of. I was born during the freshman year of Richard Nixon's ill-fated executive tenure in the White House. The Miami I grew up in was still sociologically closer to the "MY-AM-MUH" of Dixiecrat Florida than the current "MEE-AM-MEE" that is universally recognized as a mecca of hedonistic Latin culture. Growing up shy and small and Cuban in Southwest Dade County when Kendall was more Everglades than stripmalls was a blurred nightmare of intimidation-enforced assimilation. Everytime I find myself telling myself that I was happy growing up in Miami in the best existence my parents could give my brothers and me, I also realize that I have no desire whatsoever to go back to visit that era if I could.

The lessons learned were necessary and, to be direct, learned. There is no point in reenrolling in the first grade once one has already earned his or her post graduate degree.

It might strike the reader as nothing short of amazing that my under-educated immigrant mother saw the mighty tree of intellectual prowess when Yankee experts were too busy disregarding the seed. I, however, am not amazed in the least. What else was she going to see? I was the fruit of her vines.