Between Prisons, Death, and Every Aspiration I Ever Had

Both of my parents have been to prison.  They both served some form of time in the prison industrial complex while I was in college.  At least 3-4 of my first cousins have gone to prison. One young cousin went to prison the day I graduated from college in 1998.  At least 3 of my six siblings have spent some time meandering through the prison industrial complex.  And just a few days ago, I was made aware that my youngest brother, the baby of our family, is sitting in a jail cell facing a number of charges.

I, of course, have never been to prison.  I am a college administrator and professor who has the luxury of tying bow ties around my neck, putting on fancy socks, and going into my class or office to teach the latest theory around contemporary Black politics and life. I get to inspire a generation of students, supporting both the lucky and the privileged in their pursuit of academic excellence.  I get to teach Michelle Alexander's The New Jim Crow.  I get to expose students and peers alike to the Ava DuVernay's documentary 13th: I am not severely mapped into the realities of prison life.  You see, I got out...I escaped the trap! At least that's what I think.  Because if I really begin to think about the comprehensive scope of the prison industrial complex, I must admit that I am extremely marred by its influence on my life through its direct effect on my family.

In 1997, I will never forget sitting in Duchess Harris' class about Black Public Intellectuals, when I was at Macalester and discussing the one thing that all Black people have in common no matter how much they (we) hate to admit it.  She said, "the one thing all Black people have in common is that we all have a relative who is either in jail or who has been to jail."  I'll never forget her saying that in a sea of mostly white faces as they pondered Black realities.  The profundity of that statement was so palatable that I sat speechless as I reflected on how my own mother had entered the prison industrial complex in 1995, just as I was starting college.  And, during Christmas that freshmen year, my grandmother had forced me to go up to the jail to see her while I was home on Christmas break.

So you can imagine that I was deeply overwhelmed as I sat in my faculty housing unit watching 13th on Netflix, as my middle brother texted me the news about my youngest brother being confined to a jail cell somewhere in South Carolina.  You see, my middle brother found out right around my birthday, but had sought to wait until after I had celebrated my 40 years of living.  As I sat on the couch reconciling text messages and documentary style visual images, I began to be overwhelmed with emotion vacillating between sadness, anger and helplessness.  And as I thought about all the shit stacked against my young brother's life, I began to cry.  And if I'm keeping it 100, I cried for a complete hour...a complete hour.

I think it was the knowing of the obstacles that really got to me.  I and my siblings' lives read like every vulnerable child's horror story: young dead mother, sickly father, shitty school systems, poverty, limited options, in and out of foster care homes, abuse, homelessness, easy low-level drug access, and the need to be hard in a world that makes your prove yourself.  It's almost cliche its so sad.  Its like Precious meets Color Purple meets Lifetime sad.  And if we really going to be real honest, its not like we couldn't see it coming.  But who am I to tell a father how to raise his son?  Who am I to hop in my Subaru to run down to South Carolina, and pack up bags, and say you are coming with me, all the while knowing I'm barely getting by on my salary?  We had tried it before with two other siblings and it had failed miserably.  So, like a lot of Black people who are striving to be Black excellence personified, I put on my blinders, and tried to just take care of my family...and pray for the best.

Sadly, I am not always so sure that Jesus answers these complex prayers.  I've never seen the end of generational poverty even as I've been faithful to a Black church that has an anti-convict culture, yet sees Paul "jailbird ass" as seminal to theological formation.  And, the inability to make sense of the prison industrial complex at church, makes it even harder to discuss it at Sunday dinner tables.  For the most part, the lucky ones, like me, just run around saying what one of my mentees calls "anything:" "if he had just made better choices," "it really isn't that bad," "you just got to let it go," "you live hard, you die hard." I know I'm not the only one whose heard this kind of respectable, its all your fault rationale.  But the reality is, my brother isn't in jail just because he made bad decisions.  This world is designed for him, and me too, to be commodities of a prison industrial complex.

Coming to that realization breaks my heart.  The prison system disrupts family.  It does not rehabilitate.  It breaks people.  It creates a disenfranchised criminal class, even if you are innocent.  It fosters mental illness.  It turns children into "super predators."  It builds intolerable space between those on the inside and those on the outside.  No one is better because of our prison system, instead it fucks us all.

Right now, I am thinking about the little boy who used to visit me during summers in Atlanta.  I am thinking about how even then you could see that he was brilliant kid, learning Spanish and French at four.  I am thinking about how his mother died when he was 7, and how he was bounced around from home to home.  I am thinking about him being diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, and how every once and a while he would Facebook message me asking to come live with me...and then change his mind.  I am thinking about how he was enrolled in a community college, after getting out of some form of juvenile detention center.  And, I am thinking about myself...and had I only been independently wealthy or a doctor or a lawyer, I could fix all of this.

I am considering the dissonance between my mentorship of young men in Alpha who will never see the inside of a prison hopefully (but hell, who knows), and my helplessness regarding my own brother.

If I'm honest, I am resentful and hurt and broken because I really don't know what I should do.  So I pray, with the kind of skepticism that says this may be my last time praying.  And right now, the most cathartic thing I have done in the last few days to work through what I'm feeling is to write this post...and to contemplate Prison as a trope of death in light of all the aspirations I've ever had.  And, like my middle brother said, "I close my eyes, kiss my son, and pray to God that he will never see the inside of a prison."

Selah.

A Conundrum of Feelings: On My Last Day in Blue Devil Country

I will never forget the day that I found out that I got in to Duke for grad school.  Both a feeling of wonder and terror filled me.  How wonderful to be considered smart enough to attend a place like Duke, when in fact, the only reason I applied was so that I could be turned down.  And in the same breath, it was terrifying to think that I might be attending a school that had a notorious perception for fumbling with race and class.  Only two years prior in 2006, I and several of my students at Paine College watched from a few hundred miles away in horror at the way in which Duke, with all of its privilege, had reminded us that white men could/can get away with anything.  So it was a little bit funny when I shared with my family that I was quitting Paine to return to school for a seminary education at Duke, to which they replied glibly, "watch out for those Lacrosse players."  It was as if they were talking about a sort of 21st century Klansman.

But my students, classmates, preachers, friends, and family all encouraged me to go, because they understood what "that" kind of credential could mean for my future successes.   My aunts, with their beautiful southern accents, would pronounce every letter when asked, "what is Sean up to these days?"  They would reply with an air of sophistication and pride, "Honey, my nephew is going to DUUUUUUUURKE," as they sat pretentiously waiting for the inquirer's mouth to drop.  Everybody enjoyed announcing that I was headed to a place where any dream I had could be realized.  And if I'm honest, I can admit that I really had only come to be credentialed, so that I could head back to some HBCU.  And if pushed too far by idiocy or black bourgeois tendencies, I too could pronounce that I had gone to "DUUUUUUUURKE"...in hopes that it would shut up the questioner.  

I, with my healthy spirit of distrust for white spaces (mostly brought on and cultivated by my undergraduate Alma Mater), attended Duke with an overwhelming feeling that I would NOT be here long.  But, its almost been a decade.  I am literally two years shy of that.  And, I could have never imagined that when I was coming to Duke and to Durham that I would be here as long as I had lived in Atlanta.  In fact, too much has happened to me at Duke, in Blue Devil country.

In my first year here, I lost my mother, and at the same time reconnected with my father. And since that first year, each year at Duke has teetered between one extreme of despair and another extreme of hope. I've had to witness the burial of two very close friends, even as I was on my way to the altar to get married.  I've had to deal with my disappointments around ministry, even as I found much purpose in unofficial pastoring/ministering to colleagues and students.  I've had to wrestle with my own insecurities as a former foster kid in a place where so many have beautiful and loving families.  And, I've had to deal with a lack of resources, even as I welcomed my son, and started a small business.  For me, the Duke experience isn't all bad or all good. It's probably a bit of both in this land of opportunity/inequity.

When I look back at my time at Duke, I actually find myself wrestling with an honest thought about the place.  I sometimes don't know what to think, because to feel only one way about Duke is...probably to not acknowledge the most complex set of feelings that I've ever had.  Maybe its best to think about it in short memories.  Duke is the feeling of gratitude, when students have shed tears as I packed boxes to embark upon a new journey, promising to never forget me.  Duke is the feeling of shame, when overhearing how some student or administrator made a worker feel during an interaction.  Duke is the feeling of success, when watching a classmate create the #LemonadeSyllabus or get into Med/Law School or run after their dream.  Duke is the feeling of inadequacy, when realizing you aren't one of those people...and that you may not be as brilliant as you think.   Duke is the feeling of love, when you go to or participate in two former Duke students' wedding.  Duke is the feeling of exploitation, when you realize that sometimes peers and friends have no idea who you are...and only want you for the things you can produce.

And, all of this is true in my life.  Duke seems to be a place that doesn't want to be pinned down in my cannon of feelings.  And maybe its this pendulum that made it possible to have more days than I'd like to admit in which I wanted to leave Duke.  Too, there were moments of sublime joy that came at the end of long hard work.  Right now though, I think I'm a little sad.  I am sad that too many black people never get to enjoy Duke, even as they work and go to Duke.  I am sad too many of us experience the traumas of nooses, even as we are told to keep pushing here.  I am sad that Duke's invitation to come, isn't an invitation to be.  I am sad that I am leaving students and peers here to fend for themselves.

I am, though, happy.  I am happy to be able to enjoy Duke as an alumnus.  I am happy to be in a position where I believe I will be able to make changes in others lives.  I am happy to know Duke as my own...and to be able to challenge it, having worked their.  I am happy for the change of pace, the opportunity to be managed differently, the possibility of new growth.

On my last day at Duke, I am reflecting on all of the conversations, all of the struggle, all of the camraderie, all of the brilliance, all of the heartache, all of the tears, all of the joy...

I'm reminded of something a classmate said years ago when I first arrived.  He said, "going to Duke as a Black man, is like having dinner at a Plantation."  And I would add, working at Duke, "is like making the food on a plantation."  I am thankful though that my guests were willing to eat what I prepared...even when they didn't know how it was being prepared.  So, when you ask me about this place...I have no idea what I have just experienced. Maybe as my grandmama would say, "I will understand it better by and by."

But it's my last day in Blue Devil country...so maybe its best just to take it all in...and consider "how far I've come from where I started from." Until I can figure this last take home test out, I'll just say that Duke will always be more than I hoped for, and eerily less than I expected.

A Sad but Open Secret: Durham's Black Young Adult Church Community Problem

By the time you read this, another Interdenominational Ministerial Alliance (IMA) City Wide Revival will have come and gone.   For five nights, IMA held revival at Union Baptist Church featuring some of the most well known and respected Preacher/Theologians/Pastors in the country.  I think all of the pastors featured were under fifty, began preaching early in life, and have strong Social Justice ministerial perspectives.  Representing no less than three main line traditions (Baptist, UCC, AME Zion), the preachers featured have been (are) known to draw a large cross-section of Black generations from teens to seasoned saints when they preach.  And for sure, two of the preachers featured, have large cross sections of a very elusive God conscious group - Young Adults (18-40).

However, even at this annual City Wide Revival with three preachers known to "say it," the packed crowd featured mostly Seasoned Saints, with very few people under 40 sprinkled throughout the cavernous Baptist church.  Some would say that this is business as usual for mainline Black church traditions, particularly in a place like Durham, North Carolina.  However, Durham is teeming with young adults who are attending one of the three powerhouse schools: the prestigious Duke University, the large historically Black North Carolina Central University, and the flagship University of the state,  University of North Carolina - Chapel Hill.  Again, I say, Durham is teeming with entrepreneurial young professionals and families who have moved to Durham because of its economic development and careers in research, education, sciences, medicine, and engineering.  Again, I say, Durham is teeming with young adults who are creative types, entrepreneurs, social justice advocates, and just really cool people looking to make this city a unique and innovative community.  If I'm honest, I run into them all the time...out for dinners, at concerts and plays, at my job, in Greek life...they have even lived next door to me.  And if I'm really being honest, most of them are having a hard time finding a place to practice and share their faith.  If I had a nickle for every time somebody asked me about where to go to church in Durham, I'd be a rich man.

One would assume that since I had gone to divinity school at Duke and thus know quite a few seminarians, that we would all have the answer about where to go to church in Durham.  Unfortunately, for most of us, just like our non theologically trained counterparts, we are all having difficulty finding church homes in a city packed with churches, with few options actually available.

It goes a little something like this.  If you go to, let's say, Church A, that is theologically sound, meaning the pastor/congregation is studied, you will not see a single young person for the rest of your young adult life. There won't be any young adult programs at Church A (because you are it).  You will never hear any music that is remotely connected to where you are...or message about where you are.  Contemporary music is defined as hymns...and Richard Smallwood...seriously, Richard Smallwood!

If you go to say, Church B, and be clear, there is only one Church B, you will be in a sea of young adults (7-10K of them).  But, the church will not have a clear polity or theology, different from those of us raised in say a Baptist, AME Zion, or UCC church context.  You will not be connected to actual Durham, because Church B is situated on the outskirts of Durham, and the pastoral leadership of the church is not involved with the city, outside of the concerns of Church B, which seem to be only aimed at recruiting students from the local colleges.  Church B also has a horribly sexist reputation in dealing with women...so there's that. But in Church B's defense, the music is really good contemporary Praise and Worship.  If you are looking to see elder saints, they won't, in the main, find them at Church B.  Also, I would like to note that all of the other churches hate this church because they feel like it has created Young Adult drain (taking Young Adults, like a theological Pied Piper from all of the other churches in the city).  So, you will never see Church B's pastor in the company of Church A, C, D or E's pastor.

If you go to Church C, you will hear the thickest most problematic prosperity theology you will have ever heard in your life.  Let's just call it the church strip club because there will be $25, $50, and $100 lines.  Worship will be charismatic, but you will feel like you are constantly being hustled to keep the doors of the church open by giving resources that you might want to go elsewhere.  And, there will never, ever be a word or mention from the pulpit of Sandra Bland, Tamir Rice, The Charleston 9...nothing.  There are lots of these types...so be careful.

If you go to Church D, it is literally DEAD.  The pastor might be well meaning, but his/her church is on life support.  And at these kinds of churches, their are usually many reasons why a church would be on life support...and all of them amount to a mix of inhospitable behavior, worship clashes, and church politics.  Again, there are no young people here...because young people's lives are messy enough that most of us don't want to go to churches like that.

If you go to Church E, you will be an ornament.  They will have 10 young people (who visit church B on occasion), which sit quietly biding their time to lead or sing or pray.  But ultimately, you haven't been in town long enough to do anything there.  To be fair, there are quite a few E's around town.  Too, you will notice something off that will make you question your membership...like an over the top theology of hell, or only a few people are favorites, or lack of pastoral leadership, or you are in church for 4 hours regularly...etc.

Then, if those don't work, there is always Church X, the multicultural/multiracial church...filled with a multicultural/racial congregation...but...most (if not all) of the staff are white.  Most of the traditions are culturally white.  Most of the songs are culturally white.  Let's just be honest and call it what it is....it's a church plantation.  So there's that.

And after you visit those churches for a few weeks/years/months, you are either resigned to fill your car with a tank of $2.50/gallon gas to travel to Raleigh, or to sit at home and stream your pastor from another city.  You could also accept defeat, and thus sit and whither away any life you have in A, B, C, D, E or X's congregation...ultimately hoping that God moves you to another city where the church culture is "poppin!"  

Now from the established Durham church community, they are going to say that you are looking for too much -  a perfect church.  When you run down what you are looking for in a congregation it doesn't appear to you that it is lofty:  Tradition and Innovation, Clear Polity/Theological Framework, Inter-generational, Youth/Young Adult/Family Programs, Music for a Variety of Age Groups, Regular Sermons that acknowledge the need for Personal Holiness and Black Liberation, Pastoral Mentors, and Connection to Durham.  In all honesty, its really not a challenging list of things that you are asking for.  Now people will say that it is, but you will have the experience of living in other parts of the state/country...and thus you can create a laundry list of churches from Winston Salem to Augusta, GA, to Atlanta to Philadelphia to DC that meet these basic criteria - and thus flourish because of it.

But just maybe established Black Durham churches have given up trying to provide opportunities for new comers who want an IPod experience in a haven of "record player" kinds of churches. It also could be that there is no major pastor under the age of 40 who is a part of the black church landscape creating a voice and visual for those of us wanting more from our Durham community.  Maybe, people have grown accustomed to really bad church, because they don't know any better.  Or maybe the seminaries in the area, who provide the lion share of education to preachers/pastors in the area have mis-shaped the theology of a community leaders who do not benefit from having young people in any of the churches, unlike the Durham community. Who knows.  

The sad reality is that there are quite a few people who live in Durham looking for church homes only to realize that what is here is ultimately toxic to what they've been given in other spaces already...and so they resign themselves to drift.  The real question is what would it take for Durham to have an actually dynamic and engaged Black church community?  A lot of my friends believe that we need to start more churches.  But I don't know if that's the answer.  Some people I know think that we will just have to be patient, until some pastor dies or is put out of his/her pulpit?  But, what about the myriad of young people grappling with spiritual crises now. 

I don't know the answer, but my thought is for Durham churches (and their leadership) to evaluate their strategic engagement plans (hoping they have some) for reaching the people who are charged with keeping the doors of the church open in only a few short years.  Moss, during the revival, mentioned how churches might need to adjust the way in which they engaged younger generations.  I'm personally thinking this is overdue, because even though we like vinyl for its nostalgia, the technology that produces the Ipod is the environment that we live and work in.  That's simply my way of saying that it is time that Black Church Durham engage its community...not as it was in 1990 when John P. Kee still lived here.  Instead, Black Durham must seek to push ahead sharing its legacy with new people who have a new way and bring with them all of the innovation that their work week requires of them.  From my eight years of living here though, it seems like Durham's old vanguard may simply be bent on standing alone in legacy...as it dies a slow and painful death. 

Until then, a few young people will wait patiently until the next IMA revival to be fed by pastors whose sermons speak and resonate with where they are.  Until then, seminarians will dream about when they are pastoring and how they will change things.  Until then,  Black Young Adults will have to make choices that are all...well...underwhelming.  What's more unfortunate is that the Black Church community really could do a great work by forming Black Young Adults at a time when quite a few are now giving up on the church altogether.  And, Black Young Adults could create the dynamic church environments lacking in much of Durham's Black Church landscape.    Maybe this is a great time to place a scripture.  Jesus said it best, "The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few."

Standing On Unknown Shoulders: Why Black Kids at PWIs Need To Support and Appreciate HBCUs

When NPHC decided to name their greek week, "A Different World," after the famed Cosby Show spin-off about the HBCU experience that ultimately inspired millions of Black children to attend college, it was no surprise that the Mary Lou Williams Center (MLWC) saw a golden opportunity to inspire, educate and reflect.  NPHC week takes place on the same week Duke faces Durham's only historically Black University, North Carolina Central University (NCCU), in football.  While there has always been a strong connection and history between Duke and NCCU, particularly in the sports, NPHC's programming ultimately opens the door for other considerations beyond this mighty sports tradition.  We know for sure that NCCU's NPHC community helped to jumpstart Duke's Black greek community.  Too, quite a few of NCCU's students have studied at Duke, like Rev. Dr. William Barber...and quite a few Dukies have studied at NCCU, including our beloved Dean Sue Wasiolek.  But what more do Duke students, and Black Duke students in particular know about the HBCU experience?  

For members of NPHC, all roads lead to Howard University, as it is a critical place in the development of the Black Greek Letter Organization Movement.  However, for most Duke Black students, HBCUs are often seen as a caveat in the landscape of higher education.  And given class, race and prestige politics, some Black students (and administrators/faculty) might even see these schools as lesser than their own Duke experience, choosing only to engage (minimally) socially, and instead remain aloof to the critical intellectual, historical, and institutional legacies of HBCUs.

For the MLWC, we recognize the validity, magnitude, and beauty of an HBCU education...and its indelible fingerprint on the Higher Education landscape.  For us, invariably as a cultural center, we see HBCUs as having a rich and vibrant cultural tradition that seeks to be one of the mechanisms for educating their constituent communities.  Historically, HBCUs gave us students, who were the first to integrate places like Duke.  Educationally, most Black teachers (of a certain age) trained in the US were developed at HBCUs...so in our life times, if we have been taught by Black teachers, they were probably trained at HBCUs.  In our families, HBCU alums represent, in the main,  our personal advocates of excellence in education.  Lastly, the HBCU model of education, informs other culturally Black models of education around the world where indigenous populations have faced inequity in systems of apartheid.

So why should students at Duke have a thoughtful understanding of HBCUs even as they race to professions in Law, Medicine and Business?  Well, for one, without them, we could not be beneficiaries of a Duke education!  Too many of their fingerprints create the space we now inhabit.  At Duke, many HBCU alumni serve as resources and leaders.  From the esteemed Dr. Karla Holloway to the daring Dr. Paula McClain to the beloved Linda Capers, HBCU alumni make an indelible impact upon the Duke brand. Secondly, we continue to be in a place where many Black PWI alumni are leading (and have led) HBCUs.  Our very own Michael J. Sorrell, leads Paul Quinn College currently!  Thirdly, and probably most importantly, HBCUs continue to provide educational opportunity for a wider array of students (than most prestigious PWIs are willing to accommodate).  It is this point that the MLWC would emphasize as an ongoing social justice effort by HBCUs. And, as we embark on a journey to examine Black philanthropy, we believe that supporting HBCUs could be one easy way to ensure that the doors of education will always be available to anyone who seeks to access it.  

Moreover, this week's programming in the MLWC seeks to examine how "A Different World" poignantly addresses intra-racial conflicts.  And while we will be helping students consider how Hillman (the ficticious school of "A Different World") and Duke are both alike and different, we ultimately seek to help our students engage the HBCU experience even though they did not choose it.  We recognize that a current Duke student could be the next HBCU college president, philanthropist, and/or graduate/professional alumni.  At the same time, maybe a grandmother, father, friend, boss or future coworker is an alumnus of one of those institutions.  In this case, we seek to remind our students that an HBCU education is a beautiful stepping stone to success!

Join us all week long for programming around the HBCU through screenings and conversations about "A Different World."

Playing Dead In Order To Live: A Reflection on The Terrorist Act at Mother Emanuel

At 110 Calhoun Street, in Charleston, South Carolina, a little girl played dead, after a white male terrorist shot no less than five clips of ammunition piercing at least 9 brown bodies during what was a prayer service.  The gunman, now identified as Dylann Roof, sat through an hour of prayer service, at Mother Emanuel church before offering a cringe worthy diatribe on why Black people in the US had to go; and after offering it, he followed his words as he executed black preachers, teachers, elders, mothers, fathers, politicians, and ushers.  However, a little child survived this incident by playing dead.

The thought of what that child endured in that time period has made me cringe, cry, pray, and curse.  As I sat at a conference more than 700 miles away, I thought about that little girl, and the many who were directly involved in and victimized by the incident.  And, I thought about the many ways my story laid on the floor of that church bleeding out in agony.  You see, I am from South Carolina, and I am a graduate of Lexington County schools where Dylann Roof attended school.  I was raised in the AME church, and a preacher.  I am an Alpha, like brother Pinkney.  I attended CAU, like sister Cynthia Hurd.  And my family has been in the process of designing a family reunion in Charleston, where we had hoped to visit the famed Mother Emanuel AME Church.  For me, there are too many touch points that connect my life to those who went to church to seek Jesus' abundant life, and unfortunately found themselves dying after prayers that surely spoke of hope.

Meanwhile, in Indianapolis, I'd been seeking to make sense of my training institute where I had been putting difficult questions of race and culture on the table for Fraternity and Sorority professionals.  At the conference, I'd been pressing my colleagues to think about how conceptual frameworks of race work in our organizations, as we sat on the grounds of a Republican affiliated country club and hotel.  As many Black colleagues found themselves having taboo conversations about race, Black greek life experiences, and the challenges of working in predominantly white institutions, we began to form a small circle sitting next to each other as our facial expressions often indicated when we felt we were being fed political rhetoric, or outright lies about some southern fraternity/sorority traditions.  There were many times, we asked questions, but there were also quite a few times we set silent, seeking to not jeopardize burgeoning relationships and careers.

While we could have never imagined that the day before the close of the conference someone would walk into a Black church and shoot up the place, that was exactly what happened, pushing us to consider both the merits of our time at the conference, and how we might navigate the conversations that would later ensue.  It was a sobering and saddening moment.  While I found out late Wednesday night about what had happened, I really began my reading of the event on Thursday afternoon as I sat waiting in the hotel lobby.  Immediately, the stories of AME congregants sitting in the church caused uncontrollable tears to roll down my eyes.  I would periodically put down my phone because I couldn't take much more, but I would undoubtedly pick it up, seeking to know more, as my phone beeped with updates from friends around the country who wanted to touch base with me about the incident.

As I read the story of the young girl who played dead, I thought about the meaning of that - that a child would play dead in order to preserve her life.  What a heavy thought when we consider our lives.  This revelation manifested: it's funny how many of us play dead every day, trying to preserve our own livelihoods.  Now think about that for just a moment.  What does this really mean, you ask?  I'm wondering how many black people in places of leadership remain silent, IE dead, as black people wait for our advocacy.  How many black business professionals remain silent even as they note the depth of inequity in the economy? How many black education professionals stand silent in meetings where their ability to understand and advocate are necessary for student access?  I'm wondering right now, how many black pastors will overlook the nuances of race on this coming sunday morning, choosing to play it safe in the pulpit?  

Too many of us are playing dead every day that we live, work, and play in spaces of privilege.  Our respectability politics, our lack of cultural competency, and our lack of race consciousness, as well as a eurocentric, white supremacist system (along with its many actors) that leaves children lying on the floor playing dead as gunshots ring out.  Over the course of the past year, I continue to learn that while it may be unpopular, I have a responsibility to speak life and advocate for communities in peril.  The seminal question of the early 20th century asked in the Black Women's Club movement continues to be important:  "How will you move the race forward?"  Positions of advocacy are important in Republican Country Clubs, in meetings with Vice Presidents, at our Fraternity gatherings, and in our churches.  To sit in silence about racism and domestic terrorism, even as we advocate for better compensation packages for ourselves, is to stand outside of the traditions that make it possible for us to have access.  

Tonight, I don't just grieve the people who died, I also grieve a president who can't say race in a lame duck period of his tenure.  I grieve black pastors who talk about destiny and prosperity, but not about race, responsibility and community.  I grieve professionals who mumble under their breaths about things that should be voiced aloud.  I grieve students who collect opportunities for themselves, without asking themselves how they will use what they've been given to empower the world.  I grieve black people willing to say ain't that a shame, but nothing else.  I grieve. I grieve. I grieve.

Though Denmark Vesey's church is invoked in this passage, I am reminded of something that another radical black voice said.  Meet Nat Turner, who once said before his own death:"…I reverted in my mind to the remarks made of me in childhood, and the things that had been shown me – and as it had been said of me in my childhood by those by whom I had been taught to pray, both white and black, and in whom I had the greatest confidence, that I had too much sense to be raised, and if I was, I would never be of any use to any one as a slave."  As such, I have decided not to play dead in times of convenience, because no child should ever have to lay down in pulpits meant for hope playing dead as gunshots ring out...hoping to live to see another day.

There's Another Level Beyond The One Where You Gave Up...

So, I've been a little busy trying to put my own advice to good use, which has me not writing as much.  I'm doing a bunch of other things though...Family Reunion Committee (think convention).  I officially started an Event planning business (I've been writing a blog through the website...check me out www.beautieplanners.wix.com/dream).  I have a newborn, and he's up every three hours (love that kid Zack).  And, I have a really busy job that keeps me in high demand as a Student Affairs administrator.  With all of these things, I honestly have not had time to really write what is in my head.  However, if you stop by my office, I will gladly give you an ear full!

So let me get right down to what I'm thinking about as February comes to a close.  While I've been doing a whole lot of executing, I've been dreaming.  I've been wondering what it would be like to pastor.  What would it be like to sing on Broadway?  What would it be like to write a book?  What would be like to have a six pack?  What would it be like to run a multi-million dollar company, jet setting around the world?

These musings have re-emerged because I'm thinking about the scope of my life as I watch so many around me follow their dreams.  In many ways, it has me thinking about the choices that I've made, and reflecting on the choices I wish I had made.  I'm not saying it is all over; however, I am saying that their have been things that I have given up that I'm not so sure I should have.

When I was in college, I loved to sing, and I still do.  Every once in a while, I wonder what I could have done with that gift, if I kept singing.  I haven't sung rigorously in about two years, and I miss it.  Too, I've always wanted to be really in shape, but I've never managed to keep going to the gym because of schedule and because I lack the sincere will power to do so.  I don't really enjoy the gym or working out...it feels too much like a chore for somebody who didn't play sports for any point in my life.  Every once in a while, I flirt with the idea of getting a PhD and writing books.  I just can't bear to think about the thought of going back to school, and a solitary life with pen and pad.

Now I've given you a laundry list of all of my loves and passions and desires...and a list of all the regrets, I probably should really tell you what happened. If I'm really, really honest, I gave up.  I lost steam.  I got frustrated, and I had other things I could do.  I GAVE UP.  In life, the things we sometimes call choices aren't really choices at all.  Sometimes we just give up.  The reasons can seem really logical and make all the sense in the world.    But we must start by saying this, "I gave up!"  We've got to own that.

Giving up is understandable when the goal seems insurmountable, and it seems like the things you want are out of reach.  Giving up can be easy when people don't support you on the dream or affirm the gift.  Giving up can be really easy when opportunity seems to never be on the horizon.  Sometimes, the mundane life can be much more easy to live out, than the dynamic life.

And it can be really, really, really easy to live out safe dreams and safe realities.  At the same time, if you are like me, every time you see someone living out a dream that has been brewing in your head, it will remind you of the possibilities of life.  It will make you a little bit restless.  It will have you think, "is this it?"  I imagine that quite a few people who are depressed or who have hit a spiritual, career, or personal goal wall get here and wonder what's next.

I really don't have any answers, and the Black mother wit, "of keep on livin baby" seems incomplete for explaining the how and the why of giving up.  Maybe what we need is not answers but examples to remind us that we are all living testimonies to the very dreams that find us and haunt us.  Right now, I'm thinking of biblical Hannah in 1 Samuel who found herself with a husband and no child...while those around her seemed to have more than enough children, as they sought to be mean-spirited pointing out her barreness. 

I'm reminded of Hannah's radical prayer and worship life, partitioning God to bless her with a son, whom she decided to dedicate right back to God.   This can seem like an easy fix until you are knee deep into a year and a half of radical prayer and worship...and still no magical answer from God.  And what if it happens, and we are required unlike others to turn it over to God.  There are definitely some challenges to persevering...giving up can be a whole lot less painful.

I'm convinced that each of us has a Hannah story dancing in our hearts...and if we can be perserverant long enough, we might find out that we have a blessing inside of us too.  And, sometimes the things we desperately want, things that we told ourselves that we can't have, start by taking one step in the direction of just one of those dreams.  For me, lately, that's been starting my own business.  Striking out in this one area, has helped me deal with my issues of confidence.  And while I'm scared of failure, I'm excited to try.  In fact, starting this business has made me emotionally more eager to open my heart to the possibility of other dreams that I had put up in my spiritual and emotional "parking lot."  Starting the business has made me reflect on my life's work, as I've had to put together a portfolio. 

One day, a few weeks ago, I began to marvel at many of the things that I had counted insignificant.  Looking back made me realize that I had indeed made an impact.  It was in that moment that I realized the truth in a critique given to me a few months prior.  A colleague who I adore had asked me, "Sean, why didn't you apply for that?"  I fumbled with an answer, but she said something that resonated with the truth that I didn't want to hear.  She said, "I know why...you don't believe in yourself no matter how 'butter' you are?"  As we sat talking, I knew she was speaking truth to me...and when I began to put together my portfolio I had to sit with another truth: I was indeed "butter." 

What I'm saying here is less confusing than my example.  Sometimes we must look back at the work we have done, the training we have received, and the successes we've had...to see ourselves clearly, often overlooking the negative words that are sometimes corrupting our hearts and minds.  What I'm saying is that we must KNOW deeply that our value is larger than one moment of failure, one moment of brokeness, one moment of misplaced vulnerability...one moment of hopelessness.  What I do know...is that if you don't try...if you don't risk...you will always be stagnant and scared, and probably a little envious of others who are seeking to live out their dreams.

My one real admonishment is this:  fight the urge to become one on those people.

Let's get to our next level.  I know that we've given up before...but let's try again!

Leftovers in the New Year: Deal with It!

After cooking through the holidays, you can find yourself with a lot of leftovers in your refrigerators. Half-eaten casseroles, pieces of pie, un-eaten filets, and crusted-over potatoes probably sit in your refrigerator waiting to be either re-heated or to be tossed into the garbage.  It's the new year, and still they sit hoping to be eaten for lunch or re-constituted in some new kind of meal.  However, they aren't the only thing lingering from last year.

Every year most of us make amends to start afresh with the start of January with new resolution.  We will lose weight!  We will clear out the closet!  We will start on a new journey.  Unfortunately, like the day old vegetables sitting in the fridge, there is much from last year that is leftover stinking up our lives like moldy stuffing or dried up turkey.

Things like unfulfilled dreams, good advice we haven't taken, calls we haven't made, and people we haven't forgiven are still lingering from last year waiting for our time and consideration.  Rather than focusing on those things, we would all rather sling slogans around, like "New Year, New Me" or "My Season Is This Season" or "Leaving It All Behind."  All of that is fine, but some of what is holding us back is in our past.  And we get so much bad advice from pulpits at Watch Night services, that sometimes we only hear this: "Jesus will fix the mess we made...because I have a Destiny."

But it's just not that simple. It can be hard to put down Ice Cream, Pies and Cakes...if you haven't ever done it...once.  It can be hard to say no to Ms. Wrong, when every time she comes over, ya'll find yourselves in a compromising position.  It can just be absolutely difficult to go to the gym, if you don't have a pair of gym shoes waiting.  All that I'm trying to say is that maybe we shouldn't overlook the small steps in life.

One of my friends used to recite a very well-known quote every time I was nervous about a new journey.  She would say, "Palmer, the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step."  It would annoy me every time she said it, but ultimately she was (is) right.  In this case, we sometimes must look back at the past and make sense of our dysfunction in order to move forward.  That's a very nice way of saying that you can't move forward without really identifying the problem.

For me it begins with esteem...and believing that I'm worth more than scraps.  For me, it begins with taking a long hard look at spending habits and health.  It does not begin with starting something new.  It begins with looking at what is old.  In some cases, I'm gonna have to throw out some junk.  In other places, I'm gonna have to ask for forgiveness.  And in many places, I'm gonna have to be more consistent...picking up where I left off.  I'm ultimately gonna have to deal with my leftovers in the New Year.

That's not so bad when we consider that sin was leftover in creation...and God decided that sin could not be the final word on the corruption of creation.  So God sent God's self in the form of Jesus to do a work which we could not do.  And since I'm meandering right where a Baptist preacher would begin "tuning up," might I remind you that you and me are created to do a work that can't be done by just waiting or trying to run away from it.

This year, let's deal with the leftovers!