Soliloquy of Peace

I’ve learned to prioritize peace in my life. For my own sake, I had to. Sure there are things that happen in life that justify perpetual anger and bitterness, but that would only destroy us. For instance, there was the time my mother’s house was ransacked shortly after she died. To this day I can remember my sister’s frantic call with vivid clarity. I rushed over to the house unsure of what I’d walk into. The adrenaline navigated me through the thick D.C. traffic with precision despite being unnerved. When I arrived the police were already on the scene. The officer looked around for a few minutes, took some notes, and left without a single ounce of compassion. That was it. I was stunned, angry, and confused.

How could this happen? She lived in that house for years. The neighbors were friendly on the surface, considerate, and often checked on her as she battled terminal cancer. People couldn’t possibly be that evil, could they? It was violating to see her belongings scattered amongst the scuffed wood floors and dirt. The big-screen TV she saved for years to be able to purchase was gone. Her medical papers lay amongst a heap of trash and debris. Humanity can be ugly. People can be vile. How can we keep our peace when there are so many things that seek to destroy it?

A few weeks ago I went to a family event and there was a family member there who tested positive for covid and knowingly spread it. This individual traveled hundreds of miles exhibiting symptoms and still decided to come without any regard for anyone else. People whom I dearly loved were infected and the person didn’t apologize or even acknowledge what had occurred. I was angry, to say the least. Even when pressed they casually blamed others and didn’t take any responsibility. This is what we have to work with sometimes. There’s often no restitution. These anti-peace bandits often appear to disappear behind the horizon unscathed. Cynical? Maybe. In spite of this, we have to press forward and protect our well-being. We do this by limiting contact with problematic people, removing ourselves from unfavorable circumstances, believing in better days, and holding ourselves and the people we love accountable.

We all have our challenges. As much as we’d love to be able to control every aspect of our environment, we can’t. This truth doesn’t have to rob us of our contentment. We can choose how we’ll respond to the things that happen and ultimately decide how we’ll move forward. This is our gift. We have the blessing of being able to view the glass as half-full. May we smile in the face of difficult times, press forward through our darkest days, and choose to believe we deserve the best this life has to offer. At the end of the day, everything works out for our good.

The Black American Experience: Rising From the Ashes of Pain

Where do we go from here? I’m angry and exasperated, but I remain firm in my reproach today. How long must we pretend this county is a sovereign nation of safety, power, and sanctification? A nation built on morality, Godliness, compassion, and love would not continually find itself at this bloody crossroad. America’s grandiose belief that it sits at the proverbial right hand of Almighty God is utterly laughable as it is sad. A reality check has been long overdue for those who believe racism is dead. As a Black man, I’ve always been acutely aware of the world I live in, in fact, you must if you want to survive as a Black person.

My grandmother would often worry about me when I left the house as a young man. At the time I didn’t understand her fears. “I’m just going to play basketball up at the school,” I’d say to reassure her. I could see the discomfort in her eyes as she struggled to let me grow up. My words hardly reassured her. She lived in a world void of social media. Her stories of pain, tragedy, and grief were passed down from one generation to another. She lived through her own trials and tribulations as a result of her Black skin. If she were alive today, she’d have much to say. Today, I understand her concerns as I watch the world around me reveal itself to be more barbaric by the day. Mass shootings should not be a normal part of American culture.

I’m tired of Black people being slaughtered like animals. The mass shooting that took place at Tops Friendly Market in Buffalo this weekend shouldn’t have happened, but it did. My heart goes out to all of the families that have lost loved ones. When I sat down to write this morning, my spirit was disturbed. I thought about Mother Emmanuel in Charleston, South Carolina. To this day I still have difficulty grasping how someone could walk into a church, killing 9 people, and be peacefully apprehended. The anger that filled my soul that day returned as I read articles that detailed the events from Buffalo. Is this what America continues to allow itself to become? Hateful ideas are incubated and supported by those in leadership. The media plays on fear and gives platforms to folks who divide and spread false narratives. The echo chamber couldn’t be more clear.

Do not be mistaken, Black people will not become footstools. We will protect our homes and our families. We will love ourselves and each other. We will not turn the other cheek and cower before those who wish to destroy our way of life. We will continue to fight for equality and justice. Black people across this nation are strong, beautiful, and overcomers. We are here today as a result of the strength that has been passed down from our ancestors who endured the treacherous journey across the Atlantic and suffered through over 400 years of slavery. America has no choice but to accept that we’re here to stay. We will continue to rise above the ashes. Our fallen brothers and sisters did not die in vain. We are Black and we are proud. We will continue to move forward whether they like it or not.

Blackness: A Beautiful Testimony

My mother’s southern drawl was always a sweet touch. I used to say things to rile her up so I could hear it come alive. “Boy, if you don’t stop playin’ with me,” she’d say with a laugh. Those were the days; I’ll always cherish them. My mother was a healthcare worker who worked long hours: sometimes as long as 13. When I’d come home from school I always phoned her, and often the voice at the other end of the line was unrecognizable at first listen. At the time I didn’t understand why she suppressed her natural tone. I used to think it was funny, but today I don’t find it amusing.

After having spent several long years in corporate America myself, I understand the struggle. The unspoken pressure to tame our natural tone, word choice, and inflection became increasingly unbearable as I continued to climb the proverbial career ladder. The work voice, as I call it, is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how many adjustments we’re expected to make to move forward within non-Black spaces. It’s rarely comfortable, and to be quite honest, is something we shouldn’t have to do.

There’s nothing wrong with being ourselves. I understand the need for professional decorum, but should we as a people continue to allow ourselves to be held to a Eurocentric standard? They’re telling us being Black by default is unsavory and needs to be tweaked. Our name, hair, voices, and demeanor are constantly critiqued, amongst other things that do not define us. Thriving in this world is a delicate tight rope walk between being ourselves and what others believe we should be. We must take the power back by continuing to create our own spaces and lanes so we may authentically be ourselves with no pressure to conform to standards we never agreed to.

Despite all of the progress we’ve made as a people, the anti-Black agenda is still strong in this nation. We understand this deeply as we experience the day-to-day challenges of living in a world that relishes the fruits of our struggle, but does not value our humanity.

I write this piece as a reminder of our great existence. Being Black is an honor although our journey through this earthly plane is filled with obstacles, valleys, and hills to climb. In the midst of it all, we’ve found a way to rise like a phoenix. We must always own our Blackness. There’s grace in our struggle. May we find rest in our strength. After everything we’ve been through, we’re still here growing stronger each day. Our existence is a beautiful testimony.

The Slap: Pearl Clutching At It’s Finest

I’ve been up for a while. I partially blame the thunder. The sound of the rain hitting my window should lure me to sleep, but tonight I’m too distracted. Against my better judgment, I went down the Will Smith rabbit hole.

I’ve had a chance to read a few think pieces on the infamous slap: the slap that has white folks in a tizzy on social media. I told myself I wouldn’t write a think piece, but here I am writing a think piece.

There are so many ideas floating around the web, but there was one that stopped me in my tracks. One brotha wrote he believed “the slap” set Black men back. While I appreciate differing opinions and thoughts, I have to kindly disagree with that sentiment. Here’s why.

Will Smith’s behavior was indeed wrong and he admitted that. The notion that his behavior set us back is a fallacy at best. Black people have always, and will always be held to a higher standard. We could exhibit undeniable brilliance, like Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, and still be subject to unreasonable scrutiny. This is one of the unfair aspects of the Black experience.

White folks stormed the capital, openly praise the use of deadly force, salivate over guns, refuse to acknowledge the damaging effects of slavery, participate in systematic racism while stating they don’t see color, willfully look the other way when Black men and women are murdered in cold blood, but somehow are deeply wounded by a slap that honestly has nothing to do with them? The proverbial clutching of pearls is disingenuous and is being used as a way to perpetuate anti-Blackness. Society continually hunts for reasons to demonize Black people. This time is no different. In fact, this demonization is deeply American, and will likely continue to be the case.

White fragility has always been the common denominator when critiquing the Black community at large. When you dig beneath the surface you realize this isn’t really about a slap. They don’t give a damn about a slap. The outrage is a convenient excuse for whites to pick apart the Black community under the faux guise of virtue. We’ve seen this before.

Sometimes I feel like people create strawman arguments because they’re bored and intellectually lazy.

But, I Don’t See Color…

As a Black person living in a country that’s hyper-obsessed with political correctness and faux wokeness, you’re bound to confront problematic ideas sooner or later. We seemingly stand in the crosshairs of tone-deafness daily. Everyone has an opinion these days. Race, being one of the more polarizing topics, is a surefire way to ruffle feathers. I intend to do so today. Let it be known, I don’t write these words out of spite, but out of a pure desire to express authentic thought.

I’d like to make myself clear from the onset by stating I do not believe all white people are intentionally racist, I do believe, however, many are ignorant to the real trials and tribulations we face on a daily basis. Even those who call themselves allies, don’t fully grasp the scope of the modern-day Black experience.

White supremacy is an exhausting topic, yet I find myself knee-deep in it quite often. Living in the desert has been an incredible experience, but it doesn’t come without its fair share of uncomfortable moments. More often than not, I’m the only Black man at neighborhood events and gatherings with neighbors. Sadly, awkward conversations are the norm. For example, someone thought it was appropriate to tell me how wonderful Martin Luther King was and how they don’t see color while we were eating. This happened unprovoked.

I take pause when I think of people who find this behavior acceptable. It’s intellectually dishonest at best. I’m sure that lady believed what she said, but in reality, we all see color; I know I do. Here’s the deal: It’s okay to enjoy our presence without inelegantly waving your anti-racist banner. We have to normalize creating boundaries around “the talk.” You have a right to end interactions that do not feel natural. It’s not our job to teach anyone about the Black experience, nor should we have to accept these strange attempts to empathize with our struggle. It comes off as disingenuous and we see that. Our experiences should not be used as a platform for virtue signaling.

All shades of Blackness are equally and uniquely beautiful. Being different is something that should be celebrated and not seen as divisive. It’s okay to admit you see color; we didn’t believe you anyway. Authenticity these days is fleeting, I know. It’s a fact of life as the nation at large continues to believe racism is a thing of the past. You can be our friend, support the fight for equality, and still, embrace what makes us different.

To Be Black in White Suburbia

I often sit under my covered porch in the morning. It’s the perfect place to gather my thoughts. The mountains tower above the community in majestic fashion. With temperatures hovering in the low sixties, the winter months are gorgeous here. Each morning, I’m thankful to wake up to such a place.

When we made the decision to move to Phoenix, Arizona, we knew we’d be severely outnumbered. I don’t mention this as an effort to dismiss the notion that I appreciate diversity, I’m mentioning this to draw attention to reality. I’m of the firm belief that as Black people we should not have to live our lives in a bubble, only entertaining specific towns, and cities that have been deemed appropriate for Black folks. Fuck that. We deserve to live anywhere we want in this country because, at the end of the day, it’s our right to do so. We deserve to live in a gated community amongst other million-dollar homes at the base of the mountains just like our white counterparts. I’ve worked hard for this life. It’s my damn money and it’s where I want to be. They’ll have to deal with it.

While my experience in the desert has been great thus far; I’m acutely aware of the demographics. I’ve met wonderful people who I can confidently say have become friends; both white and Black neighbors respectively. But does that mean everyone will be accepting of their Black neighbors? I’d be remiss to believe everyone is accepting of all people. Racial issues are still egregiously commonplace in our nation.

This discomfort and awareness have stopped many people from enjoying the fruits of their labor. There have been many times, I’ve questioned my own decision to move out west due to my own uncertainty during the build process. I don’t blame anyone for moving out of a community they do not feel safe or welcomed in. It’s a shame things are still this way. This is the plight of being Black in America.

We have to scrutinize every aspect of our lives. It’s in our best interest to be hyper-aware of our surroundings. We can’t afford to be ignorant. Life doesn’t afford us many missteps. Many of us often feel the subconscious pressure to avoid being ourselves within our communities in an effort to make others comfortable. I’m not hiding my Blackness from anyone. To not be accepting of one’s self is mentally and physically exhausting. I’m not changing my expressions. I’m not changing my music. We must choose to never be afraid of being ourselves. There is strength in unapologetic Blackness.

I write this piece today to draw attention to the reality of living in white suburbia as a Black person. While I wish many of the things I mentioned here were not true in the twenty-first century, however, we must always be continuously aware and, accepting of the truth at all times. To be Black in white suburbia is to endure questions about your occupation when they see your beautiful home. To be Black in white suburbia is to question whether your music is too loud on your own property. To be Black in white suburbia is to wonder if you’ll ever be arrested for entering your own home. To be Black in white suburbia is to wonder if the new neighbors will be intolerant and racist.

Toxicity and The Church

“If you sow a seed of five hundred dollars, I’ll speak a word of peace into your life,” a pastor said, some fifteen years ago in front of a packed church in the heart of Washington, D.C. He paused to allow the church to take in his words as he flipped through the pages of his large brown leather-bound Bible. The organist played a few powerful chords on the old Hammond as the congregation eagerly waited for him to continue. “I don’t think you heard me,” he said as he dabbed his forehead with a black satin cloth. I watched his eyes carefully dissect the room as if he were a surgeon. “I’ve come with a word from Heaven this evening.”

I’ve always been leery of folks who speak on behalf of God. I learned to suppress my thoughts. That church wasn’t a place for opinions, after all, if you disagreed with the Pastor, you were disagreeing with God himself. You see that’s how manipulation works. These days God sure does do a lot of talking and what he’s saying is jarring at best. I meant that facetiously, of course. But this is a serious matter.

I watched with awe as folks reached into their pockets, desperate to fill the offering baskets with their hard-earned cash. Some, I’m sure, gave their last. It was clear those sitting amongst me were hurting, and looking for a miracle. This pastor presented hope in exchange for their money. “Your offering is an act of faith,” he preached as the offering baskets began to overflow as the ushers made their way around the sanctuary. As a church musician, I’d been to what felt like thousands of these kinds of services. For years I passively ignored the inner alarm that screamed things weren’t right. I looked the other way out of fear of rocking the boat: how dare I question the man of God.

His words echoed in my mind during the drive home that night. As someone who grew up in the church, I became acutely aware of the deeply manipulative tactics religious leaders used to grift, control, and dominate the minds of the people. I write this essay today hoping to do three things: express my disdain for these toxic practices, encourage people to think for themselves, and most importantly help someone who may be dealing with the effects of abusive, manipulative, and dangerous teaching.

Spiritual leaders have been the backbone of my community for hundreds of years. Our faith in God has brought us a mighty long way; make no mistake about it. We have to learn to see through the Jesus talk, as it is often used by religious pimps to get what they want from you, whether it be sex, money, or blind allegiance. This is a dangerous use of psychology. Trepidation and guilt are their weapons of choice, in addition to the cunning use of scriptures and other biblical text aimed at breaking down your logic. You’re most vulnerable when you’re not thinking for yourself.

A few weeks ago I stumbled across a video of Pastor Mike Todd using biblical text to justify egregious behavior. This inappropriate use of spirituality is running rampant as social media continues to elevate people like him. If you feel something is off when you visit a church or hear someone teaching, do not ignore that feeling. If you hear something preached that causes your inner alarm to blare, explore that feeling.

We must call out the toxicity we see in our churches. Spiritual leaders must be held accountable for their actions. We cannot afford to look the other way when there are whispers of abuse. We cannot blindly trust those who proclaim to come in the name of the Lord. It’s imperative that we open our minds and trust the God-given intuition that was bestowed upon us at birth. I write this today not to proclaim church is not needed, but to challenge you to think freely. Lastly, may we remain watchful, discerning, and above all, true to ourselves.

A Beautiful Beginning

A new year represents a beautiful chance to start over. It’s a beacon of hope that we look to as we turn yet another page in this book of life. It‘s a chance to reset, shed the weight of what didn’t work while simultaneously dreaming of what we could accomplish this time around.

It’s this expectant attitude, hope, and excitement that encourages us to rise to the occasion. I’m encouraged, and I hope you are as well. I believe our future is certainly greater than our past. I’m thankful for opportunity to go at it again.

At the beginning of the year, I like to review the year before. During this time I examine the things that went right for me, and also the areas I could improve. While I wish it were easy to celebrate the wins, I often gloss over those to focus on what I could’ve done better. Perhaps you can relate? I call it the folly of perfection. While we understand perfection doesn’t exist, it doesn’t stop us from attempting to live void of mistakes. I know the struggle well. Learning how to embrace ourselves just as we are while we’re in the process of becoming the best version of ourselves is challenging at best.

What are you most excited about this year? Have you laid out your plan of attack? Do you have tangible goals? I’ve decided to keep it simple this year. I’m focused on spending more time living in the moment, treating my body with love, and sharing the content of my heart with authenticity and passion. There’s no need to run ourselves into the ground. Take it slow this year. Be intentional with your relationships and your time. Be kind to your body and your spirit. Remember to breathe often and always give yourself grace.

May this new year present you with extraordinary opportunities, happiness, and the truest desires of your heart.

One Way Ticket

I feel closer to God here. Nature certainly has a way of bringing the best out of you. The melanin in my skin rejoices each day as the sun baptizes me with its all-encompassing power. The Valley of the Sun is a fitting nickname for Phoenix. With temperatures settling in the low seventies in the middle of winter, I’m certainly not complaining.

As I sit down to write this piece, I find myself mesmerized. The scenery here is astonishing. My writing desk faces a large window at the front of the house with a view that recharges my soul. To my right, there’s a majestic mountain range that towers above my home. I’m at peace; all is right in my world. I can finally take a breath as these past few weeks have been a whirlwind, and for good cause.

Today, I reflect on the process that led us here. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and filled with joy. It’s difficult to put in words how I feel, but I’ll do my best. Being able to do something you’ve always dreamed of feels surreal even though it was apart of the plan. The moment we set foot in Phoenix almost seven years ago, planted a seed in our collective heart. We always believed this city would have a special place in our lives. In early 2020, we decided we were going to make the move. At that time, there were so many things up in the air, and with Covid raging, things became even more complicated. I refused to let the confusion stop us from doing what we’d planned to do. We decided to build our home in-spite of the challenges; we trusted the process.

By early 2021, with travel restrictions in place, flying to Phoenix every other month to check on the construction of our home was arduous at best. In September of this year, I contracted Covid which added yet another layer of complexity. Following my recovery, we discovered our storage unit, which contained most of our belongings, had suffered extensive water damage. So many of our items were destroyed. We powered through those frustrating moments and at the end of those trying times was the proverbial pot of gold. We watched a bare lot be transformed into our sprawling Spanish-inspired desert dream home. Seeing our ideas come to life is something that I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. It made facing those challenges worth it.

If you’ve been on the fence about relocating, I hope these words encourage you to take the leap. Follow your heart where ever it may lead, even if that means changing zip codes. Even though I felt deeply connected to this part of this country, I dealt with moments of fear and uncertainty. Moving across the country is exhilarating as it is equally terrifying. There were so many unknowns. I definitely questioned myself early in the process. I extended grace to myself, as feeling emotional discomfort was a natural response to such a big transition.

When it was finally time to say goodbye to all we’d known on the east coast, I felt a sense of relief and overwhelming gratitude. Sitting on the plane with a one-way ticket west, was not only surreal, but it represented the completion of a goal we’d set years ago. If you have a dream, I encourage you to go after it with all of your might. Change can be scary, but it’s worth it. I promise you it is. Not being able to easily see the people you love is an adjustment. To be honest, that part is really hard. I’m thankful for the circle of family and friends who’ve supported this journey. Dreams really do come true, I’m living proof of that.

Facing the Unthinkable

Something wasn’t right; I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’d just returned from Phoenix, Arizona after a lengthy stay. Building a home more than two thousand miles away certainly came with its own set of unique logistical challenges. Each time we traveled, we religiously followed the guidelines. My hands were often cracked from repeated hand washing and sanitizing. I masked up and practiced social distancing just as the experts recommended.

Long flights, busy airports, and Uber rides were essential ingredients of busy travel days. That Sunday, I crossed the threshold of my home, left my bags at the door, grabbed a bite to eat, and went to bed. Over the next few days, I couldn’t find the energy to complete the most basic of tasks. I developed body aches and came down with a stubborn fever that didn’t want to go away. To be safe, I took a Covid test, and what I feared the most became a reality.

You want to believe you did all of the right things. I replayed the events of the past few days in my mind wondering where it all went wrong. Now there I was lying in bed, barely able to move, with Covid-19 raging on inside of me. Why me? How did I get covid after successfully evading it for more than a year?

For almost 15 days, I roamed the house alone struggling to catch my breath. I could barely eat, and if I did, it didn’t stay in me long. Thanks to the disease, I developed pneumonia as well. A short walk from one room to another left me winded, and that was by far the most troubling symptom. Losing my taste and smell was a close second.

Being cooped up in the house alone not knowing if I’d take a turn for the worst was a feeling that I never wish to feel again. As someone who enjoys being a homebody, being confined under those circumstances felt like a prison. My thoughts and my fears ran wild. I’d lay in the bed some nights just staring at the wall. Nothing on the television kept my attention. Writing felt like a chore. Insomnia gnawed at me. I didn’t sleep for almost 8 days straight.

There was a shadow that seemed to loom over me. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I questioned my own mortality; I most certainly did. I was convinced I was going to die. People rarely talk about the immense guilt that comes with having Covid. I feared I infected my loved ones. Thankfully everyone I came in contact with before I knew I was sick remained healthy.

Thank God, it didn’t take me out, although it was a beast at the time. I’m glad to be alive. I don’t have any lingering effects. I’m glad to be on the other side of this horrible illness. My heart goes out to those who’ve lost loved ones, and also to those who deal with its lasting effects. Please be safe out there.