A New Kind of Mother's Day

 

April 28, 2021

A mother's life is full of firsts: the first birthday, the first day of school, the first graduation. The list goes on. We lock eyes the moment we are born, and from then on, our mother becomes our shero - the one we call for help and to share our sorrows, laughter, triumphs, and struggles. But this Mother's Day brings a new first. It is my first one without her. 

My mother passed away in January of Covid-19. You might have read my story in My Family's Covid Story: It's More Than the Numbers where I described how 28 days changed my family's life. During the days following her passing, I found myself vacillating between total acceptance and uncontrollable tears. One day, I was consoling her friends with the verve of a grief counselor, and a day later, I was hunched over on the floor - unable to see through tears and unable to catch my breath. If there was a new way to cry tears, I found it. In the weeks that followed, I almost texted her. One time, I did it anyway. I keep her picture on the bulletin board at my workstation. When I look at it, sometimes I feel comfort and encouragement coming through her eyes. Other times, I cannot even look in its direction. I started to feel jealous when I saw people my age out and about with their mothers. I cried while looking at her favorite sweater and did a double take when I passed a mirror one day. Do I really look that much like her? I thought. I felt so strange, out of sorts, confused, and dazed. And strange things were happening to me. But then the tide turned, and my tears began to slow down. 

I started to think about happy times like the morning I picked her up for church and to my surprise, we were wearing matching blouses. Another time, the same colors. I thought about how she always laughed at her nickname, Ms. Leadfoot, the title I gave her some years ago after she received a speeding ticket the very same day that I had warned her to slow down. As grandmothers are notorious for carrying candy in their purses, my mother did the same. But she also carried paper towels! In every purse and in every pocket was one or two that could always be counted on to collect stale chewing gum or wipe an unexpected runny nose. I choose to think about such things. Remembering the delight she had when talking about her favorite show to binge watch (90 Day Fiancé) and all my mother's quirks, quips, and mannerisms bring me joy and make me smile.

I will never be the same person I was before her passing, but perhaps I am a better person. I am more patient with people because I wonder what is going on in their lives and the challenges they might be facing. I am unable to listen to some songs without reopening the flood gates, but I know that I am getting better day by day. Even though she will not be here for any more firsts, I am grateful to God for the 73 years she had them.

My Family's Covid Story: It's More Than the Numbers

January 7, 2021

My mother is 73 and lives with us in a family building. She is involved in a food share ministry at church, drives to the grocery store, picks up her medicine and runs her own errands. She walks up and down three flights of stairs to take our 80 plus pound dog to the backyard twice a day. Other than high blood pressure and a minor case of arthritis in her hands and knees, she doesn't have any health problems. She rarely gets sick and attributes it to cough drops which she swears keeps her well. Because of this, my husband and three grown daughters had a meeting on how we were going to protect her from Covid. This is our plan: 

1. Disinfect the house and building regularly by spraying or wiping down door knobs and other frequently-touched surfaces.
2. Wear masks religiously when we go out and make sure she does the same. 
3. All of us, including mom, get regularly tested for Covid every two weeks whether or not we have any symptoms. 

So, when she mentioned her shoulders were achy and shortly afterwards developed diarrhea, we took her to the ER. She tested positive for Covid, was admitted, treated, and released within a week. 

Now for the reality. None of this happened. The truth is that my mother started exhibiting these symptoms around December 21st. There was no alarm, no shock, no sense of emergency among us. Maybe because we were all too tied up in our own busy lives. Maybe becomes mom, herself, downplayed her symptoms and kept pushing forward. Then, the Wednesday before Christmas Day on the 23rd, I had achy shoulders, fatigue, and a stuffy nose, so I rested. By Thursday, I felt significantly better, and by Christmas Day, enjoyed a meal I cooked together with my husband like other Christmases in the past. Mom participated in her great-grandson's big day of opening gifts. 

She rested a lot. Still, no Covid alarm despite the saturation of daily Covid statistics in the media. Despite the fact that the pandemic is still very much alive. By December 27th, she was heading to the ER. She tested positive for Covid. Eventually, so did my youngest daughter and me. Two days later, mom was isolated in the ICU, sedated and on a ventilator. Her lungs had Covid pneumonia and were no longer able to function on their own. 

When a loved one is in the hospital, numbers become everything. 100 percent. That's the highest amount of oxygen she was receiving from the ventilator. Eighty, then 70, then 69 percent. Those are the numbers of her fluctuating oxygenation - her blood's oxygen level. Ninety-five percent and higher are considered normal. Eventually, her kidneys stopped functioning. And 70/39. Those were the numbers of her blood pressure which prompted a call from the nurse to tell me that I should "come sit with her." Time had passed, and she was no longer contagious. My daughter and I now tested negative. 

She accompanied me to the hospital, and as I sat at my mom's bedside, I tried to keep my conversation light - telling her that we have a new president; that I was watering all her plants; all the funny shenanigans her great-grandson was involved in. What I didn't say was how shocked I was at her appearance. Bloated, puffy, and tight skin made her look like someone else. I stared at her and asked myself whether this was my mother. A realization overwhelmed me, and my conversation changed. I said, "If I don't see you at home, mom, I'll see you again in Heaven." And finally, 28. It was exactly 28 days that a machine breathed for her, and on Tuesday, January 26, 2021, she was gone. 

Hindsight is 20/20 as they say. Looking back, I wish we'd had that family meeting. I wish we were diligent enough to notice her symptoms and at the first cough, achy muscle, wheeze, sniffle, or complaint, had rushed her to the ER. I'm not going to lie - I feel as though I could have saved her. But regret towards the past does nothing but bring sadness and pain. 

My mom, with her silver hair straightened and curled, wearing gold hoop earrings and burgundy lipstick is wearing a red, plaid-like three-quarter length coat with gold, silver, yellow, and blue speckled feathers in it. I open the front door, and her energy hits me in the face. With a big smile, she yells, "I'm baaaack!" In an instant, she's inside the living room, and I am grabbing her around the neck, literally squeezing her and lavishing kisses on her left cheek and all along the side of her face and head. Then I burst into tears, still squeezing and holding her. Suddenly, I wake up from the dream, and I am crying. Could those precautions have saved her? Perhaps. But I remind myself that regardless of my actions or lack thereof, God has the ultimate say. And that is what gives me comfort. 

A Goat in the Dishwasher, an M Under the Stove: Life with a Toddler

When my children were young, as in the toddler-terrible-twos stage, I don’t remember them being this active. Or maybe they were. Maybe toddlers haven’t changed. It’s me. I know. Life with my grandson makes me look back and wonder just how I got over.Never mind the typical exchanges with a toddler: the pull-up changes; Intro to Potty Training 101; whole handprints on a newly cleaned patio door; constant climbing, running, jumping, and spinning; never-ending questions (or rather question attempts. they’re mostly baby babble); distasteful food simply spat out to dribble down one’s shirt or if he’s being polite, he will release the unwanted food into his palm and offer it back; pouring milk/juice/water out on a table to use as finger paint – leaving lovely decorations. No. I’m talking about how much a toddler helps me understand myself.

First, I believe I have some mild form of, oh, I don’t know. Let’s just say I cannot enjoy furniture if it’s dirty or enjoy looking at my front lawn (or the neighbor’s for that matter) if a piece of debris has landed there. I tell people that the debris interrupts my line of vision. Is that weird? The way I see it, a person could have a million dollar (fill inthe blank). But if it’s dirty, the luster and proverbial thrill is gone. Nugget (the aforementioned grandson who will turn three-years-old in March 2021) has taught me that I get bothered by things being all over, under, and out of place. The decorative couch pillows are reassigned as building supplies for a fort. And never mind that he still likes me to carry him around on my hip and has the nerve to swing his legs back and forth! My back, knees, and right forearm muscle are spilling all my secrets. But I must say that witnessing toddlerhood does have its advantages.

I once watched Nugget take a coaster from the table and potpourri from a bowl to build some sort of deco art. I knew it was his masterpiece because he shouted, “Oook! oook!” and waited for my approval. I obliged him by applauding and shouting, “Bravo! Bravo!” while giving him commentary on how magnificent it was. He smiled toothily, poked out his belly (he doesn’t know how to poke out his chest), and swung his arms back and forth in delight. He has an untainted appreciation for all music, and his favorite song (other than Happy Birthday) is Din Daa Daa by George Kranz. Please, I beg of you to look up the lyrics (video optional). Nugget looked at a picture of an owl and told me it was “mad.” His doodle with some markers was so beautiful, his mother framed it. After racing back and forth in the living room and transferring the dog’s food from one bowl to another, I said to him in a deep voice, “Get up there, and sit down!”  To which he responded in words of the same tone. Now, I know he will need correction to some behavior, but to this I could only laugh. And we laugh a lot.

So. I’ve decided that spending time with Nugget and enduring his messes is what life is all about. After all, he won’t be this age for long. Who cares if there’s a goat in the dishwasher and an M under the stove? There’s an entire zoo in my purse. And that’s just fine by me.

400 Years and We Still Can't Breathe

As I sit here thinking about our condition as African-Americans, I can’t help thinking that it was all inevitable. I will explain later. We must come to the realization that we will always have to fight for our rights and that they are not given as freely to us as they are to others. In the big scheme of things, African-Americans have moved forward a notch or two. Sure, we have advanced degrees and own businesses, but what did we expect a country to become when its very foundation was built on black necks and black backs through black blood? 

“So…I have an idea,” thought USA in the beginning, “How about we go to a continent and kidnap the people there, bring them over here and make them plant and harvest crops that we can get rich from and pass down to our children? Oh, and it gets better! Let’s make slaves out of ‘em and make ‘em do it for free, and in return they git nothing but a hard life and suffering all their days and for their children, too?” And so it began. Formed in the minds of some whites was a superiority complex while at the same time ushering in African-Americans’ defense mechanisms. Yes, we have moved forward a mile or two. But how much farther we’d be had it not been for the scale of unbalanced policies like Jim Crow and employment discrimination. How much farther we’d be had it not been for the destruction of our towns and livelihood. How much farther we’d be if not for any of it. So, it was inevitable.

The clashes, fighting, and fires were inevitable. Because they are not new. It feels as if we stepped out of the pages of the civil rights movement of the 1960s to experience it all over again. Honestly, our lives never cease to be a civil rights movement. For as long as we live in this skin, we must be ready to defend it. We always have, and it was inevitable that we are doing it again. But how we fight and defend ourselves have nothing to do with hurling bricks and bottles. We must start using our weapons: the vote and the dollar. We must start researching the backgrounds of people for whom we vote and elect them if their policy beliefs align with moving us forward. When they are elected and prove to be a disappointment, we vote them out. Let us support or own businesses. If they get something right, write a positive review, tell everybody you know, and go back often. If not, pull the owner to the side in private and express the complaint. At least it gives the owner an opportunity to address the issue. 

I am sorry for those who have lost loved ones at the hands of injustice and hatred. After 400 years, this country doesn’t have it right. African-Americans are still fighting for rights. And we still can’t breathe.

Picture credit: @kenslerb via Twitter.com

It’s the First Day of School

Soon, our kids will head back to school or enter for the very first time. This was always a special event in my household. I escorted my children on their first day and got all teary-eyed while looking at all the little girls with their fresh french braids, ponytails, and barrettes hanging from the ends; and the little boys with their fresh-from-the-barbershop cuts. They all looked like little professionals in their crispy shirts, skirts, and creased pants. But with all the newness came a few questions. What’s with that 200-item school supply list? 

I mean, does a first grader really need 72 sharpened pencils, 6 folders with pockets, 5 wide-ruled notebooks, Fiskar scissors (and why Fiskar?), 1 wooden ruler (what are they going to be measuring when they’re still learning how to add?), 1 box of crayons, 1 box of Crayola markers (again with the brand name?), 3 big erasers (the erasers on the 72 pencils aren’t enough?), 1 bottle of Elmer’s glue (rolls eyes at the brand name), 1 pack of glue sticks, 1 pencil box, 1 large pack of post-its, 1 ream of copy paper (500 sheets), a 4-pack of index cards (2 white and 2 colored), 3 packs of 8 dry erase markers, 1 box of Kleenex, 2 hand sanitizers, 1 liquid soap, 1 tub of disinfectant wipes, 2 rolls of paper towels, 1 box of gallon-size Ziploc bags, 1 box of sandwich-size Ziploc bags, 1 ream of colored paper (colored, too?), 1 pack of wide-ruled loose leaf paper (What? The 5 wide-ruled notebooks aren’t enough?), and a 1 and ½ inch binder. By the way, this is an actual and not a made up list. As a substitute teacher who had long-term assignments, I’m going to tell you exactly why all these things are needed. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Ready? Here it is: These supplies are not just for your child, they are for the whole classroom. Now, before you get sassy and say, “Well, I’m not supplying the whole classroom,” let me tell you my experience. 

One year, I subbed for an absent teacher from the first day of school in September until she returned after New Years. If you’re a parent of a Chicago Public School student, you already know that the class sizes are quite large. In fact, the largest class I’ve ever subbed for had 33 students! Try providing enough Kleenex for 33 runny noses during a cold and flu season and see how long your inventory lasts. Paper towels are like gold. Kids are messy. And they throw up. A custodian of a large school might not be able to drop everything and get to the classroom to clean up the mess as fast as you’d like. So rather than wait and let the mess stay there, I’d take a big wad of paper towels and clean it myself. And that’s where the disinfectant wipes come in. And hand sanitizer. I couldn’t just let the germs stay there, so I’d wipe down anything that...well, you get the picture. Any good teacher wipes down desks on a regular basis. You have no idea how many children find interesting things and put them...ok, I’ll just leave that there. That ream of copy paper? Let me explain. 

Each copier is filled with paper every day. Depending on the number of teachers and copies they have to make, that could add up to a lot of paper. There are only so many minutes of prep time. Can you imagine running up two flights of stairs to make copies only to discover that the machine is out of paper? If you did not bring your own ream, imagine sprinting down the stairs to the first floor to get paper from the office. And let me tell you, “Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat!”

Those three big erasers? Teachers put children in groups of 3-5 and label them as tables. One eraser will likely be labeled for a table. Trust me. Those pencil erasers don’t last long. Especially when some kids chew them. I could explain how it works for every item on this list, but that would turn into a novel, and you have other things to do today. Unfortunately, teachers don’t get everything the kids need. 

Some kids don’t have any supplies at all. If a teacher has 27 kids in a class, she will not get those supplies times 27. That means some kids won’t be prepared to learn. So pat yourself on the back if you’re able to fulfill the list. You are helping the whole classroom community. 

No matter how many supplies a teacher receives on the first day, I can tell you from experience that she may be sending letters home asking for more Kleenex and wipes by October. 

I’d like to hear from you! Tell me what you think in the comments.

Dear New Mayor of Chicago

Dear New Mayor of Chicago, 

Growing up in Englewood on the south side of Chicago in the late 1970s through the 1980s reminds me of walking from 72^ndand Green Streets to 68^thand Morgan to my aunt’s house on a Friday afternoon to spend the weekend with her. It reminds me of the huge pot she used on Saturday to prepare the “After Church Meal” that I thought about so much during Sunday’s service that it was hard to concentrate on the pastor’s message. Englewood reminds me of my beloved 8^thgrade teacher, Mary Tracy, at Simon Guggenheim Elementary (now Excel Academy of Englewood), who was the only person who believed I could become a writer. Englewood reminds me of our rival a few blocks away, Amos Alonzo Stagg Elementary (now Stagg School of Excellence), who made it their business to challenge us to the long-standing fight on Fridays after school. My husband of 30 years graduated from Stagg. The Englewood I knew is gone. Englewood and so many other south and west side neighborhoods have become a shell of themselves.  

A never-ending sea of vacant and ugly lots now replaces the land where once burgeoning businesses and modest, yet tidy houses stood. Lots that look like the sets of futuristic science fiction movies where all the humans have been wiped away line the streets, block after block, back-to-back, side-by-side. The absence of humanity and care will change a landscape. Weeds and grass make their way up from the concrete graves that covered them so long ago. Debris takes up permanent residence like squatters. Tumbleweeds, like the desert plains of the Wild West, blow untamed down sidewalks. Shopping centers once frequented by the young and young at heart looking for their next spiffy, slick, or sharp outfits are now abandoned wastelands. Their rusted and dilapidated marquis are bent like the arthritic backs of old men. The sides of buildings that have the nerve to still exist are hard on the eyes and heavy on the heart. It would be better if graffiti artists had their way with them. However, Englewood can rise to new heights because of the slivers of improvement there. 

Kennedy-King College underwent a makeover and is a strong presence. The new Englewood Square at 63^rdand Halsted Streets house a new Whole Foods, Starbucks, Chipotle, and Dress Code clothing store. Community activists are taking matters into their own hands. In fact, one woman's crusade turned a dilapidated home into a community center¹. The Resident Association of Greater Englewood (R.A.G.E.)² is an organization that is fighting hard to address problems in the community. But much more can be done. You, New Mayor of Chicago, have the power to change all of this. 

Downtown Chicago is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful parts of our city and nation. It attracted 55.2 million tourists in 2017³, while parts of the city like Englewood, the west side, and other neighborhoods are left in squalor. I want you to attract more new businesses to Englewood and other ignored areas on the south and west sides of Chicago. Allocate the Tax Increment Financing (TIF) to bring economic development to the forgotten parts of this great city. After all, “nearly half of the $1.3 billion in TIF went to downtown and surrounding areas.”⁴ Restore my beloved Englewood and other neighborhoods to places where our children and grandchildren can create beautiful memories like mine. You can do it, New Mayor. 

Sincerely, SAGFE

¹Micah Materre, “Woman, Neighborhood Turn Dilapidated Englewood Home Into Community Center.” WGN News on the Web. 1 Dec. 2017. 22 Oct. 2018. 

²https://ragenglewood.org

³Josh Noel, “Chicago Tourism Numbers Hit Record High, Topping 55M in 2017.” Chicago Tribune on the Web. 13 Jan. 2018. 15 Oct. 2018. 

⁴Ben Jaravsky, “Who Wins and Loses in Rahm’s TIF Game?” Chicago Reader on the Web. 26 Mar. 2015. 15 Oct. 2018. 

Women of the Past Lead the Way

Pioneers. Trailblazers. Way-makers. Madam C. J. Walker, Mae Jemison, and Maya Angelou are a few amazing women who earned these well-known titles. They set the examples and inspire women today. Plato, the Greek philosopher said, “Necessity is the mother of invention.” But I say, “Out of necessity comes progress.” Feel free to use that. One woman pioneered progress through hair care and created a million dollar business. Another woman blazed a trail that smoothed the path for one who followed, and two way-making women who never met know what it’s like to be caged. 

Let’s meet the pioneer. Sarah Breedlove, known as Madam C.J. Walker (1867-1919), lost some of her hair due to a scalp condition, so she created her own hair care line by experimenting with treatments she bought from the store and those she created at home. She advertised her hair care treatment then eventually began doing demonstrations of the “Walker method” in which she used pomade and hot combs. She promoted her business in the U.S., Caribbean and Latin America, opened factories, and became the first self-made female millionaire in America.¹ Fast forward. Tired of bondage to relaxers, Whitney White turned a natural hair tutorial into an empire. White started her own YouTube channel in 2009, and it now has over a million subscribers. She has 673,000 Instagram followers @naptural85. Madam C.J. sure was onto something. Today, the black hair industry is now a $2.7 billion (yes, with a B) business and since 2013, it increased 7%.² Let’s meet our trailblazer, Dr. Mae Jemison. 

Mae Carol Jemison (1956 - ), the first African-American woman to fly into space, graduated on our side of town from Morgan Park High School in 1973 and obtained her M.D. in 1981. She entered the NASA Astronaut Training Program in 1992 but had to apply twice. Fluent in Swahili, Russian, and Japanese, she inspires young people today through her company, The Jemison Group.³ Jemison made history by becoming a first. Joan E. Higginbotham is the third African-American woman to fly into space. She didn’t have to apply, though. She was chosen.

Joan E. Higginbotham, like Jemison, graduated from a Chicago School (Whitney Young Magnet High School) in 1982. Higginbotham worked at the Kennedy Space Center in Florida as an engineer. Her subsequent promotions lead her to work with the Columbia and Atlantis space shuttles. Higginbotham didn’t have to apply to the Astronaut Training Program. NASA selected her. Like, tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Girl, you going into space.” She went to the Johnson Space Center in Texas to train, and in 2006, NASA launched her into space where her primary job was to operate the Space Station Remote Manipulator System.⁴ Now, I’m no NASA expert, but based on the title, it sounds like she controlled the movements of the space station. Another great woman in history is Maya Angelou, a way-making literary giant.

Maya Angelou (1928 – 2014) is known for her poetry. Most notably “On the Pulse of the Morning,” and “Phenomenal Woman.” She wore many hats as a director, editor, playwright, essayist, civil rights activist, educator, and writer. This superstar served on committees for Presidents Ford and Carter. She received awards from Presidents Clinton and Obama. Her novel, “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” became a film in 1979, and her poems provide the emotions that Janet Jackson’s character recited in the 1993 film, “Poetic Justice.”⁵ Like Angelou, Michelle Alexander, a civil rights lawyer, Professor, New York Times Columnist and author knows a thing or two about caged birds. 

Alexander’s book, “The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness” won the NAACP Image Award for best non-fiction in 2011. Her book blasts wide open the notion that since slavery ended, we are no longer in bondage. Quite the contrary. She said that mass incarceration is the new Jim Crow and that “We have not ended racial caste in America; we have merely redesigned it.” Her book is used in college curriculums and is cited in judicial decisions. It has created a whole new group of prison reform activists.⁶

The bottom line is this: women’s history is connected to our present. We are linked not only because of our gender, but because we inspire each other. We nurture, teach and set the path for the next generations. Madam Walker inspired women at the turn of the century. Whitney White inspired women at the beginning of a new decade. Mae Jemison and Joan Higginbotham are products of Chicago. Angelou and Alexander both know a thing or two about cages. Look hard enough, and you will see the connections in your circle of women, too. 

Sources:

^{1, 3}Biography.com
²Dandy, Brittany. “[Watch] Whitney White Turned Her Youtube Platform Into a Booming Natural Hair Career.” Black Enterprise. 18 Sept. 2015.
www.blackenterprise.com/whitney-white-turned-her-youtube-platform-in-a-booming-natural-hair-career. Accessed March 9, 2019.
⁴Ahmed, Neima. “Joan Elizabeth Higginbotham (1964 - )” 4 Nov. 2018. www.blackpast.org/african-american-history/higginbotham-joan-elizabeth-1964. Accessed March 9, 2019. 
⁵Smith, Troy L. “5 Films to Remember Maya Angelou By.” Cleveland.com. 28 May 2014. Accessed March 9, 2019. 
⁶newjimcrow.com/about-the-author

An Onyx in the Midst: A Black Business Professional Explains How To Manage Racism in the Job Market

Watching David* navigate at a Heating, Ventilation, Air-Conditioning/Refrigeration (HVAC/R) conference room full of business professionals was like witnessing a lion in its natural habitat. He was smooth, laid back, and projected an image like he belonged there. He was charismatic and flowed in conversation from one person to the next as if he had practiced his whole life, and now it was as natural as breathing. In return, his counterparts treated him respectfully, embracing him into their unique club. David was one of them, and had every right to be there. There was only one difference. David was black, and all his counterparts were white. 

I had an opportunity to talk to David about his experience being the only black person in a room full of non-blacks.

Beverly: What would you say is your key piece of advice for black people and the job force?

David: Make sure you’re employable. Learn as many different things as possible. Pick a field that is in demand, because if it’s in demand, that means there are a lot of opportunities out there.

Beverly: What fields do you recommend off the top?

David: Any field that happens to be a trade. There are lots of opportunities for women in the trades. Learn as much as you can about that field.

Beverly: Do you see more women enter the trades compared to five years ago – ten years ago?

David: Absolutely.

Beverly: How important is going to networking events? I mean, when I worked for a corporation  - now mind you, I was there for 25 years - I rarely networked.

David: Very important. Either join a network or create your own. It’s easier to join one that exists. You can do this by volunteering. The problem with that is a lot of people don’t want to volunteer. They just want to take, take, take.

Beverly: When you say, “take, take, take,” you mean money?

David: No. I mean they don’t want to give of their time. They’d rather go watch sports.

Beverly: Having been the only black person in many situations and venues, how do you handle a racist remark or joke outside the corporate environment such as an office party?

David: That never happened to me.

Beverly: Really?

David: No. You always present yourself in a professional manner with high self-esteem. But if it happens, you simply say, “Hey!” 

[Holds hand up as if to stop someone from coming forward and hardens his face simultaneously.]

Beverly: Okay. But I’m sure it has happened in some format in the workplace. What can a person say in that situation?

David: You calmly say to the person, “Look. We all have a job to do. If you’d like, we can address this with Human Resources.” Make sure you know the organization’s policies and procedures/dos and don’ts. And know that these procedures apply to everybody – managers, front line employees, supervisors, vice-presidents and the CEO.

Beverly: So the answer is to remain calm and not get angry and punch the person in the throat?

David: [LAUGHS]

Beverly: What other bits of advice can you give us?

David: Just make sure you stay employable. Stay informed on changes and updates in your field. Educate yourself. Don’t be afraid to change fields, if necessary. Don’t be afraid to change careers. 

Finally, I asked David how he became so ambitious and driven. He told me he saw his family members get laid off from the steel mills in Chicago. When that happened, he said it seemed like their lives ended. When he was growing up, he decided he didn’t want to be like that, so he decided to get a trade. That was over 35 years ago. 

*Name has been changed. 

To the Graduates of 2018

The African proverb says, “It takes a village to raise a child,” but I say it also takes a village to bring one to graduation. It takes getting up early to get the children to school on time. It takes having enough soap and detergent and deodorant and lotion and Vaseline and hair products and toothpaste. It takes coming home from an eight hour workday plus a two hour commute to cook dinner and check homework and not just look to see the assignment, but whether or not it is done correctly and completely. It takes helping them with their schoolwork, and if you don’t understand it, you get the help first. It takes leaving work early or taking a day off so you can get them to their wellness checkups so they can stay healthy and don’t have to miss school and an important test whether for third grade spelling or the ANET, NWEA, or ACT. It takes making them a good breakfast or getting them to school early so a growling stomach doesn’t distract them from what they know. 

It takes checking their backpacks for trash but more importantly, finding old graded papers you never saw so you can help them correct the answers they got wrong. It takes scraping down deep into your pockets and purses and under couches to dig up $11 for a field trip. It takes going to report card pickup and getting to know their teachers and mandatory meetings. It takes supporting them in every possible way not just sometimes, but every day. It takes a whole support system.

After my oldest daughter graduated with her Bachelor of Science in Education, we were in the parking lot walking toward the car. I heard some laughter and looked over to see a graduate walking with his arm around an older man. What I heard epitomizes the African proverb. The graduate said loudly, “Eh, man! Thanks for giving me gas money to get to school!” 

So here’s to all the mothers, fathers, uncles, aunties, brothers, sisters, cousins, grandmothers, grandfathers, Godparents and neighbors down the street that helped a graduate reach that light at the end of the tunnel. 

Congratulations, Graduates of Twenty-Eighteen!

An Open Letter to the Democratic Nominee for President of the United States of America

            The personal attacks shown on the campaign trail remind me of elementary and high school bullies. Candidates who run for President of the United States of America should never engage in mocking, name-calling or personal attacks on one’s appearance. For instance, when a teacher stoops to the level of a child and engages in a back and forth, everybody loses. The adult should remain just that – an adult. 

            These attacks belong on a television entertainment network. They look and sound fictitious, and I cannot believe they are real and coming from a candidate for the U.S. presidency. Our forefathers are not just turning over in their graves but are raging in them. Where’s the diplomacy? What happened to respect? Where’s the maturity? It disgraces the candidates and sickens me. I believe they are pandering to American’s addiction to reality television, a phenomenon that has gained momentum as of late. This is not reality television. We are voting for the new leader of the United States of America, not watching reality TV.

            Whichever of you becomes the Democratic nominee, do not insult the intelligence of the American people by showing that you are better at “playing the dozens” or as the current saying goes, “throwing shade.” Do not, I repeat, do not fall for the desire to revert back to childish behavior when you are personally attacked or mocked. Stay above the fray. Maintain your dignity. You can win this election by speaking about the issues that face our country and your plan to solve them, not by mocking someone's thirst or insulting the way he wears his hair.