There’s no night so long
That we cannot ride through to
Taste tomorrow’s dawn

See the trailer.

I was surprised when I saw the indy film, The Drummer (2020), starring Danny Glover. He portrayed an older man helping those, in ways both big and small, ways that could have landed people in jail. The majority of people alive today never experienced or for that matter never even heard about the struggles of the Viet Nam years.

This movie was not set in Nam. It was not about heroic resisters who refused to go to Nam. Rather this is a nuanced look at how difficult it was to resist, especially when you are fighting a lonely fight. This movie does not take a heroic view of resistance. Resistance was often difficult and full of vacillations. View it and marvel how many sacrifices many people made.

During the Nam years I was a Nike Hercules Nuclear Missile repair person in South Korea. I was trained to arm the nuclear warhead. Additionally, I was trained in Chemical, Biological, and Radiological warfare–a veritable killing machine.

I had dropped out of college and had made 18 years-old. I didn’t know what else to do, both my younger brothers were college educated. The youngest of the three of us became a cardiologist primarily serving the residents of our part of the city until Katrina ripped out his Heartbeats Life Center. When I signed up in 1965, I told the recruiter that I want to go anywhere except Viet Nam.

He laughed. I said “I’m sure ya’ll have some jobs they don’t use in Viet Nam.” He saw that I was serious, and simply said, “yes, but you have to pass a test to get one of those jobs.”

“Give me the test.” I was confident I could pass any test they might have–when I was in the army I developed one of my axioms about the average White male; “if the average White boy could do it, it couldn’t be hard.” That’s how I ended up doing work on nuclear missiles.

I have met Danny Glover a number of times. He is a sensitive and committed man who is a professional actor who has been in a number of block-buster movies, which is why I was so surprised when I saw this movie. It’s not Hollywood. It’s the hard choices that people made during the Nam years.

Check it and wonder if you could do what a relatively small number of people did.

The weather was wonderful. Autumn in New Orleans. No need for either raincoat or sweater.

A perfect soiree of fellowship. A convivial gathering of friends you knew and guests you were eager to get to know.

From the time you entered the iron front gate, checked out the informative exhibition in the front room, walked through the two-story, historic cottage onto the back porch, and then ensconced yourself in the backyard, imbibing a selected array of refreshments, this was a welcomed get together.

The SEEING BLACK Florestine Collins Parlor, replete with historic photos, authentic period furniture, actual early cameras, as well as pictorial placards and educational hand-cards freely available to all visitors, was the expert work of committee member Shana griffin. 

The program was officially titled First Frame The Prelude of SEEING BLACK Black Photography in New Orleans 1840 & Beyond. On view 11am to 4pm, Thursday to Sunday, until June 4, 2023.

This program was a revelation not only about photography in New Orleans but also a rear view picture of a woman who expertly persevered in a career dominated by men. Florestine Marguerite Perrault Collins (1895 – 1988) early-on set a sterling example for generations to come.

Beyond the photographs, the period furniture, vintage cameras, and the informational hand-outs, Shana griffin also organized live music to complete the commemorative afternoon. She was supported by the SEEING BLACK trio of Eric Waters; Girard Mouton,III; and Kalamu ya Salaam.

The preludial exhibition featured veteran musicians–Dr. Michael White, clarinet; Greg Stafford, trumpet; Detroit Brooks, banjo; Mitchell Player, acoustic bass. The quartet offered traditional New Orleans jazz at its best. This was not routine, commercial Dixieland bullshit, but rather art and revelry, performed by serious musicians leaning into their improvisations with fervor.

These were professionals, most of whom I knew personally. Although I had major medical issues that included a recent procedure to deal with a cancerous growth on my kidney, and although I could not stay for the entire event, nevertheless I sat adjacent to the band in a corner of the back porch. I did not make my get-away until the band’s intermission.

I really did not want to leave early.  I would have preferred to be energized by the majesty of the music. But when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.

Minna Salami

When women speak in their own interests, about their lives, about the established ways women are treated, men would do well to listen. We all should. Women supporting patriarchy, the dominance of society by men, especially old, white men, maintaining the establishment, status quo, is objectively against female self-interest, against female empowerment.

Feminism has never reductively meant turning men into eunuchs. Why are many men against female empowerment–women being strong, women being powerful, women being leaders, none of that weakens men. Gender equality is not implicitly anti-male, yet somehow many man are led to believe that women in charge inevitably leads to the disempowerment of man, instead of the factual and realistic situation of supporting gender equality by the elevation of woman.

Especially in the Black community, where a significant percentage of women are “the man of the house”, such women are active supporters of Black manhood, especially in their sons. The hardest reality for many of us to grasp is that supporting feminism, that being anti-patriarchal does not mean being anti-men. Anti-patriarchy does not reductively mean anti-male; anti-patriarchal means being anti-oppression.

The social reality and intellectual understanding of feminism is generally misunderstood or outright rejected without any understanding or even debating of the spectrum of feminist advocacy and analysis. Enter Minna Salami who is an advocate and major intellectual in terms of explaining feminism, both its historic foundation and her contemporary advocacy of feminism.

Today is Wednesday, 28 September, 2022. On this past Monday, I went to the VA hospital for a scheduled sonogram.

Sunday night I had slept in my own bed, in my apartment at Ashe. Monday started out as usual. I made phone calls and followed up online with projects I’m working on, primarily SEEING BLACK–Black Photography In New Orleans 1840 & Beyond.

Had a good long conversation with my good friend, photographer Terri Mimms. Sent her a creative writing piece I did about her and a situation she survived–of course, I had shared this with her when it was written  over approximately two decades ago.

The sonogram operator urged me to go to ER, the emergency room. After sitting there for an hour or so, I was checked out by a physician and sent to another area, only to be told that they wanted to keep me overnight. Yeah, I know, I took it personally. Was not clear what was going on but for certain this was a serious situation.

I am on a major medication regime, about five taps, some cut in half, prescribed on a daily basis. I have been relatively religious in taking my medications. Or so I thought. On Tuesday as the doctors made their rounds Tuesday morning, I received the information that what I thought about taking medications was inadequate.

I was also scheduled for a follow-up sonogram, which was done in the hospital bed with a portable machine. Dr. Dharmini Manogna from hematology/oncology questioned me in detail and, in doing so, helped me understand what could be–emphasis on what was “probably”, the problem. 

I had been taking my medication every morning but I misunderstood the way Eliquis–medically named apixaban–that is designed to prevent strokes.

I have my had experiences with the debilitating effects of strokes. My wife over a two year period sustained three strokes, the third of which left her basically bedridden for the last year of her life. Strokes ain’t no joke. At 75 years-old, not to mention my experience with Nia, who made her transition on February 20, 2020, taught me not to ignore my medical situation. I was intimately aware that strokes can take you out.

Dr. Manogna broke it down to me, Eliquis works but only for twelve hours or so, so I have to take it twice a day. I was only doing once a day. I now fully understand.

When I was discharged Tuesday afternoon, I drove myself home and called my daughter Asante to let her and her partner, Peteh, know I was ok at home in my apartment. Working on a number of writing projects, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t ready to check-out, I had major projects I wanted to finish, especially SEEING BLACK, the photo book and exhibit.

Turns out the first sonogram have revealed a possible blog clot in my lower lung, the follow-up exam that had been done Tuesday morning confirmed that I was clear of blood clots in the lungs, which are deadly. My twice a day, 5miligram tab of apixaban was doubled for a ten day stretch before returning to the one tab twice a day routine.

Thankyou Dr. Manogna for helping me understand why I have to take Eliquis twice a day, probably for the rest of my life. You want to live, follow the prescriptions.

The central truth of African American history is that Black women have been our fiercest and most steadfast warriors–and I mean “American” in the total western hemispheric sense. Nanny in Jamaica, Harriet Tubman in the USA, and numerous others from Canada to Peru, many of whom are uncelebrated, are the true sheroes of existence during slavery, colonialism, and day-to-day racism.

Black women are not often celebrated and instead are often overlooked as the warriors they are and historically have been. I am not saying that men have not historically fought the good fight–we have. But Black women have too often been ignored in the history of African struggles in the Western Hemisphere as well as on the continent.

Questions of accuracy and historical truth not withstanding, the The Woman King is a beautiful and important correction of the erasure of Black women. Staring Viola Davis and directed by Gina Prince-Blythewood, in many ways this is Wakanda part 2 and we are just getting started in telling our whole story.

As we used to say way back in the seventies, “be there or be square”. We need this movie.

https://www.historyvshollywood.com/reelfaces/woman-king/

https://www.smithsonianchannel.com/special/warrior-women-with-lupita-nyongo

A really balanced review of the movie is contained in a documentary that was done by Lapita Nyong’o who was initially cast to be in the movie. Check out her investigation of women warriors–before or after you see The Woman King.

In my estimation, Chicago has long been a bedrock of Black America. Cultural expression and political activity, Chicago has it in spades–in this new age, Chi is the home of this nation’s largest Black publishing firm, Third World Press.

Chicago is also the home of Curtis Mayfield, the most prolific and insightful of the seventies songwriters. His life was tragically shortened when a gust of wind blew sound equipment onto his body during a performance in New York that left him paralyzed from the neck down.

His infirmary notwithstanding, while flat on his back he recorded a last album that is one of his best ever: 1996’s New World Order, although I remain enthralled by his Viet Nam-era, 1973 album Back To The World, which was both a vow and a theme song for a multitude of us soldiers station overseas.

His music documented an era and demonstrated the resilience and resolve to never give up as long as we are breathing.

But nary a drop to drink. From somewhere I remember that poetic line. What tiggers the recall is the situation upriver from New Orleans in Jackson, Mississippi where my friend C. Liegh lives. At this point I should say survives–they have gone days without potable water flowing through the faucets. Now they can’t even bath in it nor was dishes. Nothing. Nada. It’s verboten.

Where I’m from, we go through days, sometimes weeks of water disruption during the perennial hurricane seasons. I know how it feels, and as we say: it ain’t nothing nice!

It’s worse, of course, when it is as it is in Jackson. Not a natural disaster, but rather a man-made, preventable calamity. Jarvis DeBerry, a colleague from Mississippi wrote this about the situation.

The reality of racism hitting hard. Find out more about Jackson. Do whatever your can, even if it is no more than spreading the word about what’s going on.

I close with the words of C. Liegh McGinnis, who sent out a recent posting:

Hey Y’all,

Thanks to so many of y’all from around the country for checking with us regarding Jackson, Mississippi’s water crisis. Unfortunately, flooding is a usual thing in many parts of Mississippi, even the capital city. And, then, the failing water system of Jackson compounds the issue. My area (Clinton) is cool, and the water has begun to recede in some of the hardest-hit areas. Yet, because Jackson’s water treatment center is so old, one of the pumps failed and has left much of the city without water. And, no one knows how long this will continue. Again, Clinton and the areas around Jackson are fine though many folks in Jackson are suffering. The real issue is that Jackson doesn’t have a tax base. As I’ve stated before, white flight does not kill a city. But, the majority of the black middle class left both the city of Jackson and Hinds County. (My wife, Monica, and I were determined to remain in Hinds County because of its majority black population.) So, without a tax base, the city has no way to repair its water treatment center or is outdated pipe system. Additionally, because two of Jackson’s black city councilmen have been wasting time haggling with Mayor Chokwe Lumumba to ensure that a black-owned company does not receive the contract for the city’s garbage collection services, which it fairly and lawfully won, the city has not been able to do much about its failing water treatment and pipe system. To make matters worse, the racist Governor Ole Tater Tot and the Mississippi legislature is withholding the funds that can repair the system because it wants Jackson (a majority black city) to relinquish its control of the city airport to one of the neighboring all-white cities. Moreover, Tater has a history of rejecting federal funds designed to provide aid and relief to poor people because keeping people poor and poorly educated is what keeps them chained to the planation system. Thus, it’s Mississippi politics as usual, and, at the moment, the evil-ass Confederates have the upper hand as they are aided by inept Negroes. But, thanks to U.S. Congressman Bennie Thompson for using his position as head of Homeland Security to leverage President Joe Biden to sign the Mississippi Emergency Declaration, which will provide necessary funds. However, at the moment, I don’t know how much this assistance will extend to repairing the water treatment center and the years of old pipes. (The Jackson Advocate has an insightful article about federal aid here.) Still, Thompson and Biden have already done more for Afro-Mississippians in this moment than King of the Taters has done his entire time as Governor.  So, thanks for thinking of us. But, my family is good so far. Also, my sister, Beth, and brother, Chris, who live in Jackson, have decent water pressure. Nevertheless, a good portion of Jackson is in bad shape with no real help in sight as of yet. Of course, Monica has been doing Monica-like things, such as taking water to folks and even offering some shower time to family and a few folks we know.  My job is to make sure that we have enough clean towels. Don’t really know how that became my job, but it is what it is.

photo by Ric Francis

One look at our extended family and the average American would be totally confused. What the heck are y’all?

Let’s see, my Mama, Esmerelda, is Mexican. Part indigenous, part Spanish colonial, come from around Vera Cruz. My Papi, Roberto, all he know is his people are from near Cancun. We never thought too much about what we was til we made it to Texas — at home we say it Tay-hass. And then it gets complicated.

My older brother, he snuck up cross the border, moved on to New York. He wouldn’t never tell us exactly how he got to the Bronx, decided to move to Spanish Harlem and hooked up with a Puerto Rican woman. They had a passel of children. I’m talking seven or eight of them. So you know I got nephews and nieces all over the place.

My sister, the girl four years older than me, has long black hair, fair skinned and is so pretty, they was always hiring her as an extra in Hollywood movies. Ole, that girl could dance. Although after a while didn’t hear much from her. Maybe a card at Christmas time and for Mama birthday. But we would see her in the movies all the time, although most times she had a non-speaking role.

See, what happened was, Papi moved us to New Orleans after Katrina when there was all kinds of work rebuilding the city. For a good six, seven, even ten or twelve years after that we could always find work. Made enough money to save some, send some home, and even make a house note on a double in the Seventh Ward.

All the lil ones be speaking English in school and Spanish at home. They don’t be confused, just jump back and forth, like playing hop scotch.

Liela, the pretty one out in Hollywood, she don’t have no children. But all the rest of us do.

Ok, so my twin brother, he married an afro-woman, name of Rosemary, but she go by Peaches. Sweet smile, with deep, deep, deepest dimples you ever seen. Their baby is so cute.

Now, my youngest brother he live way out in the East part of New Orleans and go with this Vietnamese girl he hooked up with in high school. She say, on a romantic tip, it be easier for her to be with Black people than for Black people to be with Vietnamese. She pregnant, of course, I wonder what they children going to look like.

Now here is where some people find us mixed up, complex, and something like a United Nations. I got an uncle who married a woman who part Italian and part Negro. They met in public school and both say they don’t care what they people say, they love each other.

I know it seem like we all mixed up but we all just men and womens trying to find love whilst we do what we got to do to live our lives.

When Mama was sick, almost on her death bed, Liela, she come home to see her before Mama move on. Papi, he was so sad, most like when his dog, Teddy, died. They had been together ten years. Well, when Mama caught that cancer, less than a year after Teddy died, there wasn’t nothing that anybody could do to cheer Papi up. He not even smile when they served him lemon meringue pie.

I would have long talks with Liela, wanted to know all about Hollywood and being in movies, and everything. I would be telling her about who was who. I believe at one time we count up to forty-some cousins. I ask her how come she ain’t never had no children. She got real quiet. Most time she talk about anything. About everything. Even much told me about different men she been with and how they treat her, what they do romantically, and all, some of it really intimate. So, I figured there had to be a reason she never got pregnant or nothing.

I told her I wouldn’t be asking except she was so open about life when she talk with me. She got real quiet at my question about not having no children. She told me she was pregnant once but got it taken care of.

She saw I didn’t get it at first. “I had an abortion.”

I had so many questions but had the good sense to know that if she wanted me to know more, she would have said more. She make good money dancing and being in movies, but when she went in to thinking about the baby she gave up, she just get quiet.

“I figure we got enough babies in our family.” The next day Leila went back to the west coast and Mama passed away four months after that. Papi, he hung on for two more years, but he kind of wasted away after Mama left us. Liela came for Mama funeral but was gone a couple of days later, which is when I decided I would name my baby Liela Rose if she was a girl and Roberto if he was a boy, even though Leila didn’t never come here when Papi passed on two years after Mama.

When my school assignment was to write about my family, I kept it on the down low because my Teach-For-America young teacher would never have understood everything about us.