FREEDOM’S ALLEY

In our days of street
running
island pirates
the world was ours
we had more loyalty
on the tip of our
nail bitten fingers
than those tie wearin’
white-shirt white boys
whose greed flung
them into darkness
tellin’m they were
on the right track

I’d rather feel
my thoughts for the one
I love than think them
I’d rather embrace
her than touch her
remember her soft breasts
the sweet scents
of love rising chanting
pulsing through the air
like gods on
olympus we were

All the world was ours
every sunset and sunrise
through the morning mist
our dreams and hopes
danced and sang
we feared nothing
in freedom’s alley
not knowing yet
how much there was
to fear in freedom’s alley
we swirled around lampposts
into wondrous mouth
on mouth embraces
singing our songs
with all our might
we believed in
everything

We knew nothing
about my history’s
bone crunching approach
the piercing heart splitting
that would pour blood
onto cherished hopes
drowning them into nothing
wiping them away
from our rightful
future on this earth
all our christmas’s
in freedom’s alley
to be never again
no more
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KEEP THE FAITH YA’LL

I go to places like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41xm0apzb1Q&feature=related

Reminds me we have all kinds of reasons for keeping the faith. Sometimes ya just gotta take the leap.

My best to ya’ll, enjoy the clip!

Peter

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A WALK INTO THE UNKNOWN

I am tired. The seemingly endless task of applying for disability, keeping the shelves stocked with food, the bills paid and my spirits high can be exhausting. Let me rephrase that. Not can be exhausting – is exhausting.

I am not at all unique in this experience. Some have rushed to my support in ways that both humble and dazzle me. Others offer lip service (see earlier post), and still others don’t lift a finger. And so it goes, as the remarkable journalist Linda Ellerbee would say at the end of her show, Weekend. A great show that aired for an all-too-brief period of time in the mid 1980s.

It seems clear to me that the key to any successful life management is acceptance. Life is what it is and we are each faced with the task of accepting the reality we are in. This brings me to the theme of this essay: acceptance. The art of acceptance, if you will.

Acceptance does not mean giving in. At times the idea of accepting something can feel like we are giving in, surrendering, engaging in an act of shameful weakness, but we’re not and it isn’t. Not even close. If acceptance is an act of weakness then why is it so hard to do? In truth, acceptance right sizes the reality we are in and, as a result, places us in the strongest possible vantage point from which we can manage our lives.

But why is accepting our realities so hard to so? I think there are several answers. One answer is habit. John Steinbeck said, “We are creatures of habit, a very senseless species.” How true. Most, if not all if us, know couples who are miserable together but stay together anyway. Most, if not all of us, know people who stay in jobs that make them miserable because change is big-time scary. Better the devil you know, is the tragically misguided tenet on those fronts.

I think fear of change is often our biggest obstacle to acceptance. If you accept something you then have to deal with it, which likely means change and change often requires us to take a walk into the unknown. And that can be scary.

But if we do this, and give ourselves permission to take a walk into the unknown, an extraordinary thing begins to emerge from the mist of doubt and step into the light of day. An awareness that we’re okay. We really are okay. And we are okay because no matter where we go, we are there. This emerging awareness leads us to a light that lets each of us see that as long you and I are present in our respective walks into the unknown, we are each our strongest ally.

Once this awareness grows and strengthens, the art of acceptance can be a welcome endeavor. You, like me, get to discover that while change is coming, you are staying, and isn’t that beautiful? I think so.
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DA BOY’S OKAY

My name’s Muggles. Sometimes da boy lets me say a few woids, not always woids da boy or others want ta hear, but I know when he says I can speak a few things, da boy means it. He’s a good boy afta all. Don’t always think so himsef, but he is.

I knowed dis boy now near all his days, since he wadn’t nuttin but up to Daddy’s knee. Yeah…lotsa good times, good memories in doze days. Boy’s Daddy a fine man. He and dat boy loved each other like sunshine and flowers, like rain and soil. Ya take one away da odder near die, which pretty much happened to da boy when Daddy died too soon for making any sense. Boy’s Daddy died and likes da sun be taken from his day, from his world, nowed I think on it some.

But I’m here to tell ya da boy’s okay, gonna be anyways. He got him a hard head and strong heart and mighty will…he be okay, sure enuff.

But da boy’s got some sharp edges on his bones dees days. Sharp edges. Like cut steel I say, cut steel. He been butted around some da past coupla years or so. I near laff my ass off when I see some talkin’ tuff about da boy. I likes to tell’m dey should knee touch da ground and tank da good lord dey didn’t know da boy some 30 years back. I seen dat boy like diesel dynamite break bones and spill red. Bust some up hospital bad and den go for some coffee. Well, maya been more’an coffee now I think on it. Like I said, dey’s some should do some knee touchin’ prayers thankin God da boy ain’t got no use no sir for breakin bones no more.

Used to wag my head laffin. See some big guy way upside a six foot and da boy break’m down like he nuttin but a big ass balsa weed. Funny shit now I think on it. Long time back, doe. Long time back.

But day boy said I could say things to ya all dat’s on my mind. And so I’m sayin the boys got some hard cut steel edges on his mind deez days…can’t say as I blame him none. I’m glad da boy’s ’bout justice deez days, justice and honesty.

Da boy’s grown up, I can tell ya, he’s grown up. But he’s always da boy to me. Good boy he is. Daddy be damned proud. Daddy be proud, and some a ya’all be grateful it ain’t 30 years back. Da boys forgives deez days. I don’t know I would, but he does.

For doze who love’m. I can tell ya times are hard but da boy gonna be okay, he already knowed dis, thought maybe he wanted me to tell ya too, so ya’all don’t worry too much.

Muggles
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THE COST OF ADVOCACY – Part II

Seems I’ve stirred the pot a bit (Peter stirring the pot? Who would have thought?) with the last blog entry, “THE COST OF ADVOCACY.”


While some agreed with my friend’s genuine concern that I learn to pull back at times in my advocacy rather than, say, lose a job, most supported my view (a view shared by the likes of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Elie Wiesel, Mahatma Gandhi, Susan B. Anthony, Malcolm X, Nelson Mandela and others) that if you are going to be a human rights advocate, you can’t be one only when it doesn’t call on you to sacrifice or take a hit in some way.


I will not identify anyone who has responded to the last missive because those that have are people I like very much, even though, in some cases, I unflinchingly disagree with them.


One of the several who agreed with my friend’s caution said when I lose a job or take a major hit because of my unwillingness to restrain my advocacy, I “force everyone else to pay for (my) advocacy when instead of keeping quiet, getting another job, pulling back or whatever, you end up having to ask countless people including strangers to help you out because of it. Sorry, but I think your friend is right, a calm life slicing cold cuts at the deli is a perfectly acceptable way to live and also contributes to the world.”



There is no doubt working at a deli contributes to the world in a very real way. However, I would take issue with some of this person’s assertions. I don’t force anyone to do anything. Anyone who has recently helped me has done so because they care and, in most instances, are my friends. This is what friends do, it seems to me. They help each other through hard times and they don’t resent it. Not too long ago someone who is like family to me fell into hard times and I was able to send them a bit of money on a monthly basis for a little while and I felt both grate and grateful that I was able to help. So, no, I don’t force anyone to do anything.



However, this one respondent may or may not have company when it comes to the view that pulling back might be a wise thing from time to time. Yet, a closer examination of their reasoning could lead one to conclude that they are more concerned about my friends being inconvenienced than my welfare. People can share the same opinion for different reasons.



Here is what pulling back on my advocacy would mean to me (which does not mean this is what it means to others, those who agree or disagree with me). Pulling back to me means staying silent when others are being mistreated in order to keep my job, or my apartment, or home, or, for that matter, my life.



Case in point. Years ago, I moved into an attic apartment in Brooklyn after my first divorce. A close friend of mine was black. He came to see me one day. We had breakfast, talked, watched a movie, went for a walk, he went home. Moments after he left there was knock on my door. It was the landlord. They wanted to see me in their downstairs apartment. I went down to see them and they explained that while they had no problem with “his kind” visiting me, the neighbors did and so my friend could not come see me anymore.



I moved out. Was I wrong, should I have told my friend, sit tight, I’m only going to be here a year or so; you can’t come by to visit because you’re black?



A friend and I physically intervened once in a brutally violent situation on Court Street in Brooklyn when a young black man was being savagely beaten with boards and pipes because he had walked through a white neighborhood. My friend and I jumped in, shielded this bleeding battered man from a gang of more than 20 raging young whites, and, with the help of another man, kept him safe for a good 10 minutes before the police arrived.



Should we have stayed out of it so our lives would not be at risk, never mind that had we chosen to stay out of it, this young black man would almost certainly have been killed?



And what would people think the healthy choice would be were I, or they, working in a situation where blacks were called niggers or Latinos were called spics or gays were called fags or Jews were called kikes? Should silence rule so employment remains?



Don’t get me wrong. There are times when honing one’s form of advocacy is a wise choice No doubt, I could improve. We all could. But stay silent or pull back so I can keep a job or avoid inconveniencing friends? I don’t think so. Anyway, I don’t think anyone who is my friend feels inconvenienced, in large part because they know me well enough to know that if they fell on hard times, I’d help them, with joy and humility.



The best definition of humility I have ever heard was, “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it is thinking less about yourself.”

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