Crushing Eggshells

One of my favorite Radio Hall of Famers is a guy named Art Bell. Not long ago he wrote a book called The Quickening. In it he described a period of time when things move more quickly and eventually reach a tipping point: terminal velocity. Like most things this depends on your point of view but that time seems to have arrived.

This week Ed Esposito, Eric Mansfield and Megan Mahoney from WMFD-TV in Mansfield were invited to talk to high school and some college students about beginning their careers in broadcasting. This was sponsored by Z-TV, the University of Akron campus television station and its teaching general manager Phil Hofmann. As I looked into those young faces I saw apathy and interest, boredom and excitement, I saw those who just wanted a day away from the routine and some who really wanted to make a living at work in the media. We were separated by two generations and I could not help but wonder if they felt the same rush of history. Probably not.

As barriers fall I listen intently for the sounds of change. For one thing we are going from a president that was not only a walking punch line but added select malapropisms that will be with us for years. Now we have a new central character in the seat of power. He was swept into the White House with a solid majority, by he has two choices in this job: be great (like Mt Rushmore great), or, well, there is no other option.

Back in February I wrote a piece describing this moment as giving the nation and the world permission to stop dealing with race like some wicked game of Operation; pick lightly at the topic otherwise you touch off a wave of offense and accusations. Presidents are by nature fair game. 43 men have been subjected to ridicule, literally at the highest levels. In recent history the smallest anomaly filled comedy shows and became part of pop culture. From Nixon's slump to Ford's falls, every one of them had something. Now we have Obama. I tend to think that this president will present more fuel for that fire than the color of his skin or his African name. Yet from the Italian prime minister we have the first toe-dip into the subject. He mention how tanned our new president is. By the way, black folks do tan. Then the president-elect himself called himself a mutt while describing the kind of dog he wanted for his daughters as they move into the White House. Not bad.

For the most part Presidents are fair game. Without being mean and nasty – trust me there are already millions of internet pages devoted to that kind of vitriol – there are plenty of opportunities for good natured ribbing. It would be worst to tip toe around all the massive changes that are flooding toward us. Just as Art Bell talked about in The Quickening, things are changing at a blinding pace. There is no time to parse every work and worry about whom we might offend.

Why I Hate the Death Penalty

I have many friends and family who are one issue voters. Most have a great passion for the abortion question and it is a big one; life and death. I have contended - some would say with profound cowardice - that the morning I wake up pregnant I will have a position on the question. Until then it is not for me to say. The de facto consequence of that hypothetical is that I am viewed as pro choice. But murder is murder and not fighting with all your might to protect human life means murder is okay with me. Trust me, it is not.

That question, women's rights, life rights, is just too complicated for my feeble mind. However, using that same logic, I could very well wake up one day on death row. Many of the men in that unenviable place look more look me than I care to admit. Notwithstanding The fact that we are either moments away from, or moments beyond the death of Richard Cooey, who is white, a black man is nearly four times more likely to receive the death penalty in a capital cases. It's true that there are more white prisoners facing the ultimate punishment in American prisons, but the proportion based on the population is way out of whack.

If I were sent to prison tomorrow for aggravated murder, depending on several factors, I could be sentenced to lethal injection. If that happened there's no turning back. It's done, I'm done, even though we both know I'm innocent.

"Letters From the Editor" has a very good blog up now that gives us a good snapshot of the lives cut short by Richard Cooey twenty-two years ago. It is a very sad story and a compelling argument that this murderer deserves what he gets. This man is learning nothing from dying except how to die, and like it or not, we all know how to do that. Some might say that others contemplating such evil might see what happens Tuesday morning in Ohio and have a miraculous epiphany. Of course we will never know if any minds have changed and murders prevented, but somehow I doubt it. Wipe all the other reasons away and what you have is revenge, or if you prefer avenge the death of Wendy Offredo and Dawn McCreery, two students at the University of Akron killed at the hands of then 19 year old Richard Cooey.

I don't know how many men will die at the hands of the state tomorrow, this week, this month. I just know that it could be me, rightly or wrongly I could be there and I would not be out of the ordinary. So my reasons are selfish and based on ignorance, much like my stance, or lack thereof, on the abortion question. But after all, aren't all so-called social issues based on self interests?

And if the timeline of my life turned particularly ugly, it would not be the dying that's so terrible, it's the knowing that at 10am on whatever day, whatever year, that's it, done, good bye and good luck. Makes me sick just thinking about it.

Obonix

This past week the presidential candidate everyone likes to talk about made a speech. It was not exactly your typical stump speech. It was carefully aimed at the audience in front of him.

Everything this man does is careful. That's what makes him so successful as a candidate - historically it is also what makes men less effective as presidents.

In this speech Mr. Obama was blunt about some of the problems facing black men in the 21st Century. He talked about the long odds against making it as a pro athlete or entertainer. His message is the same message I heard from my father; the same many of these men - the older attendance to be sure - heard from their fathers. The problem is not the message, for some it is the way he spoke it.

Words mean much. And in the course of my day I may embrace several different dialects. It's not just for show, though when talking to my friend Jim Wilson there is inevitably a slide into a real street-speak of black comedians and family I have known. It's fun and there is no better way to tell a story about crazy people doing silly things. It goes back to my mother, one of the smartest people I have ever known. Mary Collins could tell a story better than anyone. And though she spent her life teaching kids in their most impressionable years the importance of knowing "the king's English," she could talk trash.

That is not what Senator Obama did. He simply let his guard down some and added emphasis in a way that was more natural and accepted among black folks than perhaps at a meeting of the Santa Barbara Camber of Commerce. There's nothing wrong with knowing your audience. Yet Jesse Jackson and others have accused the candidate of "speaking down" to young black men. Whatever.

Dr. Michael Dyson and others have embraced the music of our language, our gestures and our willing adaptation of the language. At the same time we understand when it is appropriate and when it is not. There is nothing wrong with that and should Senator Obama succeed to the Whitehouse, it will be just as real as George W. Bush's occasional fall into the homespun Midland Texas tone or the John F. Kennedy Massachusetts missing R's. If we are to make anything of Barack Obama's way of talking, let's remember the following. It might just be the most important words, the most historic words of this or the last century:

I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas. I was raised with the help of a white grandfather who survived a Depression to serve in Patton's Army during World War II and a white grandmother who worked on a bomber assembly line at Fort Leavenworth while he was overseas. I've gone to some of the best schools in America and lived in one of the world's poorest nations. I am married to a black American who carries within her the blood of slaves and slaveowners - an inheritance we pass on to our two precious daughters. I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that in no other country on Earth is my story even possible.

Nuff said.

We Are All Witnesses

"The best way I can describe it is sky-writing. It was beautiful, soaring, and for the most part unreachable and fleeting. He talked about John McCain as though they were already opponents in the national election. Smart."

HUDSON, OH -- That is a phrase that is tagged with banality to an athlete. We know it well. It is draped across a wedge of a building near the place where this young man plays basketball. Yet every morning before a primary another game of round-ball is being played. Not for a $65 ticket and a multimillion dollar contact, but to keep a candidate healthy.

As I mentioned in an earlier piece, there is something historic happening here. It is the rise of stratospheric rhetoric and electrifying charisma and audacious hope and maybe - God help us maybe - a change for the better. Mr. Obama calls himself a "hope-monger," it is a clever ear magnet. His speeches are a combination of Kennedy and King, Reagan and Graham. He promises new ways for Americans to tap into the collective resource of a massive and growing government.

He is clearly a liberal; a progressive, if you prefer. I watched his speech tonight, preaching to the choir in the most liberal town in Middle America, Madison, Wisconsin. I also watched Mrs. Clinton trying to coral the lead in Texas and Mr. McCain with a small crowd of supporters in Virginia. Here's what I noticed: it did not matter what they said. Much of the speeches I watched with the sound down. Mr. Obama looked like he was already president. Mr. McCain looked about the same as he has over the last two decades. Mrs. Clinton appeared, frankly, desperate.

Then I turned up the sound. Barack Obama's speech was much like his writing and other things he represents. The best way I can describe it is sky-writing. It was beautiful, soaring, and for the most part unreachable and fleeting. He talked about John McCain as though they were already opponents in the national election. Smart. He spoke highly of the American hero McCain. Smart. And he talked to the folks, identifying with the challenges of everyday life. Smart. Hillary Clinton was offering local flavor, as though she were a longhorn, one of them, and together they aren't about to let this outsider mess with Texas. Not smart enough.

We are witnesses, and once again Ohio is the prize. I can only hope that when Mr. Obama completes his monumental sprint toward history, he remains flexible and learns how to govern. Because right now all I see is a projection of the president he hopes to be. Should he win, reality will overtake hope like a fast break from you-know-who.

...and Black Men are from Jupiter

A couple of things landed my mood in a particular team locker room today. You know what I mean, we all have teams. Some of us are golfers, some are recovering-whatevers, some drive faster than we should and some eat way too much garlic.

The point is we have identity markers that come and go and are either used or ignored until the next time they become relevant.

Some people make a living out of being on one team or another. A gay activist or Al Sharpton are examples of professionals in this sense. Recently one of my teams has come under a great deal of scrutiny and I don't mind telling you it is a very somber club house right now.

I won't mention the players that tend to give us a bad name. You know who they are. What I am moved to do here is remember a Golden Age. I want to remind you (and me) of the men who propped up a generation, several generations on broad shoulders and dared us to be better than what America was expecting. One of those men was Bill Willis.

I grew up calling this great athlete, scholar and cultural pioneer 'Uncle Bill' because he was one of my dad's best friends. Dad did not have much of a family growing up. Maybe that's why the family he and mom created was more important to him than anything. So he created a circle of friends, of brothers that stayed in close contact and helped each other every step of the way. That term, brothers, has become something of a team nickname that few understand. Bill Willis and Al Collins understood it. It meant being there, teaching and guiding. It meant doing what is right, period.

Bill Willis achieved great things. He is in several Halls of Fame and deserves every accolade. But what is not inscribed on the plaques is the contribution he made to another team: young men and women of color, and many who do not claim that distinction, who still walk along the path he cleared.

No matter what team you are on, we are all better because of men like these.