Mike Brown and Why I Am Tired of Talking To All Of You

Before you read this, I need for you to check your feelings, your privilege, your egos, and anything else that doesn't allow you to empathize with your fellow brothers' and sisters' plights.

Over the last week, all I have heard about are the rioters and the looters (there has only been one night of looting, and this was caused by individuals who would be doing this anyway, regardless of Mike Brown's death), the problem in Ferguson, Missouri, is not its great citizens, but the local police. In a city that is 67% African American, and a police force of only 53, only 3 cops are black. How can you govern people, who do not look like you, or share your cultural experiences? Did you know that the only homicide in 2014 in this city, which is 67% African American, was caused by Darren Wilson (Mike Brown's killer)? So much for that black on black crime narrative, which I will address more later.

Every night of violence has been police incited, and incited by them because they want to distract from their wrongdoing. They have that blue code of honor thing going on. But the truth is Mike Brown was shot six times, two in the head, his body was in a pool of his own blood, in the hot Missouri sun for over 5 hours. His body was 35ft from the cops car when the initial bullets hit him. So no he was not charging the cop. No he was not going for the gun (Dr. Baden, pathologist who performed autopsies on JFK, and MLK), said no sign of struggle, no gun powder residue). Last shot hit him on the top of his head. Mike Brown was 6'4", so in order to hit someone of that height on the top of his head, you either have to be 7ft tall (Darren Wilson is 5'10") or the individual who you are shooting has to be kneeling (4 independent witnesses claim that Mike Brown was on his knees, hands up in surrender) when the last and most fatal shots were delivered, so yeah, miss me with the conjecture! The truth is Ferguson will not get better and peace will not come to that city, until Darren Wilson is arrested and charged with murder. You or I could not pump six bullets into someone, get to leave town, and enjoy our life. We would be in a local jail, with no bond, awaiting trial to answer for our crime. Why should he be any different? The citizens of that city had a curfew placed upon them, but the very man who caused this mayhem, is free to go about his life. What is the justice in that?

Okay, now I want to talk to several different folks: White people, black intellectuals, Christians, and basic assholes.

White people, when blacks are murdered by cops and/or by others, it is not the time to show your white privilege. Yes, white privilege is a  thing. It is that thing that allows you to walk down the street and be given the benefit of the doubt, simply because of your white skin. It is that thing, which allows you to get that great job, not because of your education or because you are qualified, but because your dad or mom plays golf with the hiring manager, and it is that thing that doesn't allow you to understand and empathize with others because you haven't had to be systematically discriminated against, because of your skin hue. Ask yourself, how many times have you been followed around in a store for fear that you will steal something? Ask yourself, how many times, one of your friends or yourself, or someone you know, committed petty theft, and were given a lecture and let go, or received community service, while other members of the population get jail time? Remember Winona Ryder and Lindsay Lohan? Both ladies are not only celebrities who can afford almost anything, but both stole several thousand dollars of merchandise, and received community service. Mike Brown got six bullets put into him over some $50 cigars, which were not the cause of Darren Wilson murdering him, but that is the narrative white racists are spewing. And while we are on black on black crime, according to crime stats, over 85% of murders against white people are caused by other white people, so shouldn't we have a conversation about white on white crime also? Check your white privilege!

Black intellectuals, you piss me off the most. I understand white privilege and racism, but I do not understand folks who can't empathize with their own race. These are the people like Tavis Smiley, Montel Williams, Tyrese Gibson, Keke Palmer, Nelly (these are just a few, who have pissed me off in the last several days with their ignorant comments. Trust me, there are plenty more where they come from).  I live by a creed, which goes something like this: "There but for the grace of God, go I." It is very simple, not that deep, means that I could be a statistic. It was my Grandmother's prayers, keeping her knees dirty in supplication to God on my behalf, my basic fear of jail, and some lucky life choices, which is why I am where I am today. Doesn't make me better than anyone, and it certainly does not give me the right to judge anyone. So instead of using Mike Brown's death to puff your chest about how well you are doing, to talk about kids' sagging pants, tattoos, disrespectful youth, black on black crime, or anything else that distracts from this brutal execution, ask yourself what are you doing in the  community? How many people have you reached back and offered your time, your money, your mentoring, and anything that would make you part of the solution, rather than someone who just has a big mouth? Because I am here to tell you, even Oprah (who is the richest black woman I know) gets profiled and discriminated against, if you don't think so, Google her experience in Switzerland last year, when she asked to see a handbag in a local boutique there.Stop running your mouth, and lend your time and your hands to the cause, because despite how successful you think that you are, no matter how respectable you think that you are, some people will never see beyond your black skin, and you are black, so white privilege is not extended to you!

Christians, I am coming for you next. Your solution to everything is let's just pray and hug it out. The citizens of Ferguson are getting tear gassed nightly, rubber bullets, which are causing long term injuries are being shot at them, and folks souls are weary, and you want to pray? Dr. King was arrested over 30 times during the Civil Rights Movement. He was a preacher, loved God too, but he dedicated his life to the cause of improving the African American plight. Prayer is powerful, necessary, but it takes some actual work also! Quit thumping your Bibles so much, and offering lip service. You know those tithes that you collect every Sunday? Use them to promote change in your community, instead of helping your pastor buy a bigger car, home, and $1000 suits. And if you are not going to doing anything but pray, do that, and shut up and let the people who are actually doing something, do what they need to do, without judgement or ridicule from you!

And then there are just the assholes! The people whose sole purpose in life is to make life miserable for someone else, by being keyboard bullies. You know the type. The one who always has something snarky or rude to say when you post on social media. Or the ones who are so concerned with their own lives, posting meal pics, bragging about how great their lives are, celebrity worship, and overall shallow behavior, that it just sickens you, given all that is going on in the world. Because today it is Ferguson, Missouri, but tomorrow it could be your town, your relative, your friend, your child, going through this experience. Just give a damn about something or someone other than yourself!

I realize I may have offended some of you, and I don't care.  Because for every Mike Brown, there is Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis, John Crawford, Eric Garner, Sean Bell, Ezell Ford, Renisha McBride, and the list goes on and on...individuals who lost their lives not because they were in the wrong, but because of someone's racist ideologies deemed them unfit to continue leaving a peaceful life. I charge all of my friends to do something, be something more than you are right now. Our kids are dying. They need your help, not your judgement, not your scorn, not your privilege, or intellectual superiority. They need your time, your money, your resources, and they need for you to just give a damn!


Until next time......

Robin Williams and Why I Just Wish Everyone Would Collectively Shut Up!

Late Monday night (I was working and detached from everything news related), like most of you, I received the horrific news that Robin Williams, truly a multi-talented actor and comedian had died.

Like with most deaths, which are totally unexpected, individuals are left with questions and/or concerns, but I need all of you to just collectively shut up!

Strip way his celebrity status, his money, and his over 40 year entertainment history, and he was a man, prone to the same struggles, problems, and life cycles as everyone else.

He also has a wife and children who are grieving, let them grieve in peace. No matter how much we appreciated his talent, admired his work, and as much as we struggle with our questions, his family deserves this time and space.

Christians, do not use this time for your sermons about heaven/hell. They are not needed, not welcomed, and frankly very self-righteous. Just shut up!

Mental health advocates, arm chair psychologists (which it seems most of the population are), do not use this as an opportunity to preach about mental illness, depression, etc. Whatever problems Robin faced, are irrelevant now, as he has moved on from this earthly place. Save someone else, but don't use his death for your platform. Just shut up!

For the nosey, for the ones who  love to see others' lives implode, gossipmongers, etc. move on to your next fresh piece of gossip (I am sure the Kardashians are creating some as I type)...Just shut up!

Let's celebrate his life, his immense talents, and his brilliant work that we were blessed to be privy to. Above all, respect his family and live by that great Golden Rule, because death comes to all of us at some point, and I don't think we would appreciate the slander, the questions, nor the intrusions!

Until next time.....

Michael Brown, Ferguson, and Why Understanding is Not Condoning, or Acceptance, It is Simply Understanding

If you have been reading the news over the last several days, the horrific execution style murder of 18 year old Michael Brown is devastating. A life so full of potential (He was to begin college on Monday of this week, but life was taken two days prior) and the fact that a mother, just two months after watching her baby boy receive his high school diploma, is now preparing to bury him.

No matter what your views are, or what you have heard about the case: Nothing and I do mean nothing, justifies an officer of the law, who makes a solemn oath to serve and protect, shooting an unarmed individual 8-10 times.

I think we can all agree that it is barbaric, and that he should be punished to the full extent of the law (Let me remind you, as of this moment, he still a free man, and his superiors are refusing to identify him, much less punish him).

But on a larger scale, what is just as horrific as the murder itself, are the shenanigans occurring in Ferguson, by the local police.

On Sunday night, thousands gathered for a prayer vigil as a show of support for Mr. Brown's family and to promote healing. Ferguson's finest (and I use that term loosely), show up with riot gear, tear gas, and attack dogs. Now I ask you, if there is a prayer vigil going on, why show up with all of the unnecessary drama? You are trained officers, who are supposed to diffuse, not escalate, situations right? I also want to mention that when they showed up with the attack dogs, two children were bitten. Imagine as a parent sharing this civil rights experience with your children, only to have them harmed, what would your reaction be? The scene was nothing short of something out of a 1950's civil rights march, only this is not 1950....it is 2014.

Fast forward to Monday night, Ferguson's finest again tell individuals who are peacefully assembling to go home or either be arrested, and refuse to even allow journalists to videotape and report on what is going on....sounds fishy to me and certainly a violation of Constitutional rights (Of course, Conservatives only care about the Constitution when individuals are of a lighter skin hue).

Racist Conservatives (Yes, I believe 99.9% of you who call yourself Conservatives are racists, you just don't wear hoods and burn crosses, but the sentiment is the same) said the protesters were savages, black intellectuals (I used the intellectual term loosely) called for peace and admonished the people of Ferguson for their anger, and I am telling both to stand down and basically, shut up.

When your back is against the wall, when your children are being murdered for walking while black, when there is only systematic poverty and desolation, and the people who are sworn to serve and protect you, only want to kill you and then lie about it after the fact, what recourse do you have?

I am not getting into the right or wrong of the citizens' reactions, but I am saying that I understand. I think all of you, if you step outside of your political correctness, your privileged lifestyles, you could actually understand as well.

Remember understanding is not condoning or acceptance, it is simply understanding!


Until next time.....

You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine

As I mentioned in my previous blog post, I have about four book projects that I am working on, procrastinating on, lamenting over, well, you get the point!

So a few months ago, I got an idea for a book of short stories entitled, You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine. A book of ten stories, about ten people, who have love, lose it, and try to find it again. Of course, these are short stories, the action happens very quick, and you don't get a lot of info, but that is the point of a short story, right?

There is this one story in particular with a character named Lauren. I shared a snippet of it, a few months ago, but couldn't quite finish for some reason. Well, I am happy to report, that I did finish, so here is the finished version. Yes, it still needs to be edited, yes, I still have eight more stories to write, yes, I may change a few things before I publish, but at least you will have an idea.

Happy Reading!

Lauren

“So you are not going to do anything?” I was slowly getting more pissed by the minute. Here I was trying to lodge a formal complaint against my stalker ex-boyfriend, and this guy was staring me down like I had two foreheads or something.

“Ms. Thomas,” I don’t see anything that he has done. Maybe called you a few many times, but that is no different than a telemarketer.  I need to see a history of threatening behavior or some indication of your life being in danger. “This is the response from the desk sergeant who is taking my statement. This guy looks about nine months pregnant, with twins, teeth badly stained from cigarettes and years of cough drinking, and looks like the type of man who hasn’t had a woman since Clinton was in office, the first term. For guys like him, women are probably only good enough for the few moments of pleasure that he can muster up, which is why he is not taking me seriously.

“So I am supposed to wait until he actually kills me, and then have my ghost come down to the station and apply for a restraining order?” I massaged my throbbing temples to try to diffuse the headache that was creeping up and also to keep myself from reaching across the desk and wrapping that much too short tie, around his fat, almost nonexistent neck.

“Don’t think we are not taking you seriously Ms. Thomas. Just keep documenting your interactions with Mr. um….”

“Troy, Troy Davis.”

“Yeah, Mr. Davis.

“We really are sorry,” answered his much younger and better looking partner, Mr. Tall Glass of Chocolate Milk.” His badge said Officer H. Rogers, and I am guess the H stood for handsome, because he was. I am talking pearly white teeth, milk chocolate skin, nicely, chiseled cheekbones, and long, perfectly manicured fingers. Did I mention that he has big feet? But who am I kidding? I am trying to get away from a crazy stalker, the last thing I need to do is divert my attention to someone who maybe a stalker as well. Although something tells me that as fine as Officer Rogers is, he is probably the one getting stalked.

I lunged my Michael  Kors purse over my shoulders and roll my eyes at both of them to signal my disgust. All of my tax dollars paying their salaries, and I basically get treated like I am a hypochondriac, but in the legal sense.

I walk to my car, prepared to just get in and drive home, but guess who is leaning against the hood smiling like a Cheshire cat?

“What are you doing here?” After that interchange in the police station and now faced with the very problem I was trying to rid myself of, my anger was a level 10.

“The question is, what are you doing here? Is somebody bothering you bae?”

“I am not your bae, baby, or any other variation of the word. Yes, somebody is bothering me, and that somebody is you!”

“Why you got to be like that? You wouldn’t answer your cell, so I decided to follow you.”

“Do you know how deranged that sounds? Especially, since you are not my boyfriend anymore, and I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Get a clue!”

“You are just mad right now. Once you have had the opportunity to calm down, you will see things my way.”

Is this lunatic actually listening to himself?

“I am going to give you five seconds to disengage yourself from my car, or else I am walking back into that police station and getting the restraining order that I couldn’t get before.”

“Restraining order? You are going to put the white man on the brotha?”

“Don’t try that brotha crap with me. You need help, several intense sessions on a couch with a therapist.”

“No, what I need are a few sessions between your thighs.” He looked as if he had just solved the Pythagorean Theorem while holding his penis, and licking his lips, as opposed to saying something highly ignorant and offensive.

I turned on my heels, and indicated that I was about to make good on my threat. He held his hands up.

“Truce?”

“No, truce! I want you to leave me alone!”

“I just love you so much, and can’t imagine my life without you”

“Well, imagine it, because we are done!”

“Just give me one more chance.”

“No”

“After all that we have been to each other, that is all I get? A one word response, which is supposed to end four years of happiness.”

“I don’t know what relationship that you were in, but the one that ended for me three months ago, was anything but happy, since my boyfriend is a stalker.”

“That’s kinda harsh.”

“Well, what do you call being told repeatedly to leave someone alone? Or calling multiple times a day, after I don’t pick up the first time? Or following me around town, when I have told you that it creeps me out?”

“Love.”

“Excuse me?”

“I call it love,”

“You are sick!  I mean it, you need serious, professional help.”

He was now standing on the passenger side door, and I used this opportunity to unlock the driver’s side and get myself in. I immediately started the engine, which he used as an opportunity to lean against the passenger’s side.

“Either move, or you are about to be road kill.” I didn’t even give him the energy or courtesy of rolling down my window, just shouted as loud as I could.

“You wouldn’t do that. You love me too much!”

I put the car in reverse, and started to pull out of my parking space. Some people can’t be told, so they have to be shown!

I guess Mr. Clueless finally got a clue, because Troy almost stumbled, as his whisked himself away from the passenger side of my car at the last possible second.

Tears streamed down my face, and I don’t know if it was anger over being accosted in the police station parking lot, of all places, or sadness over what used to be.

Troy was my first, not my first sexual experience, but at least my first boyfriend and first love. We had met at N.C. A&T my freshman year. I was a shy church girl away from home, alone for the first time, and Troy was the nerdy boy who always aced our Biology exams, so I figured he would be an excellent study partner and could help me raise my D plus average in the class.

Over time, with my grade improving, I noticed that something else improved and changed: my feelings for Troy. I loved his intense love for science, how much he respected me (He always opened doors, walked on the outside of the sidewalk when we trekked across campus, and brought me chicken noodle soup when the flu made me bedridden for a week during my sophomore year.

But he turned into a Dr. Jekyl/Mr. Hyde  routine that I didn’t recognize during my junior year. It  started with his dad being robbed and murdered by two local thugs. He was at first depressed and despondent. Then he became clingy. He would call me no less than 20 or more times when I was away from him, leaving countless voicemails.

Whenever I returned his call or saw him in person later, there was a huge interrogation about where I was, who I was with, and why I had not responded to his phone calls.

After a year of this, he started just magically showing up where I was, and became incensed when I told him to stop following me. He just shrugged and said it was his right as my boyfriend.

When I took the walk across stage to receive my degree, I decided that I needed to make another life altering change: ending my relationship with my emotionally damaged, controlling boyfriend.

That was three months ago, and my life has been a living hell ever since. Constant telephone calls, text messages, showing up unexpectedly has become my life now. Troy started out with the begging and pleading, then came the crying, and then he became my shadow. He had never actually threatened me, but he had threatened to harm himself, if I didn’t get back with him.

I was over it. I was tired of looking over my shoulder. I wanted to feel safe again, like a whole person, and not this caricature of what I once was, which is why I tried to file the order of protection with Greensboro’s Finest aka Greensboro’s let me sit on my fat ass and collect my salary and pension, while the criminals run the asylum.

I pulled into my apartment complex, sure Troy wasn’t far behind since he had consistently been my shadow over the past three months. To my surprise, he wasn’t in the vicinity. Maybe almost making him road kill, and threatening further legal action, were the wake up calls he needed to get it together.

I immediately locked my door, dead bolt and regular lock, as soon as I was safely inside my apartment. It was time to think about what tonight’s dinner would be. I wasn’t really hungry, but recognized that I needed to eat, but did not have the energy to prepare anything, so take out it was!

I pulled out my Pizza Hut coupons that I received from last delivery order, and pulled out my cell phone to make the call. Before I could dial, there was a strong knock on my door. Damn! Could I least get a few moment’s peace? My car was probably not even cool yet from my trek to the police station, and already Troy was at it again.

I looked through the peephole, prepared for a back and forth war of words, but to my surprise it was Officer Deep Chocolate aka Officer Rogers was standing at my door. I breathed a sigh of relief, teased my hair, licked my lips…wait a minute…was I acting like I was expecting a date? Well, a girl had to always look her best! I slowly and cautiously undid the locks  and opened my door.

“Officer Rogers….what can I help you with,” I stammered, partly nervous, and the other part excited. It is not every day a woman gets a visit from a male suitor and a divinely good looking one at that.

“Sorry to drop by announced Ms. Thomas. I can’t stop thinking about you since you left the station.” Mr. Dark Chocolate uttered all of this in about five seconds flat, so evidently he was just as nervous and confused as I was.

“Um, what I mean is, I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said for extra clarification, while nervously averting any eye contact with me.

“No, I am not okay, “ I said, being as honest as I could, but with a lot less attitude than I had given him and his partner at the station.

“May, I come in?”

I step aside and allowed him to enter my apartment, while quickly resetting all the locks on my door.

“Whoa, you must be really terrified of your ex, which is why I am here. I know it doesn’t seem like we were taking you seriously, but with a manpower shortage, old school cops with male chauvinist thinking, I couldn’t overrule my partner.”

“I am really afraid. I think he may do something to me, or at least to himself.”

“I can tell. It’s just beyond telephone calls, we don’t have any proof, and so my superiors won’t do anything. I am so sorry.”

I could tell that he was just be the sheepish look that he gave me, and the genuine concern that showed on his face.

“Which brings me to the other reason, why I am here. Would you like to go out with me some time?”

“Huh?” I was attracted to him and all, I mean what women wouldn’t be, but I was definitely not trying to date him, while I had another nutcase that I was trying to get rid of.

“I know it doesn’t seem appropriate, but I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you were when you came in the station. This is not something that I normally do, but I work so many hours at the station, and I don’t have much time for socializing, and well, you are just amazing.”

“You don’t know me,” I said. After dealing with Troy’s crazy ass, I was not about to get myself into the same situation.

“But I want to know you. We can at least have dinner or lunch, and see where things go.”

“I don’t know about that. You could be crazy, or a stalker, or even worse than what I am dealing with right now.”

“I could be, but you will never know until you take a chance.”

I had to admit that he had a point. He was fine. He was an officer of the law. I was single. What more did we need? It was just lunch or dinner. I did need to start moving on. I did deserve to allow myself the chance at happiness.

“Okay, I will have lunch with you on several conditions.”

“Shoot”

“I have to pick the place. I will not travel alone with you in your car, so I will have to meet you there. Once the date is over, we go our separate ways, and you have to allow me to make the next move, if there is one.”

“Deal.”

He seemed agreeable enough, and sane enough, but so did Troy until he bottomed out.

“So I will meet you at Bravo’s tomorrow at 12 noon.” It is a little Italian eatery in Friendly Shopping Center.”

“I know where it is. I am a cop remember?” He smiled at me, and his dimples showed, and I felt little butterflies in the pit of my stomach.

“Well, I guess I need to head back to the station. Let me know if you have anymore trouble between now and then, or if you just want to talk,” he said as he gave me his business card, with his personal cell scribbled on the back.

“Thank you,” it was an appropriate response, but it was all I could muster at the time. My head was swimming from the totality of the day’s events.

He headed toward the front door, and I immediately set all of the locks behind him.

What had just happened here? I have deranged stalker, but yet I had just accepted a date from a man. What if he was a stalker? What if Troy became more dangerous? What if he tried to mess up what I had or was trying to build with Officer Rogers? So many questions, but before I could even think of answering any of them, there was another knock on my door.

Figuring that Officer Rogers was coming back since our conversation ended so abruptly and awkwardly, I undid the locks and opened the door, and to my shock and horror, it wasn’t Officer Rogers, but my worst nightmare, Troy!

“What are you doing here?,” I was trying to sound forceful, but I was visibly shaken.
“I came to see my baby,”Troy answered, while flashing a smile at the same time.

Before I could tell him to get lost, or call for backup, he bulldozed his way into my apartment, almost knocking me to the ground in the process.

“I didn’t ask you to come in,” I hissed.

“You didn’t have to. I’m your man, so this is my place too.”

“Troy, you are not my man, or anything else to me, beside a pain in my ass.”

“So is that why you accepted a lunch invitation from that punk ass cop?”

“How did you…?” I was totally floored that he knew that Officer Rogers and I had made lunch plans. Had he been eavesdropping at my door the whole time?

“I bugged this place, and I have video camera installed. I can see your every move, hear your every conversation. I must say, I am pissed that you are trying to cheat on me.”

My blood immediately turned to ice, and I knew that I was going to have to do something soon. At least with this latest admission, I had enough ammo to take to police, be treated seriously, and finally get that order of protection that I so desperately needed.

“I am not cheating on you, and we are done. Get it through your thick skull.”

“We are not done, until I decide that we are. If I can’t have you, no one else will.”

With that last little declaration, Troy made a move in my direction

I ran to my kitchen, which was just a few short feet from my living room, and grabbed the steak knife out of my drain board.

“If you come in closer you sick bastard, I will carve you up, like a Thanksgiving turkey. I mean it Troy, don’t press your luck.”

“Aw, your new bravery is so cute. But haven’t you heard, never take a knife to a gun fight?” With those simple, clichéd words, Troy reached into his pocket and brandished a silver 22 caliber pistol. I knew that my life was over, so I did the only thing that I knew how to do. I screamed at the top of my lungs, and lunged at him with the knife. I totally missed him by a mile, lost my balance, and fell to my kitchen floor with a thud.

Troy just responded with this sinister laugh, as he raised the gun to my temple and fired off a round. He bent down and kissed me one final time, as I lay motionless in a pool of my own blood. All I remember was this stabbing pain in my head before my entire world went black!

It's Not Right and It's Not Okay: My Thoughts on the Whitney Houston Biopic

I have a serious case of insomnia, and none of the characters in my four book projects that I am currently working on, wanted to play, so I decided that I would blog.

It's no secret that I am a long time fan of Whitney Houston. I still mourn her, like she is a family member....her music was and will always be the soundtrack of my life. From her breakout hit, The Greatest Love of All, when I was nine years old, which made me believe that I could do anything, to her Bodyguard soundtrack hit, I Will Always Loved You, which was released when I was sixteen, and didn't know nada about love, to her redemption song, I Look to You, Whitney made songs to fit any mood and any occasion for my life.

So naturally I was devastated at her untimely passing. I was apprehensive when I heard about a biopic. How can you capture the force that was Whitney in a two hour made for television movie? But once I heard the accomplished and gifted Angela Bassett was attached to the project, and being a close friend of Whitney's I felt a little more at ease, as I felt she would truly honor her.

But that was not to last. Soon rumors were swirling around that the movie was going to focus on the Bobby Brown years, and anyone who knows anything about Whitney's life with Bobby knows, that is not the way to honor her. Then there were the rumors that the movie was being made without the family's blessing, which is never a good idea when you are producing a biopic. But the final nail in the coffin for me, was when I learned that Deborah Cox would be providing the vocals. What the hell? Don't get me wrong, Deborah Cox is talented, accomplished, beautiful, yada, yada, but she doesn't hold a candle to Whitney's greatness. Yes, I said it! How can you have a biopic of a singer and feature another artist on the vocals?

So now the question comes to mind for me, what is Angela's true intention? Is this an opportunity to honor Whitney, or is this just more post mortem slander?

Only time will tell, but as a long time fan, I will not be among the viewership!


Until next time.....

Forgiven But Not Forgotten

Here is another novel project that I am working on, Forgiven But Not Forgotten.

Chapter 1

“Your uterus is empty,” Dr. Levausier gave me a pensive look, as she removed the ultrasound wand and cleared off the last of the ice cold gel from my stomach.

“I will not cry, I will not cry,” I repeated in my head, and tried to will my tear ducts to cooperate. I had been here before, three times previously to be exact, and crying did not help. The results were the same. I had lost yet another baby. I almost made it to the second trimester this time, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

“Would you like to talk to the psychiatrist? Maybe, we can arrange some grief counseling. You know that you can try again, once you have had three successful periods in a row,” Dr. Levausier rattled off  the information like she was at an auction. She has been my doctor since my first period at age 12, my first birth control prescription at age 16, my first pelvic exam at age 18, and during all four of my pregnancies, and subsequent miscarriages. So what seemed like a routine script that she was following, was actually her ability to give sound medical advice, while at the same time meet my emotional needs.

“I don’t think that I want to try again. I am 35. It’s getting more risky with each passing year. The endometriosis is not getting better, and I am tired. It’s just not meant to be.”

“You know there are other options: surrogacy, adoption,”

“I know my options,” I said, a little more forcefully than I intended. “I’m sorry.”

“How long have you been my patient Denise? You know I don’t take it personal. I know the type of pressure that you are under. I know how badly you want to give your husband a child, and I understand the frustration.”

“I know you do, doc. My husband and I have everything: nice home, great cars, wonderful friends and family, but a baby is the one thing that alludes us.”

“Tell you what. Get dressed, and meet me in my office, and we can discuss some of those other options. I know you are not too keen on them, but there are ways for you to still have a child that is biologically yours and your husbands.”

“I don’t know about the surrogacy thing. There have been too many cases of things going wrong, and my husband is a pastor, so I don’t know how that is going to gel with our Christian faith.”

“Denise, I understand all those concerns, but you want a baby, and you want one that is biologically yours. With your endometriosis, and advanced maternal age, surrogacy might be the only way to make that happen. I am just being honest.”

“I know you are, and I certainly appreciate it. Okay, I will at least hear what you have to say.”

 Dr. Levausier exited the room, and I slipped off the thin hospital gown and retrieved my blue and gold maxi dress from the adjoining chair. This was my favorite “casual dress”, and it was the only bright spot of this depressing day.

Once I was dressed,  I opened the exam room door and started to make my way down the hall to Dr. Levausier’s office.

Before I had traveled more than 10 feet, one of her nurses, Sheila, who also attended my husband’s church, stopped me in the hallway.

“Hey, First Lady Hall. I didn’t realize you had an appointment today. I guess that explains why Pastor Hall called in and asked for a copy of your ultrasound. I figured he probably wouldn’t be here today, because he had that big trustee meeting, well, I can just give it to you, since you will see him later anyway, and it will save him a trip.”

Sheila delivered all of this conversation without once taking a breath. My mind was still racing regarding the news that I had just received, so her motor mouth was the least of my concerns.

“Excuse me?” I only half uttered because my mind was off in left field, thinking about the decisions that I had to make, if I was ever going to be the biological mother to a child.

“I am sorry First Lady. You know how I like to go on and on. My grandmother calls me the mouth of the South.”

“It’s okay Sheila. When did Darryl, I mean Pastor Hall call for the ultrasound? “ I just thought that it was weird considered he knew that I was threatening a miscarriage, knew there was probably going to be no baby. Besides, I could easily bring home an ultrasound picture.

“This morning. He said today was a big day for you guys.  You know with finding out the baby’s sex and all. I am so happy for you guys. Although I must say that you don’t look four months pregnant, must be all that yoga that you do.”

“Huh?” I was so puzzled right now, but unlike Sheila, I knew when to keep my mouth shut, and my woman’s intuition was telling me that if I stayed silent just a little longer, I would know everything that I needed to know.

“Let me stop running my mouth and get you that ultrasound picture. I am surprised Dr. Levausier didn’t give it to you. Oh well, you know she is always juggling a thousand different things, but that is what happens when you are such a great doctor as she is.”

“Sheila, the ultrasound picture please,”. I wanted to stop her before she went off on another tangent, and I was very curious to get to the bottom of what she was talking about, mistake or otherwise.

Sheila picked up a thick file folder and reached inside to pull out the ultrasound picture. Without hesitation, she handed it over to me.

Sure enough, there was a fetus measuring 18wks, and 4 days, with an area highlighted indicating that it was a boy.  Baby Hall was scrolled across the top of the picture with a pink sticky note. I lifted it up, and another name was scrolled across the top. It wasn’t mine, which meant my husband had some serious explaining to do.

Brotherhood Betrayal

Just an excerpt from a novel that I am working on...happy reading!

Chapter 1 Sonny

“Oh, baby that’s my spot”, cooed Delilia, as she jumped up and down my dick like it was a pony.

“Will you, shut your loud ass up, before you wake up Christopher?”

I was livid that she was making so  much noise. What a difference five years make. Five years ago, when we first started this affair, Delilah was helping me during my mid-life crisis about turning 40 the next year, stuck in a 15 year marriage with a woman, who I had married too young, and a job as police detective that I have been in too long. She was a nice distraction from the daily talks with my wife about mortgages, my teenage daughter,  and the once a month sex rations that my wife put me on.

But six months into our relationship, and after a night of drinking and allowing my little head to think for my big one, Delilah was pregnant with my child. I asked her to get an abortion. She outright refused. Something about being 32, and this being her only opportunity to be a mother. I wouldn’t have put it past her to plan this shit, but either way, I now had my mistress pregnant.

I suspect that Maureen, my wife of 15 years, already knew about the affair, but an illegitimate child would only confirm her suspicions. With Delilah refusing to have an abortion, and figuring that Maureen would take the news better coming from me, I decided that I was going to tell her right away.

So I planned a nice evening at Ruth Christ Steakhouse, and ordered a nice bottle of wine. I figured that maybe if I got her liquored up, the news of my betrayal would go a lot better. Little did I know that Maureen had a surprise of her own for me. I thought it very weird that Maureen didn’t want any wine that night, because my wife could guzzle some wine, as she considered it the official drink of a “lady”.

As I was sitting there try to come up with ways to break the news to my wife, she dropped a bombshell of her own. My wife announced that she was six weeks pregnant. Even showed me the first sonogram of our soon to be son or daughter, which was now the size of a peanut.

I broke out in a moist sweat, and I wanted to upchuck the entire meal that we had just consumed, and I am not a puker, especially with all of the foul shit that I have seen in my life of work.

So let’s just say that I never got to tell Maureen about Delilia’s pregnancy that night, and seven and a half months later, both my wife and my mistress had little boys, sixteen days apart. Maureen and I named our son Carl Anthony Smith Jr, which is my birth name, but people have called my Sonny since a little boy. Delilia gave our son the name of Christopher Rodriguez. Christopher after her late brother, Chris, who was one of my closest friends before he was killed during the first Gulf War, and Rodriguez was her last name. I definitely did not protest him having her last name, given that I was married, and I did not want Maureen ever to find out about this. I did sign the birth certificate though, and these weekly “lovemaking” sessions, were my insurance that Delilia never took me to court for child support or told my wife this unfortunate news.

I love all three of my children equally, my nineteen year old daughter, Kristen, and my two four year old sons, Carl Jr, and Christopher, but it hell trying to maintain two families and keep everyone happy on a police detective’s salary.

I just wish that I could turn back the hands of time. Make better, smarter choices, and realize the “gold” that I had in my wife at home. I tell any man out there, if you feel your ass going through a mid-life crisis, buy your ass a sports car like normal people, because this drama that I created for myself is for the birds.

My cell rings on the nightstand, and I look at the caller id, and it is my lifelong best friend, Jesse, who is calling to “pretend” that there is an important case that requires my attention, although this time, there is no pretending involved.

Chapter 2 Maureen

Sonny must think that I am really stupid. It is now 11:30, and he is not at home yet. Work is always his excuse, but after 22 years as a cop/detective, that excuse is tired and played out. He lies like he breathes, and I wish that I had the strength to leave his lying, cheating ass.

Where would I go though? Yes, I am degreed. I have a master’s in public administration, and I am a hospital administrator, so I am definitely not staying for the money, as I have more money than he does. Am I staying for the kids? Well, our oldest daughter Kristen is a sophomore at N.C. A&T State University, and I honestly believe our four year old son, Carl Jr, would be okay, as he hardly sees his dad now as it is between his crazy work schedule and his whoring.

I guess my greatest fear is like any other woman my age. At forty-four, there aren’t any men beating down your door to marry you. The ones your age, are either so set in their ways, or so fucked up by their last hundred relationships, you would rather not be bothered. The younger ones are too lazy to work in a pie factory, cum in about five minutes, and are looking for some older, desperate woman to be their “sugar mamas”, and I am not going to be either.

I have loved this man for over 35 years. We met when we were nine, when my family and I moved to Greensboro, from Chicago, for my dad to become chief of police. Sonny’s dad, like him, was a police detective. So although my dad was the boss, he and Sonny’s dad became quick friends, not to mention we lived two houses down from each other.

At first, we just played together, as I was a huge tomboy, and I thought that he and his two best friends, Jesse Peterson and Chris Rodriguez were just three little punks. I could outrace all three of them, and beat them at most sports.

When we became teenagers, Jesse had a huge crush, but I wasn’t interested. I had a huge crush on Chris, but he wasn’t interested, so Sonny and I actually started dating when were sixteen. We dated for about two years, and he decided he was going to the military.  We broke up, because I told him that I was not about to be a military wife, traveling all over the country, in cramped housing, not knowing whether or not I was going to be a widow from one day to the next.

Sonny was sent to Iraq during the first Gulf War in 1990, and call it pity or patriotism, I decided to be his girlfriend again, so he would know that someone was waiting for him here at home. Actually, all three of the guys went over there, but only two returned, Sonny and Jesse. Chris stepped on a land mine, and suffered a horrific death.

I have never seen Sonny so distraught. Chris and Jesse were like his brothers, since he is an only child. I guess that must have really stirred something in Sonny, because upon his return, he left the Army, and asked me to marry him all in the same week.

I accepted, and we were married in 1992, two years later, Kristen was born. It was such a horrific birth, I vowed never again to allow myself to go through that experience again. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children, but both deliveries almost ended my life.

In 2008, after almost 16 years of marriage, I felt that Sonny and I were experiencing a “rut”,  so I decided that a baby might help things. So I stopped taking my quarterly Depo shots, and intentionally got pregnant. Not to mention, he was fucking Delilah, and I was not about to lose my husband to another woman. Yeah, I know all about their affair. Sonny just doesn’t know that I know. I suspect he is the father of her little boy, but I can’t prove it.

I am looking at the clock again. 12:30….Sonny really better not try my patience with trying to stay out all night. I have taken a lot of shit from him over the years, but I am not to be messed with!

I pick up my cell from the coffee table. He had better have a damn good excuse!

Chapter 3 Jesse

            I hate being Sonny’s flunky. He’s got the fine wife, the hot mistress, and I get stuck with being his alibi, and his go to guy. I spend so much time creating stories and explaining away situations to both his women, I can barely get pussy on my own.

            But that is what best friends do right? It is part of the official “bro code.” I guess part of me feels that I owe Sonny. I was naturally skinny growing up, so I was the target for all of the neighborhood and school bullies. Sonny and Chris really had my back. Not only did they befriend me, but they stood up to anyone who would dare try to use me as their punching bag. I was asthmatic as a kid, and had thick glasses, so there were plenty of opportunities for Sonny and Chris to bail me out of sticky situations.

            I even joined the Army for the two of them. I was always a bookworm in school, so I had planned to attend college, but Sonny and Chris, ever the athletes and barely passing students, decided that they wanted to see the world and bang as many women as possible, so joining the Army would allow them to do both.

            I was scared shitless. What if we went to war? What if we ended up getting killed or becoming POW’s in some foreign country? Sonny and Chris told me that neither scenario was going to happen, and after I aced the ASVAB, I figured I would find some job working in an office or with computers and would never see the front line. Besides, we hadn’t had a war since Vietnam.

            Just one week after graduating from high school in 1987, the three of us signed our commitment papers and off to basic training and AIT we went. We were stationed at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky in the middle of  July . Waking up at 4AM for PT was not so bad, but doing the drills in that 90 degree plus heat was exhausting. I fainted and was treated for heat exhaustion twice in the first week.

            Sonny and Chris really gave me the motivation to keep going. Their friendship and constant ribbing were the incentives I needed to keep pushing myself, partly because I never wanted to fail at anything, and also because the three of us were in constant competition with each other. The ironic thing is that they could never compete with me academically, but athletically I could never compete with them.

            For the first three years, it was smooth sailing. We all got stationed in Germany. I learned and became quite fluent in German, got to sleep with my share of German women, and secured a gig programming computers for the Army.

            But then in the late summer/early fall of 1990, all hell broke loose. Bush Sr. decided he wanted to go after Sadaam Hussein, and we were headed to the Persian Gulf. Fuck! This is not what I signed up for, and I only had one more year of my four year contract left.

            The first four months that we were over there, was just sitting and waiting. Each day, we didn’t know if that was going to be the day that we went to war. Finally, in January of 1991, we got the official word, and we went to battle.

            For the first two weeks, it seemed that we were “winning”, or least keeping our heads above water, and then that dreadful day happened. The day that Chris stepped on a live mine shaft, and got blown to bits. In just a few short seconds, my friend of over 20 plus years was no more, and Sonny and I were left to deal with mourning a guy who was like a brother to us. I didn’t actually see the blast, but I still hear it in my dreams.

            Both Sonny and I received 30 day leaves to come home to attend Chris’ funeral. I will never forget how distraught his mother Ms. Rodriguez was, and his little sister, Delilah. Sonny and I could not help them much as we were distraught also, and knowing that we were returning to the same war zone that had claimed our best friend/brother’s life in 30 days did not help matters.

            Physically, we survived and came out on the other side. Mentally, well, the jury is still out. My PTSD started with just headaches, bad dreams, but over the past several months, my symptoms are worse, and this new symptom is out of control. I haven’t told anybody about it, for fear they will commit me, or worse.

            I am a cop, so I have to be on top of my game at all times. No time for weak men’s ailments. And this new case is going to be a doozy. The third prostitute was murdered tonight, and like her two predecessors, she was stabbed multiple times, with the final devastating blow involving her mouth. The sick son of a bitch actually removed her lips. What kind of sick son of a bitch were we dealing with? I can’t handle stuff like this, and Sonny is my partner, hence the call. I really need my brother/partner right now.