It’s not a dirty secret, but something that our differences bring out. My hair is kinky, despite the days when I lay the gel on hard and get that pseudo “good hair” look - refrain from any extracurricular comments here. I take my head to a kinky hair specialist because just like a peculiar compound, my hair has its own unique properties and qualities.

I was leaving for Sydney, Australia and the word on the street was that Blacks were so sparsely represented that finding a barber would be a difficult task. Just like any concerned consumer, I consulted with the experts.

“What do you think Brian,” I asked my barber before departing for the savage land that lacked the civilized touches of a barber for my head. He was a man I held in high esteem. No just because of his uncanny ability to fade your hair until parts of your scalp were invisible, but his proficiency in barbershop psychiatry was second to only Freud if he were a brotha.

“Hmmm,” he puzzled as he spun me round in the chair.  “You know we can just go ahead and shave it all off.”

His advice was sound and practical albeit drastic. It had taken me roughly two years to locate a barber that didn’t have me looking like an eraser. I still remember my first visit to that particular barbershop, The Ultimate in College Park, GA. I got scalped by an older guy who claimed to be a barber. Unable to locate my hairstyle on the chart at the front of the store, I proceeded to provide the older dude with hand gestures pointing to location on my scalp where I expected to see fades and bubbles, lines and definition. When the do was completed, and I was given the mirror to gaze upon his creation, my eyes started twitching.

I was left looking like Larry Blackmon from Cameo without the decency of handing me cup to complete the look. If I didn’t look like Larry Blackmon, I looked like a Big Daddy Kane groupie 20 years too late and to corporate to count. I told dude to just take it all down and recognized I’d have to try again but neva eva, eva, eva with that decrepit barber again. Every time I see that dude in the shop I still want to bi#@$ slap him.

Ultimately, I decided against going bald. My style gave me just the right mix to fit in with my corporate duties and my rebellious inclinations. A sort of quite fight the power if you will.

My dilema was impending. I consulted with old friends asking them to poll their personal networks seeking the needle in a haystack. The prognosis was grim. Brian’s recommendation didn’t make the day brighter. Like a binge drinker just before last call, I needed that rightous last cut. Brian set about crafting the masterpiece that has earned him the nickname “Miracle Worker” in my family. At it’s conclusion, his handy work was evident and his kindness even greater. “This one’s on the house,” he smiled. With that final cut, I was now on my own to find a suitable replacement for the likes of the Miracle Worker in a land far, far away.

Upon my arrival in Sydney, I began spying, eying and questioning. Pretty soon, I had my line of questioning down. “Do you know where I might find an ethnic barber?” Most folks looked a little puzzled. Wasn’t sure if they were puzzled because they didn’t know where one was or if it was because they couldn’t see the need for it. You must understand there are few, few Black people in Australia. I’ve gone weeks without seeing someone that looked like me.

Like a ticking time bomb, I carried my days on knowing that day by day my hair was growing. As the time approached for me to begin looking for a job, I knew my dilemma was growing out of control and would reach a head soon. Either I would locate a barber or I would have to shave off all of my hair. Shaving it all off wasn’t necessarily a bad option, but the fact is I’m forty. The way I figure it, there may come a time when I can’t grow hair, so I need to grow as much of it as I can while I can.

While walking to a class in downtown Manly near the wharf, I saw a barber executing a pretty decent fade on a tall white guy. I was late for class so I made a mental note of the place, maybe someday it would come in handy. I’d searched online for at least an hour with no luck. I could find beauty saloons for women with ethnic hair, but no barbers. That weekend, I played my ace in the hole.

I’d heard of a place called Blacktown inhabited my minorities including a large contingent of Africans. It was a family outing. We all piled into the car and traveled the 40 miles or so. Some days I plan well, others not so much. On this particular day, I could have saved us some grief by calling ahead. We arrived at 3:30 PM and they closed at 3:00 PM. There was not a soul in site. Uggghhh.

Things were now officially desperate. Later that week I traveled back to Manly to locate the barbershop. I found the shop but walked around outside contemplating my options.  There were no black barbers to be found. I was tempted to just chalk it up to “Not gonna happen,” but instead decided to at least inquire as to the cost of the cut.

“Twenty six dollars,” the man said. I would later find that his name was Frank and he in fact was the owner of the shop. He had been open for business for seven years now.

“Do you know how to cut my hair,” I asked.

“Sure,” he said without pausing. Oddly enough, that wasn’t as comforting as I had hoped it would be. Knowing that my only other option was baldness, I decided to have a seat and see where the chips would fall. He appeared to be Latino, Cuban if I had to put money on it.

As I took my place in the calmly painted white interior shop, I spied a stack of Murray’s hair pomade on the neatly lined glass shelf behind me. Both the orange and the black cans. My hope was restored. I relaxed a little as the clippers sprung into action with a familiar click and hum.

“I see you have some Murrays back there,” I said, attaching a question with my tone.

“Oh that,” he responded in his thick Aussie accent. “The English guys love that.” Now I was puzzled. Murray’s pomade is a thick waxy greasy pomade most notably used to generate waves in short hair for the brothas. I would now be educated on my ignorance. Frank informed me that it was also used by the surfers as it would allow them to style their hair and the pomade made their hair virtually waterproof. That was news to me. I was now receiving an international education.

Frank set about working on a zero fade with an afro top. His technique, razor and comb, was curious. I’d never experienced the technique before, so the question was - how would it look when completed? It took an hour during which time he filled me in on the different rugby styles prevalent in Australia. We discussed kids, parenting and business partners. I was at ease.

When it was done, it was different. But it was a good cut that I was satisfied with. Thankfully, I think I found a barber for the short time till I can get back to the states.

Now relieved of that twanging sensation which is  not unlike a hammered tuning fork, I can think clearly free from the ill effects that such a long damn trip collects. Long being 24 hours traveling and sitting in small seats bolted into big airports with famous names.

The flight was interminably long. With a stop in Chicago and then one in LA, both beautiful cities, I was beat before the journey started. There were delays leaving Atlanta, roughly two hours.  Luckily the Chicago flight was only delayed by three hours so I only had an hour wait upon my arrival in the windy city. LA was another hour delay. It wouldn’t have been as bad if there were enough time to actually grab a deep dish pizza in Chicago or a Tommy’s tamale in LA. But, nope, tha wasn’t happening.

By the time the 16 hour flight from LA to Sydney was underway, I’d already spent 8 hours sitting or flying. Caught between something that vaguely resembled sleep and a knawing ache  running down the back of my spine and seeping just underneath my knee caps, it was less then comfortable. It was just uncomfortable enough for me to think about it, but not that uncomfortable that I actually got up and walked around the plane.

As is the recurring theme in my adult life, there were very few African-Americans on board. Walking around seemed to me an invitation for scrutiny from foreign eyes with alien ideas about just what my story was. Was I a ball player, singer or jumping bail to evade the long arm of the law? Funny thing is, I to had foreign eyes spying two other brothas on the plane. They travelled together and dressed in Lycra/nylon sweats and basketball shoes, their height seduced me into a stereo type: what team did they play for? Seeing them did comfort me though. It gave me the illusion I wouldn’t be alone when I landed in Sydney. There were now at least two other brothas in the country.

Not that I didn’t mind some eyes on me. Truth be told, I felt I was looking moderately fly in my newly acquired brown vest, smartly contrasting light beige ribbed shirt, and sufficiently dress-casual jeans. To top the entire ensemble off, there were a pair of brownish yellow pull on soft soled dress shoes adorning my feet. I thought I looked better then I had in years. At the end of the day in the consideration to walk or sit, sitting won out. I still got stares and unfortunately, it wasn’t because of my funky fresh gear.

The flight was scheduled for 16 hours, in the end, we did it in 15. Yea for great piloting. When I dragged my fresh dressed tired butt into Sydney, the weather was great and the scenery tropical. My eyes darted to and fro to greedily suck up any details they could discern. The palm trees waved in the wind and the overcast day promised a warm but gentle experience as I hoped in the waiting car and we drove the 45 minutes to my new home in Mona Vale, New South Wales.

How many MJ crosswalks can you count?

Along the way, I took in the sights and sounds that were Sydney. I saw cars that were familiar, but many more there weren’t. The first thing I was immediately struck by was what I perceived to be an unhealthy veneration and worship of Michael Jackson at every other street corner. In my American mindset, I saw signs at each crosswalk that hearkened me to the days of Thriller and I anxiously awaited street dancers to jump in the middle of the street popping locking and throwing down a bogaloo for good measure.

Turns out it was just a cross walk sign. There would be plenty more aha moments ahead for me if I could just survive the ride home. Again, my American mindset knew that in Australia the driving rules held that  “the left side is the best side and the right side is suicide.”  Despite the rules and conventions, the brain has certain elements of life that have become instinctual. Mindless violations of those instincts, without fail - for safety reasons- trigger alarms that widens eyes, tightens grips and causes a certain shallow breathing.

With every turn that we made, I couldn’t help but pause mid sentence, prepared to holler, “get on the right side!” Things have progressed though. Now not only can I sit while watching others drive Engilsh, but I can drive English and even navigate the unique round-a-bouts that seemingly hang out at the end of every street scattered across the greater Sydney area.

He doesn’t tend scabbed knees for free: there is a world beneath his waiting room window that isn’t pretty.

There I see fear flickering in a child’s eyes and her mommy is shopping. Somewhere.

She can’t be far, her lopsided cart overflows with  brickbats and pieces of a unique dream shattered into a million distinct pieces.

There are millions like her whose dazed eyes, gorged with destruction, tune in to empty stomachs and cold nights.

Though they are starving, an appetite for destruction has consumed their happiness.

Help has dialed 911 and gotten lost on a telephone line snaking to nowhere that really matters.

Lights and stop signs ignore their purpose and substitute as disaster’s jewels and destruction’s court jester .

Silently, the resolute cling to concrete Legos and open skies - oddly singing in triumph and praise.

Broken bodies shelter beautiful memories that torment in an ugly world decorated with despair.

Raised hands missing bodies grow from the concrete daring to ask somber questions.

There are no answers in this place, just pointed fingers and texting vigilantes cleaning up behind feeble children and the broken hearted.

Morbid cocktail parties stumble into the night under cover of anonymous blankets.

Crushed plastic, broken bodies, dust and rubble dance a two step with the grim reaper mixing.

Little girls with ankle high lace socks, network with rich bankers and thugged out boots missing bodies.

No one closes their eyes, no one opens their mouths under anonymous blankets.

No one exchanges names and answer only to the winds howling call.

Pictures carefully frame despair so that we can see, believe and then neatly close the magazine, before walking to our appointment.

http://www.soulpundit.com/2010/02/20/anonymous-appointment/

I cheated on reading this book in that we acquired it on audio tape to calm the family as we made a six hour trek with an eight and nine year old in tow. To my chagrin, not only did the children remain quiet, but the adults were riveted to the tale as well. A year later with only adults traveling in the car, it was still a hit.

The power of this tale is generated by the strong writing and unique literary devices employed by the author Lemony Snicket (a.k.a Daniel Handler) and Brett Helquist. The fictional tale recounts the lives of the Baudelaire children:  Violet, Klaus and Sunny. The children are orphaned after an unfortunate fire claims the lives of their wealthy parents and their home. After staying with the manager of the family estate temporarily, the children are shipped off to live with a distant relative. Just when their luck seems to be looking up, it comes crashing down around them. The relative the children are sent to live with is a less than blissful individual. Blissful here meant to insinuate that he, being Count Olaf, was a repulsive, repugnant, dreadful man who was despicable in every sense if ever the word had applied to a human.

Throughout, the writing for The Bad Beginning is witty, precise and comical and oddly dark. The writing is so tremendous that adults with no children around will find themselves captured by the language, the story and the situations the children find themselves in. I believe the writing is so good that it overcomes the fact that nothing ever really seems to go right for the children and at its core, the story really is tragic and dark.

As prevously stated, the orphaned children are sent to live with Count Olaf who treats the children terribly. In addition to plotting for their fortune, Count Olaf and his friends are not very fond of children and go to great lengths to make life uncomfortable and miserable for the children. At every turn as things seem to get brighter for the children, misfortune seems to magically appear to place yet another road block to happiness.

Throughout, the children rely on themselves to avoid catastrophe. Klaus at the tender age of 12, proves extremely bright and is able to keep the kids one step ahead of the man made traps placed before the children. Violet, who is 14, is the ranging thinker and tinkerer whose inventions and analytical mind serve to both escape and ensnare the children. Sunny, the baby, is simply an intuitive baby unable to do anything but incite laughter: loved her.

I’ve heard some rubbish masquerading as criticism bantered about labeling the tale formulaic and repetitive, however, for my first brush with the series I simply say bravo: here bravo means tremendous, wonderful and ppppllllgggghhhhhhh to all the naysayers.

The Shack is an engaging story that intertwines Christian theology within a modern tale of tragedy and struggle. The language is straightforward and places the subject matter into an understandable and digestible format accessible to all. Some criticisms attack the straightforward style, but I think it works for this story.  Be mindful, there are some deep  reactions from the Christians as to the accuracy and even heresy of some of the books content. To look into some areas of the skirmish, you can visit:  http://www.boundless.org . Much of the criticism circles around the interaction and usage of the trinity in direct communication with Mack(Mackenzie) Phillips, the main character of the story.

As we meet Mack, he has entered into a period of his life he dubs,  “The Great Sadness.” This period is ushered in by the abduction and murder of a close and vulnerable family member. In the midst of his pain, Mack grapples with the reconciliation of his faith and the atrocity visited upon his family. The plot, though not unique, delivers a compelling exposition of the Christian trinity and the attendant love gracefully bestowed upon mankind through the creator.

I found the book to be a quick read due to not only the subject matter, but the fresh approach in explaining such complicated topics as the trinity, forgiveness and redemption.

The trinity consumed a large portion of the book. Young spins a tale where Mack, against common sense, heeds a call to revisit the site of the horrendous crime. Once there, Mack begins a journey in conversation with The Father, represented as, for lack of a better metaphor, “Aunt Jemima,” Jesus as a man of “Middle Eastern” descent, and The Holy Spirit as an ethereal woman of Eastern descent.

Although the name Aunt Jemima doesn’t appear in the book, the images of God as a portly African-American woman, cooking in the kitchen plays on the obvious stereotype.  The problem with the stereotypes is that they erect a philosophical barrier, for those observant of them, that the user must grapple with prior to moving forward with the book. As in any writing, cliches are to be avoided, well, “like the plague ” - couldn’t resist.

Utilizing a stereotype is a weak way of not developing characters. By relying on the images and baggage generated by the stereotypes, the writer doesn’t have to develop the characters. The unintended consequence, however, is that the stereotype carries baggage that each user will interpret to their own understanding which may prove detrimental or helpful to the writer. In my case, it wasn’t as bad, but in many cases, it became a huge flaw that soured readers on the whole experience.

One of the redeeming aspects of the book, however, is the confrontation of forgiveness, which is a complex emotional issue. The interplay between The Father, referred to as “Papa”,  Mack intertwined with his tragedy, Young does a great job in illustrating the interplay of  forgiveness in it’s multiple facets as he weaves the conept through The Father, Mack and the perpetrator of the deadly deed.

All and all, I liked the book and would recommend it. If pushed for a grade on the book, I’d give it a C+.

The play centers around Troy Maxson. He reminds me of the
quintessential black patriarch. Consumed with his own understanding and
experiences with the world, he narrows the scope of life to that which
is comprehensible to him. Anything outside of this sphere is nonsense.

His tendency to judge his son’s future by his past is deceptively
destructive to not only his relationship with his son Cory, but Cory’s
future and subsequent generations. In Troy we find that cantankerous
man growing old and struggling to stay afloat in a world changing
around him. His life is like concrete quick sand both knocking him
about and swallowing him up at the same time.

His love for his wife seems to be of legend, yet and still, he ends
up having a relationship outside of his marriage that produces a child.
He judges his actions by his heart, failing to consider how his actions
jeopardize the relationship he had so fully built with his wife. In him
we find the drive which insecurity breeds in clinging to one’s own
understanding in the midst of a complex world of complex relationships.

The workmanship of Wilson’s dialogue is amazing. I found myself
reading outloud, portraying the gruff, shortened sentences of Troy and
the seemingly long and thoughtful words of Rose. The dialogue rolls
along pushing into the next idea and thought, wrapping the reader  up
and placing them in the yard surrounded by the fence.

Throughout the play, Troy transforms before our eyes as he is played
against the supporting characters who reflect his goodness, his
stubbornness, his selfishness. In them we see the irony of the fence he
slowly builds over time. Even as the play states, a fence is not only
used to keep others out but also to keep some in. At the conclusion of
the play, we find those who are within and without the gates that
Troy’s life has constructed.

An excellent play!!

It’s an unfathomable proposition, unfortunately exposing itself in gory detail.  The aftermath of the Haiti earthquake is an undeniable drama of epic proportions that has presented this exact scenario. Act or watch people die.

In the modern era we’ve come to expect impartiality from our news organizations, but as a matter of education and the imperfections lurking within the human psyche, this is a standard which is rarely achieved. We are a smarter generation, and we know  every reporter brings a bias and vision to the story that necessarily has blind spots that we may or may not share.

But the coverage CNN has been executing on Haiti is nothing short of mind boggling. In the meltdown of infrastructure and the satisfaction of basic needs and services such as communication, transportation, health care and security, the reporters in the midst of this tragedy find themselves in the unique position of becoming participants in the story.

Believe it or not, the reporter’s ultimate goal is not to be a participant in the story, rather it is to provide as unbiased an account as possible while being as close to the story as possible.  Somehow, the motionless body of a child lying alive but bleeding  within the outskirts of a camera lens can conjure up emotions too strong to resist. Quietly, the preservation of life, is one of the essential bonds that has ensured our survival since days of old when we were simply snacks with legs to far bigger and faster creatures. Luckily for the people in Haiti, CNN remembers.

Anderson Cooper pulled a boy out of harms way after he was hit in the head by a concrete brick. Another correspondent had his vehicle commandeered to take an injured girl to the hospital. Dr. Sanjay Gupta went so far as to perform surgery and render medical aid in accordance with his expertise. Their frustration, outrage and helplessness was evident in their reports.

I couldn’t help but think how bad the situation was that reporters were actively involved within the story. The country is falling apart so much so that reporters are helping to lead the charge.

I couldn’t help but move toward inserting myself in the story.

I chuckled at rogue roommates, silly siblings and funny friends. The grunge of basement grit covering me was overpowered by the satisfaction of revisiting beautiful people, wonderful places and wondrous things. I had the proof to tell the stories. So, how to share in a post Kodak mindset? I could post these pics to the Kodak gallery, load them on flicker, create a PowerPoint presentation or . . .?

Or, I could use them as the beginning salvos in the greatest Facebook picture war known to mankind. Of course my flair for the dramatic may overstate my aims just a tad, but hey, it doesn’t hurt to shoot for the stars. The more I pondered, the more I realized we needed a Geneva Convention of sorts on how to war fairly. I do believe in fair war, so what follows is a delineation of the rules of combat for a well executed honorable Facebook war that will leave friends and family just that, friends and family.

Rules of Engagement

1 - Know your subject well enough before posting:

Do not post pictures of someone as the main subject if you do not know them well. This is in poor taste. As a rule of thumb, if your response to randomly spotting them in the mall is a lukewarm hand gesture, chances are, you two are NOT not on it like that. No pictures for you.

If, on the other hand, you knock an elderly person to the ground while making a bee line to greet them, you’re good. Post away. If there are others in the picture who are not the main focus of the pic and you a.) don’t know their name, or b.) don’t care what their name is, fa-get-about-it. We call these folks fb pic war collateral damage. It’s expected that a certain number of these folks will get trapped on your Facebook page.

2- No pictures of children whom you are not related to:

On a serious note, protecting others should always be in the forefront of our minds when posting online. To this end, be mindful of posting pics of children whom you are not related to because some parents are extremely protective of their children’s privacy. Many of them have good reason to be.

3- Be mindful of relationship status prior to posting:

You know when your significant other asks the question, “did you have a xxxxxx with so and such?” By not posting previous relationship pics, you uphold their answer, regardless of their answer. Other folks simply have a tremendous amount of pride, and if they see who their significant other has dated in the past, they may be extremely insulted and terminate the relationship on the spot!!

4- No compromising photos:

It’s important to recognize that people grow. We all are hopefully smarter and wiser than we were during earlier periods of our lives. It’s mean spirited and calamitous to knowingly post photos of others in situations or scenes that would jeopardize their relationship, their job or their security. I know posting a compromising pic of your ex seems like an equitable way to repay them for that wonderful gift they left you with, but, you will appear as the villain and you can’t undue what you’ve done. This also applies to posting ugly pics of models and could even extend to posting pics of people you know who are now “famous.” When in doubt, refer to rule #1.

5- Move when asked to remove:

Be responsible for the pics you post. If the person whom you have added or tagged requests that you remove their picture, do it promptly. Now be mindful some folks are a little bashful and some are hard of hearing, so depending on which side you fall you may need to request harder or BS better.

6- Post with a sincere heart:

The cardinal rule of thumb is to post in love and appreciation. Be mindful, your FB Pic War has the potential to touch, move and inspire!! How great is it to share with others the beautiful people whom your life has been blessed with? Isn’t it also motivating to reflect on where your life has taken you? At the end of the day, your FB Pic War should be about bringing family and friends closer. Keep this in your heart and win lose or draw, your war will have been worth it.

Here, genetically irrelevant instincts are startled to usefulness. They ineffectually  fight specters slaying feminine spirits before the approach of motherhood. Allowing supernatural terror to be handled by babes masquerading as would-be mothers, their love is ravaged before it can save, before it can heal, before it can live. Their life and death is now sentenced to  sorrow filled nights and grieved dreams.

Predators are stalking dressed as unrighteous souls, leaking their sickness onto the landscape of our collective conversation painting gasps and tears on unwilling faces. These liars in our midst are monsters feigning humanity, defiling the sanctity of our morals as polluted as they be.

Shaniya cries and we lie. We lie, we lie. We lie to ourselves and we lie to others. We embolden mothers romanced in a love affair with the profane to sell our future and pawn our honor. We allow sanity, legality, apathy, safety and the proper chain of command to comfort little girls with running noses and bruised thighs. Tearful eyes, screaming for mommy living through pain not meant for unwilling women beyond the door of womanhood.

And we who had errands to run, appointments to make, jobs to fulfill and classes to attend, we who knew nothing of these matters, knew nothing of vigilance, knew nothing of suffering we whispered in a traumatized  child’s ear, “our care and concern is not with you.”

Long fingers point out killers and hint at allies staring in mirrors. Our silence applauds evil as it ravishes lives and claims future wombs too young to comprehend the potential of their destiny.  Our mouths confess sideline soliloquies speaking of children who battle lustful killers and incomprehensible villains unwilling to save their lives.

We surrender our apathy. We surrender our lives to the service of loving touches pure with concern. We reject the death of silence and the bludgeoning of apathy. We want our girls to live and our boys to joy. We pledge anew our lives for theirs, removing ALL villains who allow their brutalization.