HPD & FBPD: Legal Criminals & Unlawful Arrest

Pic provided by: www.braysoaksmd.com

As I'm writing this, I wait on the call from my son. Just down the road from the detention center keeping him in a holding cell of which he should not even be. That's right, my black son has been arrested & thrown in jail. For what? Not even he knows, but when I looked it up, the charge was listed as speeding. 

 I am a quiet storm, angrily waiting, while I hold my peace; for now. You see, this is not the first time this has happened to him. No, my young black king, who is slow to anger, stays out of trouble, & minds his own business, was pulled out of his own parked car, hand cuffed & thrown into the back of a police cruiser just last year. Why? The officer made the claim that he had stolen his own car. And when proof was shown that he was the lawful owner, the officer's excuse was that he must've gotten the wrong information. This system we call justice has proven itself enough to me to show it cannot be trusted. 

Who do we turn to to keep us safe when the ones who get paid to do it get their jollies off treating those with darker skin like animals? One thing I am tired of doing is standing idly by while my people, MY SON, & my skin are made to look like criminals by the Amerikkkan injustice system! Where are we really safe? Not in the streets, not out in society, & certainly not out in "quiet" neighborhoods where our skin has people questioning if we can even afford to be there. 

When I was young, I remember being called a nigger by a six-year old white boy while I skated around at the roller rink with my friend. We were minding our own business, and this boy felt it his obligation to attempt to degrade us. 

As a college student in my teens, I was fully violated, frozen under the glare of an officer's flashlight. He kept the beam purposefully centered on my private parts, and I could do nothing but sit there & be exposed. Fear had gripped my vocal chords, and though his partner was just a few steps away, I knew I could not rely on him to rescue me. They were a "brotherhood," and his focus would have been more on having his partner's back than protecting my behind. So, I sat there and took my visual raping from an officer of the law.... 

My aim, when I had my sons, was to protect them from corrupt law enforcement, but no matter how educated, how disciplined, or unassuming I taught them to be, I still could not protect them from these LEGAL CRIMINALS. The more we fight for change, the harder they push back to keep us shackled to their impudent ideas of who we are. Its a very lofty way of thinking for those who move around town in vehicles which state, "to protect & serve, & In God We Trust." Please! 

One of the very first things you learn as a leader, in any capacity, is that your job is to serve others; not yourself. If you want to treat mine like animals, I am here to put you on notice.... You have awakened the beast. Houston Police Department & Fort Bend Police Department, you all should start weeding out the rubbish, because citizens like me, will get tired of letting the bad seeds among you keep running us over. I DON'T PLAY ABOUT MINE!!! 

Fantasy Escapes: May 6th, 2021 (Journal Entry Series)

 I have a problem, more like an addiction to escapism. Is there a treatment center for that? If so, I have the down payment for a room reservation.

As if life didn’t offer enough anticipation, there is a tendency in me to seek out every level of rapid pulses my heart can handle; in the good way. I guess I’m just tired of the same thing on a different day. This is the cliché answer I find myself reciting to those who bother to ask. Although; given the expression, my 'same thing different day' usually means I'm encountering my share of new troubles on a daily basis.

This point in life has offered me not much more than stress piled on top of more stress.  It would be accurate to say that I am absolutely a stress mess.  I've come to expect more "bad news" like all who wake in the morning expect the sun. The cloud of bleakness has yet to clear.  It is heavy with precipitation.

Chasing peace; this is what I really long to do, but the energy to achieve that goal has dissipated. Right now, as I'm writing, I am waiting for my husband and oldest son to return home and deliver yet another blow to my anxiety. Its hard to chase the tranquility of the consistent ease of great expectations when every day brings a new adventure fighting to keep me away from a sound mind. 

I sometimes feel like Mrs. Celie in The Color Purple.  While she sat clapping along with the other church folk to the music sang by the choir, their jubilance could not touch her.   Everyone she knew had come in to their own reason to celebrate happiness, yet she sat stuck in misery. Having left Mister had given her the freedom to live without abuse, but it had not offered her what she really longed for. The hopelessness was etched into every crevice of her face, and reflected in the dimness in her eyes. For her, life had nothing good to offer, so why expect it. 

Since I don't have even a minute portion of energy to run after harmony, I take it upon myself to have it in the one place I don't have to physically exert myself; my mind. Hence the addiction to escapism. But, this can't be healthy. 

Like any addiction, living in the fantasy of your own thoughts can have a negative impact on your real life. The expectation for euphoric gratification only grows stronger each time I indulge in this alternate second life through the tunnel of my dreams. 

Everything can't line up right, and nothing is as perfect as what's imagined. Sure, it makes returning to the real world seem much less than adequate, but if all things came together like I want them to, there is no guarantee that I will still want them.

Fantasies are only good inside the heads of those who carry them.  Once those fantasies leave your head, and steps into reality, they have already been demoted to a place where there is no longer a desire for them. This can create a cycle of disappointments which can have a negative impact on a person's mental well-being.  Hence, as stated above, I need a treatment center for my tendencies.

April 22nd, 2021: The Journal Entry Series

Picture provided by: Amazon.com 

Worry. It has been one of my biggest enemies for as far back as I can remember. Since the time when I was a six year old latch-key kid coming in from school, and waiting for Mama to arrive from work. The window by the front door was where I used to post up, if even she were running a minute behind her usual time. The tears I cried were the fuel of my anxiety. I say, "God is working on me," in regards to why, some thirty-eight years later, I am still battling the same old spirit. It could easily be excused while still in childhood. No one expects you to know better. What about now though? Why has it not yet left me? Why do I continuously find myself holding close companionship with something that, if allowed its way, would kill me? 

 My imagination takes me away. I see freedom in the form of a beautiful butterfly. From the wide expanse of it's wings with their colorful skin crowned in captivating glory; no one would ever know that they came from a dark hollowed shell. Before their freedom, in fact, they were trapped, not just in the transformation shell, but inside a limited body, and under a different name. Yes, worry has entrapped me; prevented me from flying to my fullest potential. I can only wish to be inside the transformation shell now that I've not only entered adulthood, but have been a resident for many years. But worry has me stuck inside the limited caterpillar's body, and only able to crawl along at a snail's pace to freedom. 

 One day though, those wings that I hope for, will be more than just apart of a mental fantasy. They will be real; acquired, mine to keep. One day those wings will help me defeat this life-long enemy, and then I will truly be free.

A Simple Mundane Life

Picture provided by: www.wallpapersafari.com

Words on paper. Those are as solid as one can be.  A real reflection of what is in our hearts.  Things we trouble ourselves to talk about.  They are as committed to the author as one would be in marriage. These words come alive, and can surpass in breath even the writer who scripted them.

If blissful ignorance were a place, I would buy property there, and build a vacation home.  Because, while knowledge is indeed powerful, some of it can be the anchor which holds the learner under water, leaving them to drown in their sorrows.

The "information highway" reaches speeds past that of sound, past the light reflected off the sun and onto the objects which wait for its shine. Last week, last month, last year; this week, this month, this year. We move in a circle of stuff some of us did not ask to know.  Our muscles hurt.  There is simply too much to carry, and we have no more room to shift their weight.

I understand now why, as we age, we move more toward wanting a simple mundane life.  Its the great expectation of waking up every morning and knowing what is going to happen with no unwelcomed surprises. Life starts, and it seems we are so willing to explore all the possibilities it can bring.  The world is full with oyster pearls, and we believe we can gather more than our portion's share.  Then, the reality of being a "responsible adult" hits, and we begin the process of second guessing our choices, climb onto our circular-shaped stones, and begin our journey down hill.

Yes, it can very much look like a dark future to look forward to, but it doesn't have to be. There are resting places along the way.  We need those in order to regroup, and build strength in order jump back on our circular stones, and keep riding the never-ending hill of waves.

It is a challenge indeed, while riding those waves, to long for a resting place that seems all too far away. I find myself stealing away moments to rest, while at the same time making moves to emulate an undeterred champion. This works for those who are watching. It makes it look as though I am rooted in strength, not because it is what I am feeling, but for those who need to see that picture to prevent them from worrying, I am glad to paint it. Yet, I wonder, just how long this strong tower image will hold up? Because, I am certainly not a strong tower on the inside.  This is the place only visible in part by me, and in full view to the Creator.

The tower is crumbling, not because it only holds up under the right circumstances, like those of many others, but because the consistent pressure of the weight being stacked high upon its head, has been sitting there far too long. It is trying to do a new thing with old tools, drawing from old resources for a new reality, and wondering if the two will ever meet in perfect harmony. 

There is hope still.  One which never leaves, but resides well with me and those who refuse to allow living drive the life right out of us. We look to it in order to find peace enough to sleep at night. Solace is found within dreams and visions.  They craft a clear picture of God's voice, which in the noise of the business from the day, can go unheard. He leans in to the level of our understanding and assures us that our hope is not in vain.

Mundane, in the dictionary, is defined as both dull and lacking excitement, as well as being "of this earthly world rather than a heavenly or spiritual one."  To me, it can be a place we run to when we grow old, or a place we run from while we are still young. Either way, we understand the meaning of its purpose most deeply during the quiet stillness of our journey. It is an oxymoron, in that it can be both good and bad; confined to the fear of it in our former years, and escaping in it while we wait for these temples made of dirt to pass away.

Living Ashes

Sometimes we can get caught off guard by how unbearingly unbearable this life thing can really be. I was amazed at how quickly I spiraled in what is to me, one of the most cleansing sanctuaries I hold very dear.

Despite the fact that I may have undiagnosed OCD, because my obsession with cleanliness is bordering on unhealthy, I feel my shower to be the place where I can completely unwind, and clean not only my exterior, but experience the deep inward flow of cleansing from the inside, through song, prayer & meditation. 

 My family and I just came off of an exhilarating high. I say that because this weekend was our first time going our separate ways, and enjoying the individuality of who we are as single units (who are still very much apart of a bonded whole). My mother-in-law and I are unlike most I know, in the fact that we do actually get along. Not only do we get along, but in the twenty-two years I have been married to her son, she and I have developed such a closeness to where she is one of my best friends. We spent the whole weekend shopping, eating, sipping wine (well me, not she), and watching movies to fall asleep to. These are a few of our favorite things.

My plan had been to get away and make up for the times we had not been able to go out and do those things when she last came to visit. It was a welcomed escape, because it meant I would spend less time worrying about my youngest son who was driving out of town with his new girlfriend for the first time, my oldest, who was playing in a football league amidst the pandemic (and still refuses to take the vaccine), and my husband who drove out of town using my car (my other baby), with a heavy foot and eagerness to speed (help me Jesus). It worked. My plan that is. 

Singing in the shower ,to one of Kirk Franklin's up-beat contemporary gospel songs, and in the midst of "Smile"-ing right along with the words coming out of the speaker from my iPhone; I was hit with the dreaded feeling of helplessness, which comes along with sorrow, and swings hands as they take a slow "romantic" stroll across your heart. 

 April 2nd was the day, two years ago, my Daddy left this world and moved to the next. Normally, I would post a tribute to him, on my social media accounts, to honor his memory, but this year, I just couldn't do it. One of the hardest things in the world is bearing the weight of one's grief. It gets so heavy, at times I have set it down, turn away and not look at it, yet knowing it is still there. 

I still have Daddy's ashes with me. Although, in the Catholic faith, everyone who professes to be apart of this church must be buried. But my father was not Catholic (nor am I). He made that very clear. Yes, he believed in God, just not the strict traditions practiced by that particular faith. The priest presiding over his funeral told me that I must promise to bury him in order for him to perform the service. There was a desperateness in my answer. I knew there would be no one else I could find to perform Daddy's funeral just before it was set to start, first because I had no clue of who to reach out to in the sticks of Crowley, Louisiana, and second, because my family had put an astronomical amount of pressure on me to see to it he was buried in the catholic way. My answer was yes. I have to admit though, I broke the promise, & lied to the priest. 

The truth is, at that time, I didn't know what I'd do with Daddy's ashes. One thought was to bury him in Ft. Worth, because it was a place he held dear to his heart. Yet, it has been two years, and he's still here with me. To be honest, the longer I keep him, the more difficult it becomes to let him go. There is a sense of comfort in knowing my Daddy is close by. I pass his ashes daily on my way out the door. A part of me is in that box with him. Just like a part of him walks with me out the door. 

Sometimes, in passing, I accidentally bump the cabinet where he resides, and the door hiding his ashes pops open. These are when the dread of his absence is reborn. I can't explain the sudden shift, but when it happens, when the door is open even just a crack, the rush of grief I battle to keep at bay takes over. It is a puncturing wound filled with salt. I am weakened then, and racing out of my own head to find some sort of strength. I wonder now, if that door had been cracked open while I was still in the shower? 

In grief, we somehow manage to be among the living, while at the same time floating above ourselves as if to escape life itself. You hear the goings on around you, but only as if from a great distance away. You know the world still turns, even as you feel cemented in one place. 

Time does not heal the wounds. It only makes their weight lighter to bear, like a scab over a knife cut. Even when the wound fully heals, the scar left behind reminds you that your hurt is still there. Daddy's ashes are a comfort, and they are my scars. It may hurt to remember, but I never want to forget.

The Golden Obstacle

Picture provided by: www.dreamstime.com

Oh sweet golden one he is

Or who he’s said to be

He acts as though

He wants not the center 

Of attention 

That he so diligently seeks

Could it be the fond reminders

Of what life used to be?

That brings him back

To a place where ”he”

Is all they could ever see?

No!

No.... Not him,

He holds no claim to arrogance

Nor does he live in doubt

That everyone’s feigned attention 

Is what he can live without

It does not matter

If it’s real

So long as he can be

The place where their devotion 

Lies, 

Pouring over in loving streams

To be the obstacle 

Of his own delusions,

Not soon realizing 

He doesn’t hold the axis

Of which their world does spin

Too busy looking inward

To be aware of the reality he’s standing in

All things great or small

Seem to point back to him

In his mind

What other way is there to be?

A golden obstacle 

Has been his crown

Holding too tightly for release

The Leaning Post

Picture provided by: vprsstamford.org

 Today, in church, I witnessed something few of us pay attention to. The weight of burden on my pastor’s shoulders had come to the point of almost unbearable. It was a gut-wrenching blow to my consciousness to see the man we all lean on for strength and council, plus constant encouragement, be broken in that manner.

My mind raced with thoughts of what it was I could do. Pray, was what he asked of us, and yes, I could most certainly do that.

I reflected on these past few months after losing my job, and going through my own personal struggles in life. I saw how when my son was in trouble, after his father and I did our part to help bring him out of it, the next person we thought to lean on was our pastor; my son included.

When I went to him, he smiled, and made himself available to my son, fully expecting for him to do his part and reach out to him, so he could be there. He says these things not just in word, but I have seen with my own eyes how he’s made himself available to myself and my family, counseling us whenever we need. And what have we done? That was my question. What have we done to help carry the weight of the load on this one man’s shoulders?

I racked my brain through the years that my family and I have been members of this church. Sure, we helped and paid our tithes, but were our efforts enough? Because if that were true, why is it that we still allow for him & his family to carry the bulk of the load?

On the drive home, I was hit with a vision of a leaning post. This was how I imagined my pastor must have felt on that pulpit, pouring his heart out to us. Every day people pass by a leaning post expecting it to do its job with no thanks (or even help) required. And every day, that post is just where it is expected to be, doing the job it is expected to do, never bending under the pressure, and most certainly will not break. At least that’s what others think.

Sometimes we forget, our pastors are people too. Commissioned for a great assignment, yes, but still in need of lifting up just as we do.

 The Leaning Post

Set in the middle

Of a busy passage way 

Was a post 

Built solely for the purpose

For which those who grew weary 

Could lean

Daily they passed him

By-and-by

Using him to ease their pain

And bring comfort to their many aches

Always pulling

The strength from his strength 

Taking from him for themselves 

All there was for them to take

The reliable leaning post

Never gave in

Not once bending

Under the stress of their weight

Even as chips of his luster 

Over time

Began to fade away

Often over used

But rarely ever not needed

He weathered all storms 

Looking all but worn

Save those chips from his paint

Which patterned with age

As time moved on

The people, they watched & watched

As those chips took form

Waiting for him to give way

Yet, something in him, they could not see

Prevented the leaning post

From shattering 

Under the depths of all their weight

He was anchored down

Roots bearing deep 

Deep into the solid ground

Streams of power chords

Running through his veins

They reached up

All the way up

To the source of Light

Shining at the head of his base

It wasn’t until 

The earth came alive

And one day began to shake

The leaning post rooted

So deeply and still

Could not stand 

Under its ravenous quake

When all things were cleared

And folks came back 

To meet in the street

The old leaning post

They saw, what was to be

The oddest sight they’d ever seen

The leaning post

Which each depended on

Had itself began to lean

They all looked around 

Wondering how

He would get back to 

Giving them a place

To lean

One by one

All went on home

Until the street

Where the old leaning post

Now, himself leaned, 

Became empty 

Save for the lone post

Being all that there was to be seen

Returning with tools of their own

To rebuild his towering strength 

Each person worked diligently

Until his paint shined 

With a lustrous sheen 

Together they toiled

Helping the post stand up tall

And polishing the outer layer 

Until the leaning post

No longer leaned 

Thank you Pastor, for being our leaning post.