Just call a thief a thief

We're leaving the house when my 5 year old saw the neighbors window busted. He said, "Wow, it rained so hard that it broke that car's window!", "No son, someone broke into their car." You know what came next "Daddy, why did someone break their window?" (You would think that at 5 years old he would know these things already, especially living in Oakland) I don't want to simply say, "Because they are broke" or worse "some people just steal. We call them thieves!" or even assume "They are probably looking for something to sell to buy drugs." So instead, I start explaining human behavior theories, highlighting environmental factors as primary determinants, and finally summarizing humanity and our concepts of good and bad as not being core attributes to peoples' nature, but subjective value judgements on behavior patterns.

He let me finish completely before saying: "Oh. So Daddy, what will we do if someone breaks into our car and steals something?" In a split second, I realize, in my head, 2 things: 1. calling the cops is moot except to have the city add me as a casualty to their stats, especially since the deductible is $500 and they are not going to dust for prints and interview the neighbors... 2. In 5 years my son has learned to do what it has taken me 36 years to do: Get to the point. "Well son, I guess we would just fix the window."

give me my dollar back

I can't stand gimmicks. Attempt #1: First Safeway makes their checkers ask you if you want to donate to breast cancer or muscular distrophy, forcing me to make a choice to NOT give to this clearly worthy cause, out loud in front of everyone in the line. Not cool. Now I either a. feel guilty for not giving, or b. don't even blink, not giving a damn about sick women or children. Neither of those sit well with me. Of course I could say yes and give the dollar but then I will feel a. resentful for the sneaky intrusion on my shopping experience, or b. like my family is $1 poorer in the worse recession of my lifetime. All I want is my groceries, that's all. I already lied to the brotha in front of the store telling him I didn't have the change. Well technically I didn't have the exact change he was asking for and if I did, what I meant was that my family already had dibbs on all my available cash. Attempt #2: Oh, and now at the CVS when you swipe your card, they automatically prompt you to donate a dollar to some other cause and you again are forced to say "NO" to sick women and children.

Now I know we are supposed to have prosperity consciousness and give cheerfully and think abundantly so that the universe can return all that I give 10 fold, etc. etc. and I wholeheartedly believe all that. I also believe that a fool and his money shall soon be parted, so for now, I say "booo" to the execs at Safeway and CVS for hustling customers for the charities that their executives are on the board of.

The Dance Party

It's a dance party in the living room. A regular Payne family ritual. Michael Jackson is cranking. Elijah is outdoing his self with jumps and spins. Me and Kafi are doing moves from the early 90's. Cameron is running in circles screaming. This is the point when Kafi says "move Elijah, Daddys going to do the worm!" That was my que to dust off my partystopper. I used to do "the worm" (also known as the centipede) as my climax move in my younger days, much younger. So without a moments hesitation, I stop doing the robot and hit the floor so smooth, Kafi was like "Wow! Daddy did that gooood! Do that again Daddy!" My whole family was in awe. This was a dance partay!

30 minutes later after I bathe and clothe the boys, the shooting pain in my forearm cannot be ignored but why is it hurting? Did I hit my arm on something? Then I realize in an instant. I just dove in the air, (twice!) landing on my arms, absorbing my full adult weight and now my arm hurts. Then a deeper realization washes over my mind: I am almost 36 years old, I haven't played basketball since Bush was president, I can't remember the last time I even sprinted let alone did some push ups, I measure my daily exercise with a pedometer! Damn.

I share my realization with my loving caring spouse that my epic dance move caused a minor injury and that it took my 21 year old mind 30 minutes to realize that my body is actually 35. She laughed so hard she stopped breathing a couple of times. I never got hurt before doing the worm but I never has so much fun doing it either. Yup, I'm getting older but I am loving the ride!

"The Kobe Special"

Tiger Woods. Let's see, where do I begin? I was the first one to be gullible enough to believe that his wife valiantly tried to rescue her husband (who is reportedly a Billionaire) from imminent danger while trapped inside a wrecked car... with a golf club. Kind of ironic but hey, the man does play a lot of golf!

But now it appears that Tiger Woods has just provided reason number 3487 for not cheating on your wife. God knows I am not claiming to be perfect and not one to throw stones, but cheating is one thing that clearly brings unwanted consequences, ESPECIALLY when you are one of the most famous people on the planet. Google famous affairs of black Americans (Bill Cosby, Jesse Jackson, Kobe Bryant, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Shaq, etc.)

Woods reportedly said he needs a "Kobe special" which means a "house on a finger". Kobe's wife faithfully (pun intended) wears her "house" everyday but at a 4.5 million pricetag, it's more like a "neighborhood on a finger". With very little savy, I could easily snap up a whole city block in Oakland for that much money.

According to Tiger, his Norwegian blonde wife reportedly "went ghetto" on him. Hmmm, I wonder what Tiger visualized when he said the word "ghetto" and why he never thought his European wife would go there? Could race and class have anything to do with it?

I wonder if Tiger Woods, the only person on planet earth who says he is Not black will claim blackness when the conservative media gets through with this. I wonder if he will feel the scathing glow of racism and bias against a black man accused of making a mistake.

The media will have a "field" day but will Tiger remain in the "house"?

I wonder if he will have the same "awakening" as OJ Simpson did? Harry Edwards told a story about how during the black athlete boycott in 1968, OJ was approached and asked to support his brothers and sisters and join the "black boycott" while he played at USC and he reportedly replied "I'm not black, I'm OJ!"

Tiger's now famous declaration that he is cablaisian (white, black and asian) is laughable, but default treatment as "black" because that is how the world perceives you is not. It seems with Tigers referenced connection to Kobe and his reference to his "ghetto" wife, that he is getting blacker by the minute. I hope Tiger stops by the psychiatrist on his way to Zales because he has a lot to sort out.

Public courtesy?

It's dinner at the local ice creamery. I take Elijah to the bathroom. He goes in the stall and proceeds to get about 20% in the actual bowl. Then he does something I have NEVER seen him do before. He takes some toilet paper and starts to wipe down the toilet seat that he didn't bother to lift up before he christened it. I am stuck. Then this warn feeling comes over me: The lectures about responsibility are finally working! I am proud. With a big smile, I ask Elijah: "Son, you wiped the toilet seat! You do that at home?" He flatly says "no". (smile fades) I am stuck again but this time confusion washes over me. "You mean you clean the public toilet but leave your own toilet a mess??" "Umm, (giggle) yeah." WTF??

Afrocentric tooth fairy

So Elijah is eating a snack Sunday afternoon and screams out. This is not a rare occurance so I casually inquire "What seems to be the problem son?", "My tooth is loose! Baaaaa!" I check it out and indeed his tooth is loose. I then wonder if he should be losing his tooth by now and consult my online doctor: Yahoo! questions. It's confirmed that kids can generally begin losing teeth between 4 and 6 years old. So I calm him down by trying to get him excited about all the benefits of losing a tooth. I tell him he will get a treat. then he replies "From the tooth fairy?" *pause* Think quick, I wasn't prepared to confirm or deny a mythical character like the tooth fairy. We killed the Santa Claus myth years ago, but the tooth fairy? We missed that one. Well, if I tell him there is no tooth fairy, it's irreversible but if I confirm it I can decide to kill the myth later or substitute it for a more culturally appropriate one. "Yes, the tooth fairy will come!" (I just bought myself some time) "And bring me a shiny new dime?!" "Yup, super shiny!"

So the next day, mommy get's some cotton and yanks it out, no screams and no tears. Meanwhile, I am looking for an afrocentric tooth fairy on google of course and I find it. Children put their tooth under a gourd and the African tooth fairy exchanges the tooth for 2 chickens... (That's live chickens) *pause* Ok, so the ritual needs a little modification so I go search for a shiny dime and wait for Elijah to fall asleep.

The next morning, he is as happy as can be with his dime. Then he asks "How did the tooth fairy get in the house?", "I don't know." Then he says, "She probably broke the window and came in the house. Oh, I know, let's go find the broken window!"

inappropriate language

I am talking to Kafi the other day and I use the word, "inappropriate". Something like, "oh no, that picture looks inappropriate..." Elijah records it to memory and proceeds to use it every chance he gets. "Elijah go get dressed for bed", "Awwww, mannn, that's inappropriate!" No Elijah, that's not the correct usage of the word but I commend you for trying, now get dressed.

Seeing the world anew

Elijah has started reading. After a month of nightly lessons with his mother, Elijah is reading everything he can look at. After he reads stuff he asks questions like "Why is that called Taco Bell?" me: "Because they sell tacos." him: "But why is it called taco BELL?" me: "Gee, I don't know." Now of course I know: It was started by an ex-marine named Glen Bell who opened his first 'Taco Bell' in 1962. At least according to wikipedia.

A new reader sees the world anew. He is always asking "what does that mean?", "Why did they put that there?" etc. and 9 times out of 10 it is simply bringing to my attention how much I don't know, just like graduate school and my wife.

"What the f*** you pull ME over for?"

It's Labor Day weekend. The whole family is returning from a trip to the drug store. On the way, we run into a sobriety checkpoint. Not exactly fun. How dare they? What if we were in a hurry? Oh well, I guess it's a good thing. We actually don't want drunk drivers on the road and I haven't had a drink since November 1994 but who's keeping track. The line of cars is moving slowly and as we pull up to our designated officer for the "check", I (in my mind) wait for instructions from the officer who is quite friendly. He politely introduces himself as officer so and so from the Emeryville police and that they are checking seatbelts and sobriety. He remarks that I clearly look sober, asks for my license, gives me a flyer to put on my dash, indicating that I have passed the test and I slowly pull off. That's exactly how it went down (in my head).

Right after we pull off, my wife immediately remarks that I was looking angry and rude and that I should not be so stand offish or confrontational. ??? Confusion. I thought you had to say "What the f*&k you pull me over for?" to be confrontational but she informed me that a flat affect, stone still and barely responsive, except to respond to requests like, "license please" or "show me your hands" is rude and confrontational and not the way you want to be to an officer of the law.

I am defensive at first but realize that I am never more aware of being a black man, (just like Rodney King or Fred Hampton) than when I am being pulled over or "checked" by the police. Hence, I may have been a little terse with the friendly cop, even though I have nothing to fear. I am not on PCP, speeding 100 miles on the freeway running from the cops, I am not leading a black liberation movement that is public enemy #1 of the FBI. I don't have weed or drink in my system or in the glove. No weapons. My license, registration, tags and car payments are completely legit and up to date. No outstanding parking tickets and no points on my record (anymore). Tail lights work, blinkers blink and the radio isn't even on. Why would I not be completely relaxed with my whole family in the car on a Sunday evening trip from the store. I don't even have dread locks anymore! Okay, I'm tripping. I mean don't get me wrong. I will never be the person who gets beat down because I didn't know how to follow directions. He could have told me to get out of the car and do the cabbage patch and I might have did the running man too, just not with a smile.

So my ever wise wife begins practicing with me the proper way to greet an office of the law. "Good evening!" (Big smile) That's sarcastic, try again. "Hello, hi." (less of a smile) That looks like a smirk. Not good. And so we go back and forth like this until I get it just right. "Good evening" (measured tone and cadence, but light and easy smile to follow and slight head nod with the head tilted just so) That's better.

So the whole drive home, I practice my cordial greeting to officers of the law. I got it down. I'm ready. Now I just hope it holds up if I run into an as*h*** cop.

The ghetto vegitarian

Yesterday, I was doing the pac man for my students. One boy stared at me for a minute then said “Mr. Payne, you’re a vegetarian, but you’re ghetto!”  Like the two were mutually exclusive. I laughed out loud. That was the funniest thing anybody said to me in a long time. He was already grappling with the fact that as a black man, I didn’t eat chicken, but now this. He was genuinely puzzled by the whole thing.

My son Elijah is in this summer program called Oakland Freedom Schools (OFS). It’s a reading enrichment program for black kids, modeled after the Freedom Schools in Mississippi in the summer of 1964. OFS is very radical. I was a OFS teacher back in ‘95 and the director in ‘98. It is only natural that my children attend the program. After 1 day at the school, he is on our back porch chanting “Chant down Babylon, OFS is the bomb, we ready, we coming...”  Another favorite that I am sure they will teach him is “We be an African people…”  and  “Revolution has come! Shine your light like the sun!”  I asked him how was his day and he starts talking about “the girl who doesn’t listen”. He doesn’t even call her by her name. He starts off a sentence like “Dad, today the girl who doesn’t listen… fill in the blank.” Like that’s her Native American name or something. I ask him, “son, what’s her name?” He pauses and thinks for a minute, trying to access that information. A few seconds later he remembers. I say, “Son, from now on, call her by her name.”

Elijah is also quite the filmmaker. We have this flip camera and Elijah makes 15 minute movies of himself walking around the house, playing with his brother and engaging his parents. He surprised me today when he revealed that one of his movies has a title. We’re watching one of his “movies” and he says “is this ‘Walking on Water?” “Huh? Walking on water? Is that the title of your ‘movie’? When did you come up with that?” The boy is creative.

And lastly, reason #235 why I hate the media: Obama visits Ghana yesterday. This is his second visit to Africa (he was in Egypt a while back) but they repeatedly described it as the presidents first sub-Saharan African trip. Why? Did they every say, “his first trip to eastern Europe?” No they didn’t. I checked google. Then to top it off, they show the Ghanaians celebrating Obamas arrival and they show hundreds of folks literally dancing in the streets. With all of these people to choose from, they choose to interview a lady wearing 2009 shades. You know, a pair of glasses that are in the shape of the number 2009, with sparkles and glitter all over them. You know, the glasses you wear for new years eve. I don’t even remember what she said. All I could think was: Why? Why? Why? 

Just enjoy the ride

Flying to New York on Sunday for an all day funeral on Monday and returning on Tuesday would seem like a big, stressful event. Especially when you throw in traveling with a 5 year old and an 18 month old. I did my best to make it easy on myself: Took time to relax Friday day before the trip, bought direct flights from Oakland to JFK which was 10 minutes from where I was staying in NY. I traveled light, carried lots of snacks for the kids, and spared no expense in the airports and on the plane. You want to see a movie for $6? No problem. You want a burrito? juice? muffin? headphones? magazine? You got it! Excuse me, can we get 2 more bags of animal crackers? 

The trip was indeed major. Small jubilant, active children in a funeral home for 3 1/2 hours was a bad idea but necessary. Family is family and when one of their greatgrandmothers passes, they have to be a part of the transition, for their sake but more for the surviving families sake. So we went and I was exhausted. 

Checking in at JFK to fly back home, the airline had 50 people in line ahead of me and the line was moving slow. Cameron waited a full 10 minutes before he started screaming. Elijah wasn't sympathetic. He started whining too. People started staring. When your baby starts screaming in public, you get all kinds of looks ranging from "Oh, poor baby. He's so cute, etc." to "What kind of parent are you? Your child is screaming." I just looked back at all of them like "Say something and you'll get your feelings hurt in a New York minute." Cameron screamed for a full 10 minutes before the airline people pulled me out of the line and checked my bag, explaining to me that "Your child is screaming, let's get your bag checked."  I resisted making a dozen different smart remarks and simply expressed my humble appreciation of the gesture. I get up to the counter. Cameron promptly stops screaming. I smile and explain to Elijah the silver lining of the moment. 

On the plane, I got up to walk Cameron around the plane to prevent a meltdown, leaving Elijah in his seat next to a 15 year old unaccompanied minor and I hear Elijah behind me whimpering, following me down the aisle. I turn around and walk with him back to his seat and explain that I wasn't leaving him and that I was coming right back. He listened to me patiently and indicated that he understood and then whispered very loudly in my ear: "but daddy, he's a STRANGER" And he was right. I didn't have any reason to trust him with my son and Elijah wasn't going to take the risk. Sure the chances are slim on a plane 30,000 feet up but we taught him, a stranger is a stranger. You don't trust em, on a train, or in a plane, in a box with a fox eating green eggs and ham.

Finally, I am back in Oakland waiting for my bags. The first batch of bags come then the conveyor belt stops. and it stays stopped for 10 minutes. Half the people from the plane are still staring down the conveyor belt looking dumbfounded. I overhear someone who spoke to an employee of the airline mutter something about them being short staffed today. I mused to myself that I wasn't 'short' when I paied for my plane tickets. I couldn't say to the ticket counter "Oh, I'm a little short on cash today" and expect to get a ticket. Oh well. 

It was when I returned to Oakland, relieved to be off the plane, that I relaxed for about 1 hour then started thinking about the class I had to go to in an hour and the assignments that might be due and the work I missed the day before and the meeting I had to go to for work and the team lead I needed to call to let them know I would be in a meeting and not to expect me until after 11 or so... it was after the flood of details and preparations started churning in my mind that I realized how much of a mental break the trip to New York was. It was physically taxing no doubt, containing Cameron within a 2x3 area on the plane for 5 1/2 hours each way, and helping Elijah find the cartoons, but the mental complexity of the task (keeping him fed, contained and not screaming) was a piece of cake compared to the juggling act of work, school, home, work school, home. But I'm not complaining. I just enjoy the ride and try not to take any of it for granted.

No more small talk

Anybody who really knows me, knows that I am very discreet. I don't like to draw attention to myself in public but rather be the observer. Well today, while browsing the drug store for a fan for my house because it's 100 degrees, I notice that the selection is slim and not only that, the fans are ridicilously priced.  I glance at the lady examining the selection too and mention out loud "it looks like they raised the prices for us because it's so hot"  The woman looks at me and says loudly "What?" (in hind sight I realized that she must have been hard of hearing) I repeat my statement louder and she then replies 5 decibles louder than me. "Yeah, and they don't have any wattage information so you can't compare the different fans..." I was acutely aware that everyone in the store could probably hear this woman. I was no longer interested in small talk with this loud person but she kept going. I responded out of politeness and she kept talking loudly about the lack of specifications on the box. 

I expected to say something, and for her to respond and that would be the end of it. Not a long conversation and not at full volume. Oh well. So much for small talk.

You want the what cake?

My son Elijah turns 5 on Wednesday and we were having a small party to celebrate. I take him to the bakery like I do every year to pick out a cake. You know, a football cake or baseball cake, or maybe a Cars cake or Hula Hawaiian cake like last year. So I show him the 20 or so cakes in the display case and his #1 pick is the snow white cake with a big figurine of snow white and a castle in the background. "You sure you want that cake son?" "Yes, I want the princess cake!" (The princess cake is absolutely not an option. Not just the gender role thing but the Disney marketing machine has tricked my son into thinking he wants 'princess cake'.) "Elijah, I'm sorry son, the 'princess' cake is sold out. What's your second pick?" "Oh, ummm, I'll take the baseball cake." "Oookkk, baseball cake it is!"
As I happily order the baseball cake I wonder: what is my fear with my son getting a princess cake? Am I training him to be sexist by limiting his options for expression? Answer to self: Oh well, at least he got to pick from the football or baseball cake. He'll get over it and I'm already over it.

As the world changes, so does my approach

Ok, now Elijah is almost 5 and has hit this chatterbox phase. He asks 50 questions a minute. "Daddy, the world has changed." "Yes son, it has." "Why has the world changed dad?" "Because the sun went up and down." 

Gone are the days (yesterday) when I though I could dig deep in my soul for every question he asks me. Now I am rattling off random answers and keeping it moving. I know. So disappointing. I'm over it already.

And another thing: he is obsessed with making everything a race. "Daddy, I finished my pasta before you, I win!" "Daddy, I beat you to the corner!" At first I supported his winning attitude. Then it got tired. "Elijah, were eating dinner, it's not a race." Then I impressed upon him "Son, you compete against yourself. If you win, it's because you beat your personal best, you understand? Nobody in this house is a loser: not your brother or your parents, understand?"   silence..... "Elijah, I said: do you understand? There are no losers in this house!" (silently nodding his head) "Yes there is", "What did you say?",  "Yes there is, you and mommy are losers, ha ha ha..."  

Well, that was the last time I let him win a race to the corner. I ran past him and got 50 feet ahead and as his laughing trot turned into a sad cry for me to slow down to let him catch up. I grinned and turned to run faster. No more kid gloves. He got to learn. Don't gloat to someone 3 times your size. 

What happened to "Why is the sky blue?"

Today my 4 year old son, Elijah asked me "Daddy, why do rappers love women?" Where did that come from? How does he know about rappers? and their "love" of women?  Where do I start? I had no idea. I stumbled through a long drawn out intellectual discourse on race, class, sex and power, and threw in a gratuitous contrast to me and his moms relationship: Me, not being a rapper and loving 1 woman, his mom. Note to self: No more Snoop Dogg on the radio with the kids in the car, even if it's a "classic".

more questions

A few days ago, my son Elijah asked me "Daddy, how did God make himself?" ....... LONG pause. I actually had to do some research and get back to him on that one. Yesterday, he asked me about electricity. "Daddy, is electricity hot like fire?", "yes son. It is." And you know what question came next: "Why Daddy?" ,    pause    "Well, because it carries power." "You mean like firepower Daddy?" (Oh no, is he thinking about weaponry? Must redirect, come on, think quick) "Uh, well, kind of, it's more like raw power." (what the hell is raw power? You gotta come up with something better than that...) "I know Daddy, it comes from Sunpower?" (Defeated by ignorance and an overpowering 4 year old inquisitiveness, I go along with it. Sounds good to me) "yeah, (nodding slowly) Sunpower." 

Well, now that I have done the research to find out that electricity is caused by electrons passing a negative charge to positively charged ions, I have to go back and explain to him that yes, he was right about firepower AND Sunpower (especially since the sun is a big ball of fire, duh) because electricity is hot because of ELEMENTAL power and passing of charges. This will require a lesson on the basic elements of nature (earth, wind and fire I guess). Then he will probably appreciate some kind of experiment (walking on a rug then shocking eachother).

Elijahs questions a joy and highlight of my day and also a constant reminder of how much I don't know.

Deep Questions

Today my 4 year old son Elijah asked me "Daddy, what does it feel like to die?" I am used to him asking me questions that I have never been asked before nor have a clue about the answer, so I said, "I don't know son. That's a good question. I guess it depends on how you die. If you die a hard death, it may be painful but if you die a peaceful timely death, it might actually feel good."
Although I am a world class bullshitter, I am always humbled to struggle to give the most honest, thoughtful, informed answers to my sons deep questions. And afterwards, I think about the question long afterwards and he has moved on to playing with his legos.

Can't take the heat

Context:
For my 35th birthday, my wife got me my ancestors. She got me a DNA test that will determine with 99% accuracy, what village (and modern day country) my ancestors are from. The test will go back between 500 and 10,000 years. I am so juiced. I can't wait to find out which African language, history and culture belongs to MY ancestors. There is a catch: The test is a patrilineal test and there's a 30% chance my ancestry will show up European. This should need no explanation.

Clown:
So last week we were driving out to Concord and it's 70 degrees outside. I am sweating. I ask my wife if she is hot. She flatly replies "no". I complain again about the heat and she says "You're not African!" and turns on the AC for me. I laughed, but if I get my results this week and they say my 17th generation grandfather is from Northern Ireland, I'ma be dissapointed.

Stay tuned for the results... unless of course they are European, then I just won't mention it ever again.

UPDATE: "I am an African! My results came back 100% match, Fulani Tribe. They are primarily in Gunnea-Bissau today, but they travelled all over Africa and came from the east. I am proud to have a connection to my people going back before the atlantic slave trade. My history no longer begins with "slaves" but with the Fula!

Legendary Encounter: True Story!

Walking with my sons in a stroller one day, I see this brotha across the street staring at me. He looks just like Paul Mooney, the comedian and former writer for Richard Pryor. Paul does very serious, very funny commentary on white racism, black foolishness and everything inbetween so I was truly amazed to realize that it was indeed THE Paul Mooney wearing a crazy get up walking toward me with a grin, holding a cigarette proclaiming "Hey, I know what you like to do!" Presumably he was insinuating that I like to have sex a lot because I have 2 children but I am quick to point out to people who make that assumption that it only proves that I enjoyed myself twice in the last 5 years for approximately 5 - 12 minutes each time. I ain't saying I even know exactly how long it took or that those are the only times I had relations but I'm just making a point: Kids don't equal oversexed black man, a stereotype brothas usually revel in whether the assumption is true or false. But all of this would be lost on the legendary Paul Mooney, making a punch line out of my late afternoon stroll with my kids. I realize instantly that he doesn't perform for an audience, he amuses himself, everywhere he goes. The world is his entertainment. Such is the life of a black comedian. When we are not angry, we think shit is hella funny and will revel in the humor of a situation as long as possible.

Sporting this grin, Paul Mooney walks right up to me to shake my hand. I greet him like I know him "Hey Paul, how you doing!" We share pleasantries and continue on our separate journeys, and I think to myself, 'no ones going to believe this!'

Fatherhood flashes

I used the bathroom today and my son Elijah ran into the bathroom to use it after me. He did his business and promptly ran out of the bathroom. I yelled to him "Hey, you not going to flush?" and without breaking stride, in a whimsical tone he said "No". Needless to say I made him come back and flush (and wash his hands) but just goes to show that retorical questions don't always work with 4 year olds.
The other day I went to the market to get some stuff. I had my boys with me. I am leaving and see a brotha in the parking lot selling Obama t-shirts. I make a comment, he makes a pitch "got all sizes, just $10, etc." Then the shopping cart that I am pushing my sons in suddenly stops. Apparently they have an invisible boundary a few feet from the store and if you cross it the wheels lock and the cart stops right in it's tracks. I am scooping Cameron and the brotha doesn't miss a beat and grabs Elijah up out of the cart. I had several silent reactions in a split second.
1. I got this bruh, no need to invade my invisible family bubble. Personal space, personal space!
2. Thanks bro, it takes a village to raise a child, each one teach one, Umoja! Good looking out.
3. But dude, I DON"T KNOW YOU. Why are you so quick to grab my son, not cool.
4. He's setting him down gently, Elijahs not freaked out, that was helpful, okay, thanks man.
5. I hope he don't think I am going to buy his t-shirt.

Then finally I say out loud, "Thanks man, take it easy, aright"

Can we all get along? Hell naw!

With the tragic killing of Oscar Grant in Oakland by a BART police, young people took to the streets and raised hell. There were demonstrations, many of them organized, coordinated, and peaceful. And some of them was just raising hell. Breaking windows, burning cars, confronting police, etc. The family pleads for peace and says "Oscar would not have wanted people (rioting) in the streets, etc..." It was reminicient of the Rodney King "Can we all just get along" plea during the LA riots.
Well, for the record, if I get shot in the back while unarmed, face down by a cop, I want lots of rioting. Property damage is unfortunate for those business owners and car owners who got caught in the riot but it doesn't compare to the loss of life and a statement has to be made.

I know this ain't the politically correct thing for an over 30 person who pays all his taxes to say but fuck that. People can't do the silent protest thing when the Mayor hadn't said nothing and the district attorney wasn't talking about an investigation or nothing. Now, after the riots, you have the Mayor talking all day and night about it, demanding an independent police investigation and the district attorney promising an investigation. I don't think speaker cards at the City council meeting would have gotten the same attention and traction a good old fashioned riot brings. So if I get done wrong, I'ma need ya'll to raise some hell!