Author: admin

by Jerome Pearson

October 2010

When I was a child, I was afraid of dead people.  Upon hearing of a new death, I was not immediately focused on the sadness of what happened, but, instead, on the possibility that the person who died might want to include me in the mix.  As a kid, I rarely slept during the night upon learning of a new death.

During my life, I have always lived not far from cemeteries. They seemed to follow me wherever I moved to.  I was always told that you should never point into the direction of a cemetery because your finger would rot.  As an example, if you wanted to say that so and so when in a particular direction, if a cemetery was in that direction, you were not to point your finger. You might just lose it.  I was born near a cemetery, the name of which I had never known. We moved away when I was about 5. In those middle years, I lived near another cemetery called Ivory. Then when I was 11, we moved back closer to the first cemetery. And then, when I was in the seventh grade, our bus driver lost control of our bus on a dirt road one day, and that bus ran right smack into that same cemetery, barely missing the first tombstone. Kids were screaming, and then the driver backed out and we continued on our way. Of course, high school kids were the drivers during those days.

I always thought that dead people liked to linger around at night.  They were nocturnal creatures.  It seemed that those first few days after a death, the “Dead”, were always in purgatory, which is a temporary lock-up between Earth and Heaven, or Hell in some cases.  This would be the time for them to seek their revenge. And even if I had done nothing wrong to them, or the fact that they did not even know me, I still felt that for some reason they would be out to get me.

There was one particular year I was even afraid to go to bed.  At least, I afraid to go to bed first. The boys in our house shared one room, and I was not about to be the first one to enter that room at night if there had been a recent death. I thought my siblings were thinking the same thing, because we would each stay up as late as possible to see who dared first enter the vacant room. Perhaps this was only my imagination.

Dead people showed up in many forms.  Sometimes they returned as a “haint”, and they would ride you at night.  You could feel them when they came over you while lying in bed, and slowly lowering themselves onto you, and then you would become paralyzed, and unable to move or speak.  A “haint” was never violent, and never really harmed you, but seemed to get its kick by just riding you for a few minutes, and then disappearing into the night. Haints existed in my life for many years, even into adulthood.  I can even recall one Sunday night in Germany, lying in my bed, and feeling a haint slowly lowering itself onto me as I slept. This was very strange feeling because you could feel it coming, yet you were unable to move out of its way. And then finally, it would disappear. It seemed to me that a haint arrive on Sunday nights mostly.

Sometimes they showed up as dust in a field.   Have you ever noticed a field where there is dust spinning in about a 10-yard radius and about 5 feet high?  I was told that the spinning dust was the symbolism of a dead spirit, spiraling out of control, kind of like a small non-violent tornado.  When I would see this dust, I used to wonder “who could it be?”  Spirits were always the dead- form of the living.    So, if I thought it was a spirit, I would think about who had recently died, and were perhaps out on a kind of probation, as they awaited their final fate, longing to commit more crimes, before that final and everlasting lock-up. Old people would see this dust, and they would say “that ain’t nobody but John!” Of course, John, would be person who had recently passed.

It was said that when a person dies, immediately after dying they make a quick visit to every place they have ever been.  I did not know what this meant, and how was it possible?   How can a person within, a blink of an eye, return to every place they had ever visited? And why would they want to?

However, I remember one “breezy” and “windy” Friday, somewhere around 1970; I heard that a man name RD had died.  Shortly after hearing of his death on this windy Friday morning, I heard our screen door slam shut, but when I investigated, there was no one there.  So, I was thinking that perhaps RD had just made his quick and final visit to our house because, after all, while living, he did come to our house sometimes to buy whisky.    I was happy that this return visit was occurring during the day, and not at night.  

But then a few hours later, I heard the screen door slam shut again.  Again no one was there.  I was thinking that perhaps Mr. D had forgotten that he had already been at our house earlier during that day, and was just crossing his “t” s and dotting his “i” s.  Or perhaps, he was returning for one last swig of corn liquor before the long trip. 

By nighttime, the wind had subsided, and the door did not slam shut again, but I did not put 2 and 2 together.  Luckily for me, Mr. D was such a gentle man in life that I could not imagine him returning to do harm to anyone in death.  But he was still a suspect, so I kept my eyes opened.

Dead people were kept in funeral homes.   When someone died, I would often hear the question:  Who got the body?  Basically, people wanted to know where the dead was currently being held.  In my hometown, people wanted to know whether it was Samuels, Flemings, King, or some other establishment.  People always preferred one funeral home or another.  People would say: “Hayes Samuels’s sho made Leroy look good.  As a matter of fact, he looks better in that casket than in life.   Man! He just looked like he was sleeping!”  So, Samuels is good, whereas some other establishment might have messed up a time or two in the past, like putting on too much make-up, or creating an unbecoming hairdo. 

People would say, “When it is my time, and I went from yanh, ah want Samuels to have my body.  Don’t send me to such and such, because I’ll be angry, and might come back to see who made the decision, because I got plenty of “in surance”, mo than a thousand dollars, and I keeps up my payments.”  “And they better not put me in no black bag or a pine box like they did Julia Mae son, cause he aint had no surance.” 

In the south, on the day of the funeral, the entire funeral convoy would show up at the home of the deceased. The hearse would be leading the way, followed by other large vehicles. They would make a U-turn and then line up in the direction that would lead to the church. Then other cars would line up behind the funeral convoy. And then the convoy would make that slow trip to the Church. I would be surprised to see Police Cars leading the way and controlling traffic. It would be the only time in my mind that the police appeared to be in a friendly disposition. I had long feared the police, but the first time I observed them controlling the traffic, I gained a new respect.  

As the convoy began moving forward, I would often hear a particular relative in another vehicle exclaiming, “yes Lord, yes Jesus” and then she would reverse it, “Yes Jesus, yes Lord!”

Thinking of the word “dead”, I remember one summer back in 1972, I was riding on a wagon with my neighbors and her grandsons.  We were riding on a wagon which was being pulled by a mule.  As we were leaving the yard on the wagon, and later onto the highway, one of their dogs ran alongside the wagon barking at the mule, nearly getting trampled by the wheels of the wagon. Her grandson, R, had a whip which he used to lash out at the dog, trying to make it return home before getting hurt.  After trying to get him to stop on more than a few occasions, an exasperated Mrs. L finally says: “Leave em alone R! If he wanna dead, ley em dead!”  From that moment onward, every time we saw R, we would say, “If he wanna dead, ley em dead!”

The dead would also show up as a Jack-o-lantern.  For some people Jack-o-lanterns only came out during Halloween.  But to me, they seemed to come out on dark, rainy nights, and it could be anytime of the year.   They were always hiding in the woods or fields.   If on a dark, rainy night I saw a light in the woods, or in the middle of some field, I knew it must be a Jack-o-lantern.  Jack-o-lantern only bothered you if you came to the field or in the woods.  So, at least, you didn’t have to worry about them coming to your house.

Some dead people showed up as themselves, so I was told.  I never saw one, but others would claim such things as: “I saw my grandmother sitting on the edge of her bed just as plain as day.  She was wearing that same white dress they buried her in.  I think she was trying to tell me not to marry that woman who is having my baby.  I think my grandmother was trying telling me that the baby was not even mine.  So, I think I gon back outta that wedding fore it’s too late; I’m going over there this afternoon and tell Doris it’s cancelled.”  Dead people were always smarter in Death than they were in life.

Back to funeral homes, there was a bit of apprehension when entering them.  They seem to all have such dark curtains, and rooms that seem to lead to places I never wanted to go.  And that awful music!   I must admit, I am a bit non-traditional in my thoughts and beliefs, so please bear with me.  I can never understand this desire to see dead people once they have been prepared for burial.  I don’t see what purpose it serves.  People rarely look like themselves.

I remember one night going to a wake for a cousin who been recently killed. He was 24 years old and had recently moved to Baltimore when his Mother received a call one Saturday Morning stating that he had been shot while playing dice.  His body would be shipped back to South Carolina.  The body was given to another Flemings funeral home located in manning.  I can remember standing in the funeral home just looking at him.  One of those sad records were playing in the background.  Suddenly, the record, which was playing had finished, and then I was hearing that static sound that occurs at the end of the record, although I did not realize that it was the record.  For a brief few second, I was about to dash out of the funeral home because I thought he was beginning to snore.

 I now know that there is really no reason to fear the dead.   Death is only the continuation of life. 

Plants and things in nature live but only one season.  But each spring or summer they blossom with so much delight that they must be thinking that they would live forever. 

In one way, perhaps they do.  In some ways perhaps we all do. Perhaps, there is no such thing as death.

Perhaps there can only be life.  We only move from one phase to the next, and there is no reason to ever be afraid.

But I always keep my eyes open!

Jerome

Chadwick Boseman

Commencement Speech at Howard University 2018

It is a great privilege, graduates to address you on your day, a day marking one of the most important accomplishments of your life to date. This is a magical place, a place where the dynamics of positive and negative seem to exist in extremes. I remember walking across this yard on what seemed to be a random day, my head down lost in my own world of issues like many of you do daily. I’m almost at the center of the yard. I raised my head and Muhammad Ali was walking towards me. Time seemed to slow down as his eyes locked on mine and opened wide. He raised his fist to a quintessential guard.

I was game to play along with him, to act as if I was a worthy opponent. What an honor to be challenged by the goat, the greatest of all time for a brief moment. His face was as serious as if I was Frazier in the Thrilla in Manila. His movements were flashes of a path greater than I can imagine. His security let the joke play along for a second before they ushered him away, and I walked away floating like a butterfly. I walked away amused at him, amused at myself, amused at life for this moment that almost no one would ever believe. I walked away light and ready to take on the world. That is the magic of this place. Almost anything can happen here. HU! You know!

Howard University, I was riding here, and I heard on the radio, somebody called it Wakanda University. But it has many names, the Mecca, the Hilltop. It only takes one hour, one tour of the physical campus to understand why we call it the Hilltop. Every day is leg day here. That’s why some of you have cars. During my junior and senior years, I lived in a house off campus at Bryant Street. For those of you… That’s right, Brian Street. For those of you who don’t know what that means that’s at the bottom of the hill where the incline gets real. Almost every day I would walk the full length of the hill to Fine Arts where most of my classes were, carrying all of my books, because once you walked that far on foot, you are not walking back home until it’s time to go home for good.

But beyond the physical campus, the Hilltop represents the culmination of the intellectual and spiritual journey you have undergone while you were here. You have been climbing this academic slope for at least three or four years. For some of you, maybe even a little bit more. Throughout ancient times, institutions of learning have been built on top of hills to convey that great struggle is required to achieve degrees of enlightenment. Each of you had your own unique difficulties with the hill. For some of you, the challenge was actually academics. When you hear the words magna cum laude, Cum Laude, you know that’s not you. That’s not you. You worked hard. You did your best, but you didn’t make A’s or B’s, sometimes C’s. You never made the dean’s list, but that’s okay. You are here on top of the hill.

I want to say something to that. You know, sometimes your grades don’t give a real indication of what your greatness might be. So, it really is okay. For others it was financial. You and your family struggled to make ends meet. Every semester of your matriculation, you had to stand in one line to get to another line, to get to another line for somebody that might help you. You had to work an extra job or two, but you are here.

For a lot of you, not all, but a lot of you, your hardest struggle was social. Some of you never fit in. You were never as cool and as popular as you wanted to be and it bothers you. So, your social struggles here became psychological. Even though you made it up to hill, you carried the baggage of rejection with you, but you are here.

Some of you went through something traumatic. You made it to the top of the hill, but not without scars and bruises. Some of you fit in too much. You were on the yard rapping on your frat block when you were supposed to be in class. Or you got caught up into DC party life. I know how that is. I mean, we are right here in the midst of the city. Sometimes you forgot you were in school. You probably could have graduated with honors, but instead you are getting an “Oh yeah” degree today. Oh yeah, I have class. Oh yeah, I have that paper due. Oh yeah, I have a final. You were literally too cool for school. You waited until the last minute to do your best work and it’s a wonder that you made it up the hill at all because you carry the baggage of too much acceptance.

Most of you graduating here today struggled against one or more of the impediments or obstacles I’ve mentioned in order to reach this hilltop. When completing a long climb, one first experiences dizziness, disorientation, and shortness of breath due to the high altitude, but once you become accustomed to the climb, your mind opens up to the tranquility of the triumph. Oftentimes the mind is flooded with realizations that were, for some reason harder to come to when you were at a lower elevation. At this moment, most of you need some realizations because right now you have some big decisions to make. Right now, I urge you in your breath, in your eyes, in your consciousness, invest in the importance of this moment and cherish it. I know some of you might’ve partied last night. You should, you should celebrate, but this moment is also a part of that celebration. So, savor the taste of your triumphs today. Don’t just swallow the moment whole without digesting what has actually happened here. Look down over what you conquered and appreciate what God has brought you through.

Some of you here struggled against the university itself. This year, students protested and took over the A building, formulated a list of demands and negotiated with our president and administration to determine the direction of our institution. It’s impressive. Similarly, during my years here at Howard, we also protested and took over the A building in order to preserve Howard’s alum, in order to preserve Howard’s annual appropriations from Congress. President H. Patrick Swygert decided to reduce the number of colleges at the university. By his plan, engineering would need to merge with architecture. Nursing would merge with allied health and the fine arts; my school will be absorbed by arts and sciences. That’s how we saw it, absorbed.

For many of us in fine arts, this signaled to us that our curriculums, all the curriculums of students following us might become watered-down concentrations. This undermined the very legacy we were proud to be a part of and aimed to continue. The fine arts program had produced Phylicia Rashad, Debbie Allen, Isaiah Washington, Richard Wesley, Donny Hathaway, Roberta Flack, just to name a few. We felt that… Yes, yes. You could go on and on. You can go on and on. You can go on and on. We felt that we could compete with students from Juilliard, NYU and Carroll Arts as long as we continued to have a concentrated dosage that rivaled a conservatory experience, but without it…

Although we took over the A building for several days and presented our arguments to President Swygert and the administration, the schools were still merged. Thus, the current collection or formation of schools exists. That’s why I view your recent protest is such an accomplishment for both sides of the debate, student, and administration. I didn’t come here to take sides. My interest is what’s best for the school.

A Howard University education is not just about what happens in the classroom, students. In some ways, what you were able to do exemplifies some of the skills you learned in the classroom. It takes the education out of the realm of theory and into utility and practice. Obviously, your organizational skills were unprecedented. I’m told that you organized shifts so that you could at least continue some of your classes. We missed all our classes. We were in the A building. I’m told that through donations, there was always an ample helping of food. I probably ate a slice of pizza during the entirety of our three-day protest.

Your organization and planning were impeccable. You received the majority of your demands, making a significant impact on those who came after you. As is often the case, those that follow most often enjoy the results of the progress you gained. You love the university enough to struggle with it. Now, I have to ask you that you have to continue to do that even now that you received your demands. Even if you are walking today, you have to continue to do that. Everything that you fought for was not for yourself. It was for those that come after. You could have been disgruntled and transferred, but you fought to be participants in making this institution the best that it can be. But I must also applaud President Wayne Frederick and the administration for listening to the students.

Your freedom of speech was exercised in a way where you can contribute to this place. It also shows that you can contribute to the democracy. The administration and the campus police at the time when I was protesting were not nearly as open-minded as this current one. I know this was a difficult time, but because of both of you, I believe Howard is a few steps closer to the actualization of its potential, the potential that many of us have dreamed for it. Students, your protests are also promising because many of you will leave Howard and enter systems and institutions that have a history of discrimination and marginalization. The fact that you have struggled with this university that you love is a sign that you can use your education to improve the world that you are entering.

I was on a roll when I entered the system of entertainment, theater, television and film. In my first New York audition for a professional play I landed the lead role. From that play, I got my first agent. From that agent, I got an on-screen audition. It was a soap opera. It wasn’t Third Watch. It was a soap opera on a major network. I scored that role too. I felt like Mike Tyson when he first came on the scene knocking out opponents in the first round. With this soap opera gig, I was already promised to make six figures, more money than I had ever seen. I was feeling myself. But once I got the first script [there were] problems. You very often get the script the night before and then you shoot the whole episode in one day with little to no time to prepare.

Once I saw the role I was playing, I found myself conflicted. The role wasn’t necessarily stereotypical. A young man in his formative years with a violent streak pulled into the allure of gang involvement. That’s somebody’s real story. Never judge the characters you play. That’s what we were always taught. That’s the first rule of acting. Any role play honestly, can be empowering, but I was conflicted because this role seemed to be wrapped up in assumptions about us as black folk. The writing failed to search for specificity. Plus, there was barely a glimpse of positivity or talent in the character, barely a glimpse of hope. I would have to make something out of nothing. I was conflicted. Howard had instilled in me a certain amount of pride and for my taste this role didn’t live up to those standards.

It was just my luck that after filming the first two episodes, execs of the show called me into their offices and told me how happy they were with my performance. They wanted me to be around for a long time. They said if there was anything that I needed, just let them know. That was my opening. I decided to ask them some simple questions about the background of my character, questions that I felt were pertinent to the plot.

Question number one: Where is my father? The exec answered, “Well, he left when you were younger.” Of course. Okay. Okay. Question number two: In this script, it alluded to my mother not being equipped to operate as a good parent, so why exactly did my little brother and I have to go into foster care? Matter-of-factly, he said, “Well, of course she is on heroin”.

That could be real, I guess, but I didn’t want to assume that’s what it was. If we are around here assuming that the black characters in the show are criminals, on drugs and deadbeat parents, then that would probably be stereotypical, wouldn’t it? That word stereotypical lingered. One of the execs pulled out my resume and began studying it. The other exec was now trying to live up to what they had promised me only a few moments before — “If there is anything you need, just let us know”. She said, “As you have seen, things move really fast around here, but we are more than happy to connect you with the writers if you have suggestions.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that would be great.” I said, because I’m just trying to do my homework on this. I didn’t know if you guys have decided on all the facts, but maybe there are some things we could come up with, some talent or gift that we can build. Maybe he is really good at math or something. He has to be active. I’m doing my best not to play this character like a victim.

“So, you went to Howard University, huh?” The exec holding my resume interrupted, peeking over the pages. “Yes,” I said proudly. He slid my resume back in his desk and said, “Thank you for your concerns. We will be watching you.”

I left the office. I shot the episode I had come in to shoot on that day. Probably the best one I did out of the three because I got one was bothering me off my chest. I was let go from that job on the next day. A phone call from my agent, they decided to go another way. The questions that I asked to set the producers on guard and perhaps paved the way for less stereotypical portrayal for the black actor that stepped into the role after me.

As the scripture says, “I planted the seed and Apollos watered it, but God kept it growing.” God kept it growing. Yet and still, when you invest in a seed, watching it grow without you, that is a bitter pill to swallow, a bitter pill. Anybody that has ever been fired knows what I’m talking about. Even if you really don’t want the job, when they let you go, it’s like any breakup, you act like you don’t care. I didn’t need that dam job anyway. I didn’t need them.

But when you have those moments alone, you start to wonder if there was a better way to handle it. If you could have handled it better maybe you could help your family. Then before you know it, you are broke. You find yourself scraping together change just so you can ride the subway so that you could get the next job. May be if you could book something else that would eclipse the feeling of doubt that’s building, but it seems like you can’t pay them to hire you now.

My agents at the time told me it might be a while before I got a job acting on screen again. Well, that was fine because I never wanted to act in the first place. And I definitely didn’t want to be caught dead going after a fake Hollywood pipe dream. I’m more of a writer, director anyway, so forget their stories. I can tell my own stories. But am I actually black balled? We are hesitant about sending you out to some people right now because there is a stigma that you are difficult. As conflicted as I was before I lost the job, as adamant as I was about the need to speak truth to power, I found myself even more conflicted afterwards. I stand here today knowing that my Howard University education prepared me to play Jackie Robinson, James Brown, Thurgood Marshall and T’Challa.

But what do you do when the principle and the standards that were instilled in you here at Howard closed the doors in front of you. Sometimes you need to get knocked down before you can really figure out what your fight is and how need to fight it. At some point, my mind reverted back to my experiences here, to the professors that challenged me and struggled against me, Professor Robert Williams, Doctor Singleton, George Epstein, to name a few, the ones that will fail you out of the goodness of their hearts. This may be hard to grasp for some of you right now, but I even considered President Swygert and how negotiating with him was practice for a world that was considerably more cruel and unforgiving than any debate here, one that had no interest in my ideals and beliefs. How would I maneuver through all of this?

Finally, I thought of Ali in the middle of the yard in his elder years, drawing from his victories and his losses. At that moment I realized something new about the greatness of Ali and how he carried his crown. I realized that he was transferring something to me on that day. He was transferring the spirit of the fighter in me. He was transferring the spirit of the fighter to me. He was transferring the spirit of the fighter to me. Sometimes you need to feel the pain and sting of defeat to activate the real passion and purpose that God predestined inside of you. God says in Jeremiah, “I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Graduating class, hear me well on this day. This day, when you have reached the hill top and you are deciding on next jobs, next steps, careers, further education, you would rather find purpose than a job or career. Purpose crosses disciplines. Purpose is an essential element of you. It is the reason you are on the planet at this particular time in history. Your very existence is wrapped up in the things you are here to fulfill. Whatever you choose for a career path, remember, the struggles along the way are only meant to shape you for your purpose. When I dared to challenge the system that would relegate us to victims and stereotypes with no clear historical backgrounds, no hopes or talents, when I questioned that method of portrayal, a different path opened up for me, the path to my destiny.

When God has something for you, it doesn’t matter who stands against it. God will move someone that’s holding you back away from the door and put someone there who will open it for you if it’s meant for you. I don’t know what your future is, but if you are willing to take the harder way, the more complicated one, the one with more failures at first than successes, the one that has ultimately proven to have more meaning, more victory, more glory then you will not regret it.

Now, this is your time. The light of new realizations shines on you today. Howard’s legacy is not wrapped up in the money that you will make, but the challenges that you choose to confront. As you commence to your paths, press on with pride and press on with purpose. God bless you. I love you, Howard. Howard forever!

by Jerome Pearson

July 2010

For most Americans, the fourth of July generally signifies Independence Day; that day back in 1776 when America declared her independence from England; thus, setting off the Revolutionary War which was won in 1778.

Although America declared herself independent and free in 1776, slavery still existed, so had I been living back then, I would not have been free; at least not until almost another hundred years when in the midst of another Great War (Civil War), in January 1863, President Lincoln, issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which declared “that all persons held as slaves” within the rebellious states “are, and henceforward shall be free.”

And even if I had become free in 1863, living in the South, it would have taken another 102 years (1965), before I would have been guaranteed the right to vote.  So in a sense, I would not have been declared a true citizen until nearly 200 years following the date we celebrate as Independence Day!

So, the question might be asked is this:  what, indeed, are African Americans celebrating when they celebrate Independence Day?

The very first writings of mine to be published in a newspaper occurred in 1982 while stationed in Germany, I responded to a complaint by a young solider in the American Stars and Stripes News Paper, who seemed to be lamenting the fact that we celebrate Black history.  The essence of my response was that I have no problem celebrating either Independence day nor Thanksgiving day even though when those days were first celebrated in the late 1700s, my ancestors were not free, and were only considered 3/5 of a person, thus meaning not completely human; almost, but not quite; little more than half of a person. Therefore, if I have no problem celebrating a history whose origin did not include me, what, in fact, is his problem?

However, I must admit that for many years, and perhaps still today, African Americans were not so much celebrating Independence Day, but rather celebrating that time of the year when many of our relatives who were living in the North would come home. Perhaps only second to Christmas, “The Fourth”, as it was called, was the greatest of all holidays, not so much because of an Independence received nearly 250 years ago, but rather for the chance to see relatives who had gone off and made it big. 

Set during the middle of our Summer months, the “Fourth” was indeed show-off time, as evidenced by the Cadillac Coupe Devilles, Cadillac Eldorados,  Buick Electra 225s & Riviera, Pontiacs (GTO), and the Oldsmobile 98s, with colorful license plates  stating either Maryland, New York, New Jersey, or Florida that would now be frequenting the South Carolina roads.  One of the greatest joys of any family was having a car with a “foreign” license plate parked in its yard.  Admittedly, some relatives who had gone away had actually returned on a grey-hound or trailways bus, but we were still happy to see them.  Still, a nice car would have been preferred! Without a car, you would have to drive them around instead.

I do recall once a neighbor’s relative had returned home driving a “Ford Falcon” which was one of those  ugly little cars manufacture by Ford Motor Company; a car I would have never wanted to be seen in as a kid.  I was trying to figure out how do you come all the way from Miami in a Ford Falcon? I didn’t think they would have such car in the “big city”.  Wouldn’t you be embarrassed to return home in such a car?  Now people would be thinking that perhaps you were not doing so well after all.  You would have been better off returning home on a greyhound; at least, in that case, it could be surmised that perhaps you left your nice car at home!

Many of our relatives had become members of the great African American Migration that started in the 1920s and lasted up until the late 1970s.  So, during the holidays, they would often return home to the great delight of those who were left behind.  And, if they were driving a nice car, that would be the number one symbol of their success up north, or down south in Miami.   Of course, this route of migration would have been different if your family were living in Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, or Texas, as many of those folks would have traveled to the Midwest (Chicago mostly), or to the West coast ( Los Angeles or Oakland).

As a kid I once made the rather naïve observation that I rarely saw a White person driving a car with a “foreign” license plate.  My first thought was that perhaps their relatives never came home during the holidays.  I did not realize at the time that, for the most part, they had no relatives who had gone away because there was no reason to ever leave where they were living.  Everything was always fine with them, so why would they move to Detroit! 

I always find it interesting that during those days the City of Atlanta was never one of those cities that our relatives would migrate to. Although Atlanta was the closest “big city” to my hometown, and also the home of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., for many years it was not considered a destination for anyone from my community.   Atlanta is in the State of Georgia, but back then it was considered too close to the “plantation” – no one was interested in stopping in either Georgia or North Carolina. A story was once told that there used to be a speed limit sign in the State of Georgia that displayed the following: “Cars (55mph); trucks (45mph); Negroes (haul ass)!”

Nowadays Atlanta is one of the more exciting and energetic cities in the United States, and could perhaps add a new suburb name “Summertonville” because half of the folks from Summerton, SC seem to have moved there. Also, Atlanta is the home of many African American celebrities who enjoy living in the “A”, as it is described by Mariah Carey.

Perhaps like many things in the American Society, African Americans have taken the holiday for independence and used it for something else.  Family reunions and weddings are probably most prevalent during this particular holiday.  We exploded fire-works, not so much because we were celebrating independence, but mostly because it was fun and exciting; very few of us were even thinking about 1776. Our tee shirt may have been red, white, blue, but not because of a flag. These were the colors that might have chosen by family reunion committee for a family reunion tee shirt.

For some strange reason, I always associate the Fourth July with the year 1965; I am not even sure why that is the case, but for some reason I seem to remember Fourth of July of 1965 more than others.  Who knows –although not old enough at the time- perhaps I was celebrating the news  that African Americans were finally about  to be given the right to vote in the South, which would become law in exactly one month following the Fourth of 1965.  In 1965, the Fourth was on a Sunday, and in my hometown of Davis Station there would be baseball game and a few miles down the road in area that was colloquially called the “Swamps”, there was a picnic at Mt. Zion AME Church.   I wound up spending some time at both.

During that Fourth of July, (1965) I remember a guy who looked like Nick Ashford (From one of my favorite soul couples, “Ashford & Simpson”), driving a White on White Old’s 98 with that yellowish New York State License plate.   He was an older brother of one of my classmates, Frank McCrae.  Louis McCrae, his name I think, was epitome of success returning home.  He lived in Harlem, and years later would return home driving a Hog (Cadillac Coup de Ville), with a white vinyl roof, white leather interior and a red body.  He was lean and tall, wore a white brim, and although he looked like a pimp, he was really just a hardworking man who apparently gained some success in the garment industry in NYC.  Many years later  (not during the fourth)  he returned home during the spring when  I saw his car parked in this lady’s yard very early one morning as the school bus drove by.  This lady was not his relative, was single with several young kids, and that Caddy was parked in the yard at 0630 in the morning so he most likely spent the night there; I guess a “Caddy” does come with some “fringe benefits!”

During the fourth of July of 1967, I recall a guy named Frank Pearson, who was one of our neighbor’s sons, came up from Miami driving a Maroon Pontiac GTO with black vinyl roof. Pontiac has probably never made a more beautiful car than the 67 GTO. I recall that GTO flying into our yard one day while blasting Aretha Franklin’s “respect”. Frank jumped out of the car wearing shorts and sandals and popping his fingers to the beat.  He was so cool!  Frank was the epitome of the partier, and was as crazy as they come. 

Many years later, while I was in high school, Frank returned from Miami during another Fourth of July for good driving a navy-blue Ford Thunderbird.  During the early 70s, the Thunderbird was one the most luxurious cars ever made in America.  Frank had apparently paid for that car in cash and was on the run from some less than ethical business partners; so Frank could never return to Miami.  I remember cruising around Davis Station in that beautiful car, as he would often ask me to drive for him since I had a driver’s license at 15 years old.  And even though that car had no gangsta whitewalls or TV antennas in the back, I was still “digging the scene with a gangsta lean”.   

Another fourth I remember very clearly was the one in the 1976 which was the summer following my senior year in High School.  That particular Fourth of July also occurred on a Sunday, and I remember being at a bar called the Country Club just outside of the town of Summerton, SC.  I recall the club being raided by the police, and until this day, I am not sure what that raid was about.  I suspect it had something to do with the sale of drugs, but I am not sure.  I recall my friend, Clarence Hilton and me, running to the car we were driving and getting the hell out of there.  Clarence was driving little white Opel, which is an American car that is no longer made in America, although it is still made and very popular in Germany.  It was a car that had lost its reverse gear, so it could not back up.  We would always have to park it in a manner where it would be facing the exit, or else we would have to push the car out of its spot, so that it could then be faced in a forward direction.   Because the Opel was already facing the exit, we were the first to get out of the crowded parking lot since we had a head start. (While that Opel may not have been the smoothest ride in the world, I must admit that I don’t think the country soul singer, Roy C, has eve sounded better than he did in that Opel.  Well, I do confess that Roy C did sound better in the Buick Electra 225 that Clarence’s father would purchase several months later.  “Back into my arms again” has never sounded better than it did as it was being pumped from those 8 speakers in that Buick.)

Over the years, Fourth of July, would find me in some rather exciting places. The Fourth of 1981 would find me in the beautiful city of “Trier”, which is the oldest city in Germany, situated on the Moselle River, not far from Luxembourg; the city is a treasure trove of Roman ruins; known as the “Rome of the North.  There have been very few scenes more beautiful than the drive into that city which is approached from a mountainous area making the city appear as if it were located in valley.  As my car descended I could see the entire city from a higher plane, and the view was absolutely spectacular.    

Approximately one week before the Fourth of 1982, I was given the task of writing an Independence Day speech that was to be made by a US Army General in Wiesbaden, who served as the US Community Commander in Wiesbaden.  I was the General’s adjutant, and my job was to put together a speech that a US General would make in the City of Wiesbaden.  I had to ensure that while Americans celebrate their Independence Day in Germany, a public speech given by an American Commander in the City would be inspirational, not only to American soldiers, but also to German citizens who would also be attendance. The strange thing is that my job did not include speech writing, and I had never written a speech for anyone, but somehow, I was able to write an effective speech; a speech that I actually never heard because I was not in attendance;  nevertheless, from what I was later told, it was a speech that had  gone well.  To this day, I am not sure how that happened, and I think it was only through strange coincidences, that it fell to me.   

I never heard the speech I wrote because I was out of town when it was being spoken.  During the Fourth of 1982, which also fell on a Sunday, I would find myself in a town located in South Western Germany called “Pirmasens”, which is located on the border of France.  I went there to visit my friends John and Janie Green, who had recently moved from a town in Northern Germany, called “Bremerhaven”.  Now that they were in Southern Germany like me, I could visit them by driving or train.   This was my first time seeing their first born, Derrick, who was born in August 1981 in Bremerhaven.  I recall one funny incident during my first day in Pirmasens.  John took me to a basketball game that was being played by soldiers on the base.  Civilians and military personnel were present.  As we sat in the bleachers, John drew my attention to one soldier who was sitting several rows beneath and to the left of us.  Now everyone knows that my friend, John Green, can be a little bit crazy at times, although in a comical way. He said, “Jerome, take a look at the soldier down there”.  I did not notice anything remarkable about the soldier other than the fact that he appeared extremely unattractive. To play along with John, I said, “Oh boy, he sure is ugly”!  John laughed and said: “and that’s not the worst thing!  That’s a woman!”

Fourth of July of 1983 fell on a Monday, and I would find myself in the City of Paris, France. It was my first time in Paris, and I was able to travel there from Wiesbaden, Germany as part of a USO tour for less than 100 US dollars. We left Wiesbaden on a Friday night and landed in Paris very early Saturday morning. Over the weekend we would tour a perfume factory; cruise the Seine River, and later see a show at the Moulin Rouge.  On Sunday I would visit the Eiffel Tower which I made model of while in my 10^th grade French Class. As part of the class, the teacher had each student select a French monument and design a version of it.  I chose the Eiffel Tower, and made a cardboard version.  This was during the year 1973.  I could not have imagined, at that time, that only 10 years later, (1983), I would be able to see the real thing up close.

Ms. Hamilton would be so proud!  And I made sure I was wearing my black tee shirt emblazoned with “The Sorbonne” (University of Paris), when I saw her in South Carolina two months later! 

I also reflect upon the fact that were it not for the African Americans who were 3/5ths of a man and denied equal rights even to this day some might say, the America celebrated by the vast majority of the people in the US would not have existed.  The cotton trade in the south was dependent on the incredibly cheap labor that slaves provided. Other industries benefited from the low wages paid to black workers.  Black workers raised and nurtured children of wealthy whites. Despite many challenges, black entrepreneurs established and grew business serving the black community as well as the white community before we were acknowledged as full citizens. Given our long heritage in this country, it could stand to reason that we have more ownership of the America everyone celebrates than others who came here much more recently.  This feeling of disenfranchisement that many African Americans feel to me is really a false feeling that exists only because the truths stated above are not publically acknowledge by society in general, and not discussed enough by the black community.

Jerome Pearson

by Jerome Pearson

June 2020

I recently came upon a story that I had not previously heard of. I had heard of stories similar to the one I am about to describe, but until recently, I had not heard of this particular story.

In the process of reading an article about recommended books, I came across a book titled “Unexamined Courage.” The book immediately sparked my interest because a key incident in the book occurred in my home state of South Carolina and was somewhat of precursor to a case for which I am very familiar: Briggs versus Eliot which led to the Brown versus the Board of Education case in 1954.

The subtitle of the book is “The Blinding of Sergeant Isaac Woodard.”  Woodard was an African American Military Veteran who was returning home following the end of World War 11.   He had served in the Pacific Theater and had made tremendous contributions toward our success in that war. 

On the night of February 12, 1946, Mr. Woodard boarded a Greyhound bus in Augustus, Georgia for the last leg of his trip returning from overseas.  I can imagine how happy he had been returning home after nearly three years under extremely dangerous circumstances.  As he got on the bus along with other soldiers, he was still proudly wearing his uniform with his Sergeants Stripes; something that I am sure he had worked hard for during those days. 

He and other soldiers were celebrating their return home, and as such, they did have a few drinks. During one of the stops on their way from Georgia, Sergeant Woodward asked the driver to allow him time to use the restroom. The driver insisted that that the sergeant was making him late for scheduled stops. As they continued on, the driver and Sergeant Woodard got into an argument. When the bus entered the town of Batesburg, 35 miles southwest of Columbia, South Carolina, the driver insisted that Sergeant to needed get off the bus. He was no longer allowed as a passenger.  Sergeant Woodward refused to get off because he had not arrived at his designation, which is what his ticket was for.

In the town of Batesburg, the driver got off the bus to find law enforcement because he wanted Sergeant Woodard to get off the bus and to stay off. 

After arriving at the scene, the police chief, Lynwood Shull, and another officer ordered Mr. Woodard off the bus. Sergeant Woodard, although in Uniform, was arrested for Disorderly Conduct.  As he was being hand-cuffed, folks on the bus could see the sheriff striking the sergeant in the head with his “blackjack” before pushing him into the police vehicle.  “Law-enforcement officers during this era routinely carried blackjacks, which were baton-type weapons, generally leather, with shotgun pellets or other metal packed into the head and with a coiled-spring handle.”

What the crew did not see were the multiple blows across the face and eyes that Sergeant Woodard would later receive as he was being taken to jail. The next day, Woodard was taken to see the local Judge. But before leaving his cell, he kept telling law enforcement that he could not see. They tried to clean the blood off his eyes and had him rinse them with water, but that likely made it worse. 

Appearing before the judge, the police chief who arrested him stated that he had only struck him once.  Woodard claimed he was struck numerous times in the face and that the blackjack was dug into his eyes. The judge believed the Sheriff.  Sergeant Woodard was convicted for drunken and disorderly conduct and was required to pay a fine which forfeited all the savings he had after the war.

Following the hearing, Sergeant Woodard was free to go home. But it was obvious that Woodard had no ability to get home, could not see, and was in severe pain.  It took several days for the police to take him to the hospital. He was later driven to the Veterans Hospital in Columbia. He remained in the hospital for two months.  The beatings he suffered while in police custody caused him permanent blindness.

After leaving the hospital 2 months later, his wife abruptly left him because she could not deal with a blind person. Woodard family would later move him to Harlem, NY.

The story eventually got the attention of the NAACP. As news of this attack circulated in the national media, President Harry Truman created the first President’s Committee on Civil Rights.  The NAACP was able to get the story to esteemed Actor Orson Welles who had a radio show. Orson was one of the more distinguished actors around during those days and had the famous radio broadcast one evening called “War of The Word” which had caused panic to listeners for genuinely believing that America was being invaded. 

Orson was able to broadcast the story of Sergeant Isaac Woodard over the radio which incensed many people throughout the world.  Only then, was the police chief identified as Lynwood Shull, and who was later indicted and put on trial in South Carolina.

During the trial, the police chief claimed that Woodard had tried to take his blackjack and that he had only struck Sergeant Woodard once. Medical records never shown in court disproved Chief Shull’s claim. It took 28 minutes for an all-white jury to acquit the police chief.

Here was a soldier beaten in the face with Blackjack causing permanent blinding, but the jury had no problem acquitting the police chief! The jury was able to believe the police chief because only his life mattered to them.

If they were asked back then, the Jurors might have claimed that “all lives matter!”

However, it would appear that the life of Sergeant Isaac Woodard, a World War 11 veteran, did not matter to them. The fact that he had served his country on their behalf made no difference to them.

Today, many people don’t want to be specifically reminded that lives of men like Sergeant Isaac Woodard matter also.

Granted, it would be ideal and quite wonderful if this reminder were not needed!

But until then?

Jerome

by Jerome Pearson

September 2009

Towards the end of summer 2009, I spent a delightful week in my home state of South Carolina.  More specifically, I spent a week in the Kiawah Islands, which is one of several islands located off the coast of Charleston.  

Charleston is one my most favorite cities; this was not the case when I lived in South Carolina; it was only after I had begun visiting Charleston years later that I began to appreciate its various treasures.  I now think that I might have enjoyed going to college in Charleston.  I did not think this when I was in high school.  As a matter of fact, I did not ever consider going to college anywhere in South Carolina.  At that time, I just wanted to get away; where, it did not matter, as long as it was away from SC. 

Charleston is significantly more beautiful then Tyler, Texas, which is where I spent my freshman year in college.  North Grand Avenue in Tyler, Texas cannot hold a candle to South Broad Street in Charleston.  I could not have known this back then, but I know it now, and I feel a sense of pride in having come from a place that was not that far from the city of Charleston.   It is amazes me now to reflect on the fact that I had, coincidentally, visited the Charleston area only a week prior to leaving for Tyler, Texas in 1976.  I did not realize it at that the time, but I was leaving a place that is immensely more exciting than the place I was about to go.   Sometimes the dreams we search for are already in our own possession.  We only need to click our heels three times and recite “there is no place like home!”

MONDAY

On Monday, August 31, 2009, my wife Cecelia, and I left Wayne, New Jersey for Washington D.C.  We would be spending the night with my Mother-In-Law, Mrs. Jennie Henderson, who would also be traveling with us to South Carolina.

TUESDAY

On Tuesday Morning, September 1, we left Washington D.C at 6 am, and were in Richmond, Virginia by 07:30.  Our first stop was at Cracker Barrel in Richmond for breakfast.  It does not matter what state you are in; all Cracker Barrel restaurants look the same both externally and internally.   From far away, you can often see the golden sign, inscribed with brown lettering, advertising its exit and subsequent directions.  While the setting is certainly “country”, I always have this innate sense that I am about to enter a home which I was never truly invited.  The pictures I see on the wall and the implied history seem to have nothing to do with me. Or, perhaps they have much more to do with me than what I might desire.   I often wonder what its “name” really means, this “Cracker Barrel.”  But they do serve a decent breakfast, and the waitresses are always obsequiously friendly. I had the grill catfish and fried eggs, over-hard, which are accompanied by grits and fried apples on the side.   Cecelia had the French toast and my mother in-law had eggs over medium and bacon. It is one of the few restaurants that serves either fried or grilled catfish for breakfast.  As a child, I used to enjoy fish and grits, and being the nostalgic person that I am, on convenient occasions, I will treat myself to the “remembrances of things past.” After breakfast, we were on the road again, heading south on interstate 95. Although Cecelia offered to drive, I felt comfortable enough to drive all the way to Charleston, SC.

Going through the state of North Carolina, I was happy to learn that the speed limit increases to as much as 70 miles per hour.  This meant that I could set the cruise control to about 78 and not worry about the flashing blue lights. 

I was surprised to learn when traveling through North Carolina that tobacco had not yet been cropped, and that there was little indication that cotton was on the horizon.  When I was in elementary school, half of the kids would miss classes during much of September picking cotton, but here it was September 1, and not even a “bud.”  Also, I saw some tobacco fields where not even the first leaves had been cropped, when in the past we would be done with the entire stalk by the end of August.   Either the seasons are changing, or my memory is failing me, which I sincerely doubt.

After a relatively quick trip through NC, I decided to stop at “South of the Border” in South Carolina to show Cecelia and her mother some of South Carolina’s attractions.  What a dump that was!  I will not be stopping there again.  I don’t even know why they advertise “South of The Border, only 60, then 30 more miles”, as if there is something special to see.  Besides getting gas, I don’t know why anyone would ever want to stop there.  It looks like some kind of movie-set for the filming of a Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Western:  Perhaps “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly”.  Well, I must admit that at least two of the descriptions do work.

After leaving South of the Border, we continued south in the direction of Manning.  I called to ensure that my sister, Ethel, was home because we wanted to see her before heading to Charleston.  Ethel had been ill for the past several weeks and we wanted to see that she was ok.  We got off at exit 119 in Manning and headed east on 261 towards Manning.  We made a right onto Commerce, a left on to Sky View, and then another right onto Collins. After going to the wrong house on Collins, the owner was kind enough to point out that the house I was looking for was next door.  Ethel looked good, considering what she had been through, and she was just as gracious as she has ever been.  Ethel is strong, honest, sincere, and always possess the utmost integrity.  I recall as a child that when I first moved in with my aunt, we would have an assembly line when washing dishes.  Ethel would wash the dishes, I would dry them, and Bobby would put them away.  At this time, I was in the first grade, and neither Ethel nor Bobby had started school yet.  I don’t recall what Junior used to do when we were washing dishes.  Ethel’s husband, Ray, who had been sleeping when we arrived, promptly came out to share with us some of the idiosyncrasies of his own family history.  Having spent considerable time in New Jersey, himself, Ray entertains us by mocking some of the unique elocutions and speech patterns of our native South Carolina citizens.  We talked about old times and things that were currently happening in the community. 

As an example, Ethel works with legal immigrant children, exclusively Mexicans, who I guess were temporarily in the United States with their parents as they perform some of the seasonal jobs that we used to do.   I think they are officially called migrant workers who are willing to come each season to break their backs with manual labor that need to be done.  I could not help but reflect on the fact that when Europeans first came to America, they had apparently had a difficult time getting the Native Americans (Indians) to work in the fields, so they went to Africa instead.  To paraphrase the late West Indian Historian, Eric Williams, “they would have gone to the moon if they had to, but Africa was closer than the moon.”  But now, many of these jobs are being performed by Mexicans, many of whom are descendants of the original Native Americans.  Go figure!

After leaving Ethel’s home, we continued traveling south on Interstate 95.  In less than 30 minutes we were crossing Lake Marion in the town of Santee.  I remarked that as a kid I always enjoyed riding over Lake Marion.  To me, it was the highlight of any school trip.  I was always disappointed in any school trip that did not include traveling over water, even though the actual time spent on the bridge was probably less than one minute.  When I first traveled across Lake Marion, it was highway 301.  At that time, I could see the bridge for I-95 being built, which would run parallel to the bridge on highway 301.  The 301 bridge is no longer used and appears as if it was slightly higher than 95.

In another 20 minutes or less we were exiting Interstate 95 for 26 East towards the city of Charleston.  For the most part, the speed limit was still 70 miles per hour.  Getting from place to place in South Carolina is quicker these days.  Going through the outer edges of Charleston, I took 17 South and headed towards the Folly Beach area.  After leaving the Charleston City Limits, it still takes nearly an hour getting to Kiawah Beach.   The drive to Kiawah was both beautiful and haunting.  There is nearly a nearly 20 miles stretch of roads where it appears as if you are driving through a tunnel.  At some points the road is only two lanes, at other times it comprises two lanes in each direction which are separated by a bit of wilderness from oncoming traffic.  In many instances, the trees are so large that they tend to have limbs expanding across the highway from both sides.  The limbs are enveloped with Spanish moss, which provides for a very haunting and dark tunnel-like appearance, so much so, that automatic headlights will often come on, even in the daytime.

Upon arriving at the Condo that we would be renting for the week, I was surprised to see how nice it was.  Cecelia did all the planning, so I was pleasantly surprised at the many facilities.  It contained two bedrooms, both of which could be considered Master Bed rooms, with multiple closets and bath rooms.  There was a full kitchen, stocked with cooking utilities, utensils, real plates, glasses, and a dish washer.  Next to the kitchen, there was a laundry room with a clothe washer and dryer.  The Condo also contained a dining area and a large living room which led to an outer deck and screened in sunroom porch.   

After unpacking, and getting a “lay of the land”, as it were, it was time to decide where to have dinner.  Having arrived late in the day, we thought it best to have dinner some place close.  We went to a restaurant located in Fresh Fields Village, which is the only shopping village that is attached to the Kiawah Island community.   The village contains, among other things, the visitor’s welcome center, which is we where retrieved the keys to the condo and other welcoming documents and maps when we first arrived.  There is also a grocery store, a bookstore, and various other unique shops.   One of the recommended restaurants was King Street Grill which combines a sports bar and restaurant.  When I travel to unique areas, I tend to try to sample, if possible, the indigenous local specialty.  The Charleston Jambalaya immediately attracted my attention.   As a southern boy who had been raised on rice, I immediately surmised that the combination of chicken, andouille, shrimp, and red spicy rice would fit the bill.  I must admit that while I have had better, the meal was, nevertheless, sufficient.  The meal, however, was also just a little bit salty for my taste; a taste which may have been somewhat altered since leaving SC many years ago.  These days, I often find southern food salty, although I did not see it as such when I was a child.  I remember returning from Germany and thinking that my Aunt was putting more salt in the food than I recall.  She was adding no more salt than usual; it was simply that I had become accustomed to less salt.  Despite this slight change in my need for salt, I must confess that I still love southern food, and am willing to forgo the usual health concerns, if only temporarily, for just a little bit of southern nostalgia.

After returning to the condo, I pulled out one of the 5 books that I brought along for the trip.   I was reading a novel called “The Vagrants” which was written by a Chinese writer who now lives in the United States.  The novel is set in little town in China called “Muddy River”.  It involves some of the shocking events that occurred in China during the counter-revolutionary period stemming from the 1960s through the incredibly early nineties.  A counterrevolutionary was any individual who opposed the existing communist government, which was then headed by Chairman Mao until his death in the early seventies.  Most of these individuals were young idealists, who saw the communist government as backwards and oppressive.   The novel centered on a main female character who was 28 years old and who was about to be publicly executed for her involvement in some of the uprisings.   These executions were called “denunciations”, and all individuals in the community were encouraged (forced) to witness. Schools were cancelled for the day because the government wanted to ensure young kids the opportunity to celebrate and witness how dissidents are handled if they should ever challenge the existing government.  In most cases, unless it was a relative or a friend, members of the community seemed to look forward to these events; it was seen as somewhat of a holiday.   As a matter of fact, if a relative of the condemned person showed any signs of sadness or remorse themselves, they too would be punished.   Displaying any signs of disapproval of the impending execution of a counterrevolutionary was considered blasphemous, even if it was one’s daughter who was about to be executed. 

During the previous week, President Obama and family were also on vacation.  It was mentioned that Obama had also taken books to read; as a matter of fact, he took the same number as me, which was five. I probably got in more reading than he did because Senator Edward Kennedy passed during the week President Obama was vacation, and I am sure he became intimately involved with preparing for the various eulogies.  However, it was interesting to note that I had already read two books that Obama had taken with him: “Lush Life” by Richard Price and “The Turnaround” by George Pelecanos.   It was good to know that the President and I have similar tastes. 

WEDNESDAY

The next day, which was Wednesday, would be our first full day on the Island.  After breakfast, Cecelia and I went to scope out the beach.   We wanted to see what facilities were available, i.e. chairs, umbrellas, etc.  For a modest fee these things could be rented although it’s ok to bring your own, which was something we hadn’t considered.  After parking in one of the many beach entrance points, we walked down a little path that leads to the beach. There is nothing like getting a glimpse of the expansive Atlantic Ocean.  We sometimes forget that the earth is more water than land.  And each continent is an island, large and small, surrounded by the vastness of oceans.

Because it was so early, the beach was nearly empty at the time.  However, there were a few early visitors who had already camped out along the shore in both directions.  There are miles and miles of beach area within close proximity of any of the condos. We could see a lone fishing boat far out.   After talking to one of the Island representatives we were able to have a large umbrellas and chairs installed on the beach for our later return. 

After retrieving my mother-in-law, we returned to the beach and claimed our umbrella and chairs.  The temperature was nearly perfect on this first day, partly cloudy and not exceeding 80 degrees Fahrenheit.  The water was cool at first, but you became adjusted to it in less than a minute. 

I absolutely love the haunting sounds of the roaring waves; as they cascade like gigantic fountains, retreat like enemy soldiers, only to return again and again with what seems to be an exponentially greater onslaught of reinforcement.  I would love to have a house on the ocean, with my bedroom facing the ocean, and having those mysterious, haunting, and melodious sounds delightfully tranquilizing me to sleep each night. 

We had lunch in the Village at little soup and sandwich shop.  This little restaurant serves some of the best soup and sandwiches that I have ever had.  I never thought a grilled BLT and homemade vegetable soup could be so good.

After the delightful lunch, we returned to the Condo in early afternoon.  My mother-in-law took her usual afternoon nap.  Cecelia and I read or watch TV or did a combination of those things.  I checked my work email, replied to requests, and generally surfed the web before taking a nap myself. 

We decided that we would go into the City of Charleston for Dinner.   There is a restaurant located on Anson Street called “Anson”.  After parking, and prior to dinner, we took a brief walk down a couple of streets that were located not too far from the restaurant.  We took a brief walk through the famous Market area where various vendors were hawking their wares, from various leathers items, woven baskets, tee-shirts, etc. 

After returning to the restaurant, we were able to be seated earlier than our reservation.  Cecelia had been to this restaurant before, but this was my first time.  For appetizer, I ordered the Cornmeal Crusted Okra, which my mother-in-law and I shared.  Cecelia and Mother also shared a She Crab Soup.  For the main course, I ordered the Cashew Crusted Grouper with Hopping John Rice.  Cecelia ordered one of the recommended house specialties, which is a Roasted Red Snapper with Succotash and Shrimp. My mother-law had the Braised Beef Short Ribs. 

After our meal, we made the long dark journey back to Kiawah Islands.   If you think that the stretch of road that leads to Kiawah is dark in the daytime, then you can imagine what its like at night.   When driving into our condominium complex, we saw a raccoon slowly crossing the road, with its eyes glaring suspiciously at us, as if to say, “You are invading my space and time.”   I could only imagine what other nocturnal creatures might be roaming the premises this time of night, readying themselves for any potential breakfast opportunities.

THURSDAY

On Thursday morning, after breakfast, Cecelia and I went for an early morning walk along the beach.   My mother-in-law stayed in and played scrabble by herself. Later that morning, we drove up to the Tangiers Outlets, which are located in North Charleston.  You wind up driving around the outer edge of the city again, this time going north on 17, and then west on 26 all the way to exit 213.  This Tangier Outlet is one of several Tangiers located throughout the United States.  The stores are usually the same, with Brooks Brothers being the top men store, and perhaps Anne Taylor for women.  And of course, what is an outlet if it does not have the omnipresent Eddie Bauer? I enjoy outlets, and have gotten some terrific bargains, but my favorite of them all is Woodbury Commons located in the New York state, which is about a 40 minutes drive from my home in Wayne, New Jersey.  Woodbury Commons is more upscale than the Tangiers because, in addition to Brooks Brothers, it also has Gucci, Saks, Neiman Marcus, Armani, Tods, Bally, Ralph Lauren, to name just a few.  But Brooks Brothers was having a 70% off sale that day, so I did take advantage of that.

After returning to the Condo, I checked my work email again.  I wanted to ensure that although I was on vacation, I could still be of some assistance if needed; being the dedicated person that I am (?)  I also wanted to check out a review for a restaurant that Cecelia had observed when we were traveling to Charleston on Wednesday.  The restaurant was called “The Fat Hen”.  Leave it to Cecelia to discover a hidden jewel, even if its luster is not readily apparent when viewed from the road.   The online reviews were excellent, and the prices seemed fairly reasonable.  So, The Fat Hen would be it for dinner.

The Fat Hen Restaurant is located in Johns Island, which is about a 30-minute drive from Kiawah.  I think we all agreed that Fat Hen was even better than Anson.  As the reader can now tell, I do love Sea Food, so I ordered the Pan Seared Grouper with wild mushroom, garlic, tomato, herbs, and butter beans.  How could I possibly pass up the butter beans?  My mother-in-law had the Crab Cakes and Cecelia ordered a Chicken Comfit which came with collard greens and mash potato.

FRIDAY

The next day, Friday, we returned to the Beach.  This was perhaps the hottest day of the week.   Even the sand was hot, and reminiscent of those extremely hot days during my youth when we walked through fields bare footed.  I always tell the story of walking in fields wherein the sand was so hot, that we would often dig holes in the ground to stick our feet in, in order to cool them off.    But, walking in the waters along the shores of the beach greatly ameliorated the condition.   Although the day was hot, the humidity was no so high, so we were still able to enjoy the beach.  This time we actually had lunch on the beach.  I took orders, and retrieved lunch from local a local grill, and then returned to beach.  After lounging and reading, it was time to return to condo to rest up for Friday evening.  On this evening, we decide to go to J.B. Smokeshack restaurant which is also located on Johns Island.  Although you can order from the menu, the specialty here was  the “all you can eat” buffet that include such things as butter beans, potato salad, fried fish, pull barbeque pork, ribs, fried & baked chicken, as well as dessert.   They advertise that their pork shoulder and ribs are cooked over hickory wood, and that their chicken is cooked over apple wood. They offer a variety of home-made sauces, ranging from North Carolina vinegar-style to Texas tomato-base, and finally mustard sauce of South Carolina. The restaurant only seats about 20 people at any one time, but there was sufficient turnover, and no one was left standing for exceedingly long.  Also, there is the usual “sweet” and “unsweetened” iced tea which is a staple in the South.  I tend to prefer my Iced Tea unsweetened, so that I am able to determine my own level of sweetness.  I tried a couple of spoons of the Banana Pudding which they claim is “real”, but I have never known what unreal banana pudding would be like.   Perhaps it was because I was no longer hungry, but I did not find the banana pudding anything to write home about.  I don’t do well at “all you can eat” because I am never comfortable “eating all that I can eat”.  More often than not, I use the opportunity to sample various tastes.  To me it is the variety that is most attractive, rather than the volume.

SATURDAY

The next day, Saturday, brought many pleasant surprises.  Saturday was the chosen day for driving back up to Clarendon County to spend time with family and friends.  We knew Saturday would be good because almost everyone would have the day off.

The first stop was at my long-time friend, Clarence’s, home.    When I arrived in Summerton, I got off at exit 108, and made left on highway 102 towards Summerton.  I then made another left on 301 and headed toward St. Paul.  About a half mile up the road, there is a semi- graveled road on the right that leads back into a neighborhood that I had never visited until Clarence showed it to me exactly a year ago.

Clarence is still in the military and is stationed at Ft. Jackson in Columbia.  However, within the last couple of years, he and his wife, Dorothy, bought and renovated a ranch style home located right outside of Summerton.   I first saw the house a year ago when it was still being worked on when Clarence and I went there after our 2008 high school reunion.   Now the home is being lived in, as Clarence awaits retirement in 2010.  As a Colonel in the US Army, Clarence has done quite well for himself.  Retiring at the rank of Colonel with nearly 30 years in the military, offers a kind of freedom that most of us can only dream of.  As a retired military Colonel, at his age and health, Clarence will have a kind of luxury and flexibility that most of us will never experience.  But it is a reward well-deserved for the many sacrifices he has made along the way.  Among many other things, Clarence participated in “Desert Storm” and was at the Pentagon on the day the Plane struck it on September 11, 2001.   About Clarence, I once wrote in my high school yearbook that “there is no way God will ever let him down”.  Perhaps I was right.

And let me tell you reader, my friend Clarence can barbeque some ribs.  I sat next to the grill and was sampling the tender meat with my hands just as it was taken off the fire.  These were some of the tenderest and juicy spareribs I have ever had.  In addition to the barbequing of the ribs and chicken breasts, his wife Dorothy had prepared a feast for the ages.  This meal consisted of several types of exotic salads, Spanish rice, and of course Clarence’s ribs and chicken.   Dorothy also baked a wonderful cake for the occasion, which we were too stuffed to eat at the time.  Therefore, Dorothy and Clarence insisted that we take the entire cake with us since I would be visiting relatives later that afternoon. 

After lunch, we went to look at the horses.  At that time Clarence and Dorothy had four beautiful horses, one of which was about to be returned since she did not get along with the other horses.   Clarence saddled one of the new horses and began to ride it up and down the road in front of his house.  He looked like a real Black Cowboy.  He has done quite a bit of land scaping on his property and even has his own John Deere tractor.   It is interesting that while he has spent considerable time in such places as Arizona, North Carolina, South Korea, Middle East, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, D.C., California, and Seattle, it is the little town of Summerton that he has chosen to finally settle.

After leaving Clarence and Dorothy, we headed up to Sumter.  Leaving Summerton, we headed north on high 15 towards the town of Sumter.  Deberry was hosting the family get- together, which was not previously planned, but perhaps only thought of when they realized that I was home.  It turned out to be an unplanned mini-family reunion.  Some of the best family reunions we have had are unplanned.  We would bring various items to be grilled or some items that were already prepared. 

Deberry is now a Pastor and lives in a nice home with her husband, Bobby Cook, and daughter Datra.  There is one son, Ricardo, who is serving in Iraq.  Pastor Deberry Cook is my aunt’s second oldest daughter, who was only two-year-old when I moved in with them as a kid.  Therefore, although first cousins, we were all raised as sisters and brothers; as a result, I am considered their second oldest brother.  Deberry, who was formerly called Debra, had decided many years ago to use the name as it is actually spelled on her birth certificate, which is “Deberry”.  Deberry has been the pastor of several churches, sometimes as many as two simultaneously; she is well known in South Carolina, and I would often “Google” her name and find her presiding over some ceremony stemming from her church affiliations.  Along with Deberry, her sisters, Ethel, and Denise, are also ordained ministers.  My dear aunt, if she could only see them today, might be just a little bit surprised to learn that she has not just “one”, but “three” daughters who are ministers.   Now, if Audrey (Renae) should ever decide to do a “trial” sermon, I might just have to be there for that.

As I mentioned before, the cook-out at Deberry’s turned into a mini-family reunion.  While there, I received a call from our Aunt Frances from Buffalo, who was trying to get Deberry’s phone number.  She told me that she was in Sumter but had left the number at home.  I told her that I, too, was in Sumter, and that we were all getting together just at that moment.  We retrieved Aunt Frances from her brother’s home in Sumter and brought her to the cook-out.  After returning to the cook-out, other relatives had arrived, some of whom I had not seen in more than 5 years.  For various reasons, I had not seen Peanut or Terry for several years, so it was so nice to see them both.

There was more food to be eaten, but I had to be careful with my portions, since I had eaten so much meat earlier.   There were a variety of rib types, chicken wings, along with bake beans, potato salad, and macaroni sent by Ethel, who could not make it.  For dessert we had the Cake that was provided by Clarence and Dorothy.

The next day, Sunday, as we were leaving Kiawah Islands, and heading north towards home, I began to think about the wonderful week.   It was so wonderful being on the beach and enjoying some of Charleston’s hidden treasures.  But most importantly, it was good just being with family and friends again; reminiscing about old times; enjoying the current time; and just reflecting, hoping, and praying that the future trips home will be as great as or better than the one I just experienced.

As we were leaving the state of South Carolina, I can now say that in spite of the many Mark Sanfords and Joe Wilsons of the world, I can still click my heels three times, and recite:   “There is no place like home!”

Jerome

September 2009

August 2018

By Jerome Pearson

There are several New Light Missionary Baptist Churches in the USA, but only one in Davis Station, SC. The one located on what is now called Moses Dingle Road in Davis Station, is the New Light that I attended as a kid and is perhaps the only church I have ever claimed as my own. 

It was, perhaps, the first church I have ever attended.  I can remember, as a “two-year old”, sitting in that church one Easter staring up at the ceiling.  I was staring at the ceiling because it appeared so high up to me.  I was used to the ceilings in our home, and those ceilings were not nearly as high.  

I had been told about God, and that he was in the sky, so obviously I would be looking up towards the ceiling to see if he were in fact looking down on me.  I feared GOD because the picture in our house was of a man with a complexion that resembled the Policemen I used to see running around.  I was trying to figure out why he looked like them!  They were not so nice, and because I feared them, why wouldn’t I also fear God?

Nevertheless, unlike the men in our town with a similar complexion, I was told that God was nice and different from the others, so I took their word for it. One difference I did notice was that the God in the picture had a more solemn look and plus his hair was longer so that had to be the explanation.  The policemen had closely cropped hair and carried big guns on their waist.  The pictures I had seen of God showed no evidence of a gun.  Of course, one day it was thundering and lightening, and I was thinking that perhaps God did have gun too.

My first Easter speech was made at New Light. I was 3 years old and I was told to say:

What are you looking at me for?

I didn’t come to stay!

I just came to wish you a happy Easter day!

I am sure I learned that in one take, and over the years I would be exceptionally good at reciting any speech given to me, regardless of length.

Over the years my church would have different colors.  I can even recall it once having red tar paper as its siding.  I don’t know who came up with that bright idea!

There was a time it had no color at all! It was almost as if someone had installed a wooden siding, but church members must have not had enough funds to pay for the paint. Therefore, it remained colorless for a few years!

Yet, despite all, New Light would continue to stand.  Bold and beautiful in an understated sort of way! Other churches have rebuilt and sometimes even moved to another plot. But New Light remains where she has always been.  She stands on the edge of a main highway. 

Before moving to a new house closer to the church we would sporadically attend church from where we are living at the time.  We had to walk a long distance to get there but we enjoyed it.  One day we showed up, the Preacher, Reverend Mouzon observed a mark in Bobby’s head. He said that it was a mark from God that Bobby would one day become a preacher.  I was laughing under my breath because I knew that that mark came from a hatchet that fell on Bobby’s head a few weeks earlier.  One day we were trying to pick cherries from a tree. Rather than carefully picking the cherries without damaging the branches, we found an old hatchet and began cutting the entire branches. This would mean there would be no cherries the next year, but we were only concerned about the current year.  James was handling the hatchet and cutting the branches when it fell from his hand and popped Bobby in the head. I was thinking to myself that if what the preacher was saying is true, then “God sure enough did work in mysterious ways!”

There was a dirt road leading from the highway and running alongside of the church back into nowhere land. At least until we moved back there in October 1968.  Thursday, October 11 to be exact!  After we moved into a newly built house about a third of a mile behind New Light, other homes and families began to move into the area.  That dirt road which barely existed prior to 1968 became quite busy after that, for more reasons than one.  Years later two school buses would be running back and forth alongside and behind that church.

When we first moved to the area in 1968, not far from church lived a Jehovah witness family. They owned a little store that sold snacks and became an immensely popular place for folks in the area. There were a few residents who would leave the store without paying! May be Horace did pay, I am not sure!

However, we always paid for our snacks. We used to take money from our mother’s pocketbook and load up with candy from that store.

We could not take the candy home, so we needed a place to hide it.  New Light became our hiding place!  We became so bold that we even included the house of worship as part of our little shenanigans. No, we did not hide the candy inside the church!  We hid it underneath the church. There was a big difference! 

At the rear of the church, there were steps for anyone exiting through the back door.  Behind the steps was an area where we could hide a bag of candy and no one would know it was there. On our way to school the next morning, we would surprise the girls, Ethel (3^rd grade) and Debra (1^st grade) with the bag of candy we had hidden the evening before. That bag would contain nearly 100 pieces of candy. To ensure they would not tell on us, we would give them some of the candy, so they became culprits as well.  To my knowledge, they never once told on us.

James was the oldest, and he was the main one who would take the money out our mother’s purse. There was another brother, Glendell, who also participated when he was visiting.   Of the four of us boys, I was the one who was the most reluctant when it came to taking money. Perhaps, this had to do with the fact that I was a cousin as oppose to a brother, although we were being raised as such.  There was always a part me that felt that I should not have the same liberties, or perhaps audacity, as the others. 

However, we ran into a dilemma a couple years later!  James turned 12 and had to be baptized. New Light had a little pool behind the main pulpit.   When Reverend Mouzon dipped James below the waters in that pool and brought him back up in his white outfit, James was now baptized, which meant that he was now saved.  And while he could continue to eat the candy from the stolen money, he was no longer able to take the money himself because he was no longer allowed to sin.  To us there was no sin in benefiting from something being stolen if you didn’t steal it yourself.

The rest of us boys who had not yet reached the age of 12 were free to sin and had to take up the slack. But because of my reluctance, this would now mean that the burden of taking the money was basically left with Bobby who was only 9.

Lucky for us, James only remained saved for about two weeks before he began sinning again! He could now resume his responsibility of taking the money! The baptism had only caused us about two weeks of interruption!

As the years went by, my family and I became especially important to New Light. We were among the most faithful being that we were there every Sunday, and on time at that. We lived so close to the church there could be no excuse.

During those early years we had to share our preacher with another Church called Bethlehem.  We had Reverend Mouzon on the 2^nd and 4^th Sundays, and Bethlehem had him on 1^st, 3^rd, and 5th! That meant that he was at Bethlehem more often than New Light. That would also mean that church services were shorter on the days when there was no preaching! We could then go home a bit earlier, maybe in 2 hours as opposed to 5 hours.

Sunday school at New Light would often begin around 9:30. There was one family that never showed up before 11:30 as they basically ignored Sunday school altogether.  They didn’t even bother about showing up on days when there was no preaching because, due to their lateness, they would only be arriving to an empty building.  

When I was 15 years old, I was asked to teach the Junior Sunday School class at New Light.  There was an age gap at New light during this period because the church seemed to be missing teenagers.  Actually, there few if any members between the ages of 15 and 25; if nothing else, there were few from that age group who would actually show up, unless there was a special event. The church basically had old people and kids.   The Lady who taught the adult class was the granddaughter of the superintendent.  Barbara was a very pleasant lady who seemed to have little, if any, social life outside of the church.  She was a good teacher and I learned from her. She taught the adult class and I taught the junior class. 

However, nearly a year later we showed up at church and there was no Barbara!  Barbara had abruptly moved away to Baltimore, Maryland.

As the older folks tried to figure out who would now teach the adults, they were at a loss.  Admittedly, some of this had to do with the fact that few of them felt that they read well enough to teach a class.

Then, all eyes settled on me! Someone said, “Let Jerome teach the adult class, and we will all help him!” I was thinking to myself if you all are truly capable of helping me, then why can’t you teach it yourselves?

That is how I became head Sunday School Teacher at New Light at 16 years old. Over the years I would receive many compliments about my teaching Sunday school. But the one that I remember the most was given by a Deacon from the Black River Baptist Association.   This man’s job was to routinely visit the various churches within the “association” and offer feedback.  After I finished teaching Sunday school on that particular morning, he reviewed the lesson and said:

“I have heard good Sunday school teaching in the past, but never in my life have I heard such good teaching from someone who is so young.”

Over the years I have realized that New Light was never one of the richer churches in our community. As a matter of fact, it has always been quite poor. However, it was strong in spirit. I remember during Easter of 1969, New Light requested that several of us young kids attend another church in the community just to participate in their program.  As a friendly gesture, the Church collected some money to donate as a gift as part of our visit.

When we were at that church, there were two Christian ladies counting the money collected. Among their donation was a small envelope from my church, New Light.  One of the two Christian ladies said to the other, “why is New Light giving us money, with their raggedy old church?”

They did not know that a little boy sitting near them was from New Light.

And they certainly did not know one day that little boy might just put them on “blast!”

50 years later!

Jerome

by Jerome Pearson

January 2015

See Jane Run was the first sentence in the first book I ever read!   It was one tiny little book among a series of tiny little books we had to read in the first grade with such characters as:  Little Girl (Jane); her brother (Dick); baby sister (Sally); and dog (Spot).  Their parents apparently had no names and were simply referred to as “Father and Mother!” 

None of these characters resembled anyone in my school, but these books did inspire me to read, and would serve as the beginning of my great love for reading! There was, however, a little South Carolina history book which contained a picture of a little kid standing in the middle of a watermelon patch!  Now that kid did look like me!

When I was a freshman at a little college in the small town of Tyler, Texas, all students were required to participate in work study; for this we were paid 10 dollars each month, and believe me, that 10 dollars came in handy.  The work study was a requirement as part of the scholarship that everyone at the school seemed to have. Each student was given a specific assignment.  These jobs were randomly given and had nothing to do with choice; you simply went where you were assigned, and you had to work a prescribed number of hours each week.  You would keep the same assignment for the entire year!

My friends, John Green and Clarence Hilton, were assigned to a local day-care center that was controlled by the college, and which was run by a lady name Mrs. Ross; a lady who they both hated more than any woman alive.  Our other friend, Ronald Nelson, had the most fun job of us all, which involved working in the recreation center.  Ronald told me that all he had to do was to play Ping-Pong several hours a week and empty the trash can when it was filled.   We used to tease Ronald for having such an easy and fun job which was merely recreational.  And knowing Ronald, he would probably empty that trash can in less than 5 seconds, and then return to playing Ping-Pong!

I, on the hand, was assigned to work in the Library.  My assignment, however, was not administrative, and had nothing to do with putting up returned books; I was responsible for periodically cleaning the library.   I would have to vacuum the library when required and clean the two bath rooms.   Here I was a freshman in college, and my job was janitorial.  There is nothing wrong with being a janitor, mind you, but at that age I would not have wanted that known.

However, there were advantages to working in the Library, mainly because you were not working all the time.  After all, it did not take long to clean the bathrooms and they were not cleaned each day; the library was only vacuumed twice per week.  The other consolation was that the Librarian, a very nice lady named Mrs. Jefferson, was always professional and very kind.  Therefore, if nothing else, I certainly had less displeasure with my job than Clarence and John.

The other advantage was that I could always hide amongst the many book shelves, particularly in the back where the Philosophy section was located.  As I was hiding in those rows, my eyes would scan the various titles that intrigued me because they were always so provocative.  Bertrand Russell’s “Why I am not Christian” was certainly provocative because at that time I had never heard anyone being so bold.  Therefore, you would want to read it to find out what was motivating his thoughts.  There would be books with titles such as the “The Meaning of Existentialism”, “The Social Reconstruction of Reality”, “Being and Nothingness”, “Origin of the Species”, etc. I wanted to know what was in those books and what did those titles mean! Additionally, I was starting to learn new words every day.  In my mind, philosophy books contained the most interesting words. 

In order to improve our vocabulary, my friends and I (John, Clarence and Ronald), started a new words list. Basically, our list consisted of a sheet of paper where we would record new words we might happen to discover with a brief description of their meaning.     These words were often called “big words” because they were relatively new to us.  I am sure that when we did use these words in a conversation; they were probably being used out of context because we did not have enough appreciation of their true meaning.   One of the first words I entered on the list was “Ameliorate”, which in a general sense, means to “make something better!”  As an example, if you were hungry and did not have any food, I could “Ameliorate” your predicament by giving you food.  I was proud of that word!  This list was taped to the wall within our dormitory room. I think most words were added by me and Clarence!

One of the reasons we were inspired to used big words came from a teacher at our high school: Our Band Instructor (and teacher of Social Science), a man name Mr. Gary, would always try to use big words.  As he was using these big words, he would place his index finger in front of his lips as if to draw our attention to the wisdom he was now providing.  He would coolly raise that finger to his lips and assert: “let me “elucidate” or “expound” upon this thought.”  He would then pause for a few seconds, as if to savor the musical sounds emanating from the words that were being articulated: Elucidate!  Over the years I would realize that Mr. Gary’s vocabulary was probably very limited because he would use the same big words repeatedly.  It seemed to me that Mr. Gary had an arsenal of only about 5 big words!

Another inspiration for learning new words came from reading the writings of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who was also a lover of big words.  It was Dr. King who would lead me to the German Philosopher Georg Wilhelm Hegel, who would write “truth is found neither in the thesis nor the antithesis, but in an emergent synthesis which reconciles the two.” Even if I did not know what it meant, I just loved the way it sounded!   I recall several years later using that phrase in a class at Morgan, and the professor was very impressed. 

During my second semester at Texas College, I stole a brand new hard-cover book from the Library.  It was a book on psychology, which covered numerous subjects, from human sexuality to psychopathologies of everyday life.   I was at that age where I was curious about everything and that book contained so many interesting topics that felt that I needed to have it for myself.  Since I worked in the Library, I was able to walk right out of there with that book one day without anyone noticing.  It was so new that it had never been checked out.  I justified my theft as my reward for being forced to clean the library.  In addition to my primary classes, I would read that book throughout the remainder of the semester.  Towards the end of that semester, I felt kind of guilty, knowing that I would be leaving that school with no intention of ever returning; therefore, before leaving for home, I took the book back to the library and placed it back in the slot where I had taken it several months earlier.

When I look back upon that year at Texas College, I do find it rather prognosticative that of all jobs that were made available at Texas College; I would, somehow, wind up in the Library. I say this because throughout the years very few people have felt more at home in bookstores and libraries than I.  If there is such a thing as divine intervention, then placing me in the library might just be one of them.  I doubt if the word “prognosticative” was ever a part of Mr. Gary’s arsenal. 

Years later, as a young US Army 2nd lieutenant in Germany, I live on the economy, which means that, rather than living on a military base, I lived in a town among German civilians. It was difficult to get American Television stations in my apartment; therefore, I would always ensure I had plenty of books around to entertain me if I got bored.  When I say entertain, I mean reading a book that would entertain you like a television show or a movie.   While on the military base one day I observed a Black Soldier reading a novel by guy I had never heard of: Donald Goines.   Donald Goines was a writer of popular novels that were reminiscent of Black Exploitation films from the early seventies, and Donald’s writings coincided with that period.  Sadly, Donald’s life itself seemed to mimic the characters he was writing about, as he was killed by a drug dealer in Detroit in 1974, which was during the height of Black Exploitation films.  But before his Death, he had written many books, and the first one I read was titled “Never Die Alone.” After reading that book, I would then have to find all his other books, some of which had titles such as “Black Girl Lost”, “Eldorado Red”, “Dope fiend.”   These books were not found in Libraries but were found in the American Military Stars & Stripes book stores, probably because they were so popular with the Black soldiers.  So, whenever I would travel to another base, I was sure to check out Stars & Stripes to see what was available.

When I was in High School, one course we had to take within the English Department was called “Literature.” Although I have always loved to read, I absolutely hated that course! While I am sure they all meant well, I do think that the teachers at the time did not do an effective job getting us  interested in the books that were being referred to in that class.  However, I would remember the authors and titles, and would later read a lot of what each of those writers has written. As example, I only truly read the novel “Native Son” when I was a freshman in college.  Had I known that the story involved young black man who accidentally killed a young white lady, and was then on the run, I would have read it in high school! Also, Had I known that James Baldwin could do “tricks with a pen”; I would probably have read him earlier as well. I must also concede that it is highly likely that the teachers had not read those books themselves!

Over the years I would become obsessed with Bookstores.  There was a time when I would have this recurring dream about my favorite bookstore; sometimes I think that this bookstore must be some place in Germany, but when I am awakened, I don’t know where it is.  I no longer have those dreams, but I still think there had to have been a bookstore or Library I used to visit while in Germany for which I was uniquely fond of, but strangely, I can never recall it.  I sometimes think those dreams had to do with my wish for the perfect bookstore, which, perhaps, was only accessible in my dreams.

Over the very recent years I have visited bookstores in New York, Washington DC, London, Copenhagen, Vienna, Rome, and of course Germany! One of the largest bookstores in the World is “The Strand” which is in lower Manhattan; I used to enjoy roaming the shelves and perusing the titles, looking for any book that would spark my interest.  I had read the book “Invisible Life” by the late E. Lynn Harris a few years before he was known; I discovered that book in a little bookstore in California when it was self-published.  It was later re-published with a major publishing house, but I had already read it.

I love books that are written by foreign writers because I always feel that they are more likely to challenge my basic assumptions.  My favorite books are those that are provocative; I also love books that are mysterious.  An author I discovered while visiting the Strand bookstore several years ago is the Spanish Writer Javier Marias.  His novel “Tomorrow In the Battle Think on Me” begins with this premise:

Marta has just met Victor when she invites him to dinner at her Madrid apartment while her husband is away on business. When her two-year-old son finally falls asleep, Marta and Victor retreat to the bedroom. Undressing, she feels suddenly ill; and in his arms, inexplicably, she dies. What should Victor do? Remove the compromising tape from the phone machine? Leave food for the child, for breakfast?

Wouldn’t anyone want to know what happened?  That’s why I love to read!

And, just like this essay, it all began with See Jane Run!

Jerome Pearson

There is a philosophy called Eternal Recurrence

Everything happens over again in the very same way,

That the life we live now, we have lived before,

And that we have lived it again and again from time immemorial.

It was one those Fridays in May of that year,

I was standing in lobby of a Hilton Hotel,

Where up and coming Professionals,

Convened to look for potential exploits,

Men sporting double breasted suits and ties

Shoes from Florsheim or perhaps Kenneth Cole,

Pranced around like lions in a jungle,

Trying to stalk out potential prey

Women in evening dresses,

With the tags still attached, in case they should want to return it,

High heels, and stocking-less legs,

Large earrings in honor of their Independence,

Then there was this one lady,

Whose lady-like appearance at first took me off-guard!

I was trying to remember where I had seen her before,

I then remembered that it was a few weeks before.

A few weeks before, I was sitting in my Company’s more upscale cafeteria with colleagues, 

When this young professional Black woman walks in from the

Marketing department’s direction,

My eyes follow her as she picks up her tray; gathers and pays for her food;

She then takes a seat at a table amongst her colleagues.

I could tell that she was self-conscious, particular about her own presentation,

Her aura was conservative, in an intelligent sort of way, a lady to take home.

Many years later I would wonder what was I thinking as she picked-up that tray. Did I envision, then, that I would see her pick up trays many times in my life?  I would, eventually, see her pick up more trays than I had seen anyone else pick up.

While at the Hilton, I remembered her but I did not tell her, then, that I had seen her before,

I didn’t tell her that when I saw her before, she was wearing the same dress as she was wearing on this day.  I did not want her to feel guilty.  After all, it had been more than two weeks, so there was nothing wrong with wearing the same dress twice in two weeks.  I would later learn that she could afford almost any dress she wanted.

The next day there was a gathering at a comedy club in Philly,

I was late, finished viewing a game between the Celtic’s and Milwaukee

When I walked into the comedy club, everyone was already seated,

There was one vacant spot near the end of a long table,

There she was again, this time in dark sun glasses

I liked her better in the sunglasses, perhaps less conservative.

When the comedy was over, we all walked down the coble stone streets; I made it a point to walk beside her as she talked with a friend.  They had been talking about the delights of cooking,

I interjected that I never cooked, I just get take out.

She replied, “We can’t have that!” with a smile!

And then I was thinking, so what are you going to do about it?

I was invited to join them for Brunch the next day

Brunch was at that same hotel where we had met,

She and her friend did most of the talking.

Two Ivy League Black Women talking about their careers

I picked through my food as I listened to them talk

I rather liked the way she spoke, in total control of her language

I was beginning to feel a little intimidated, believe it or not,

And then there was this sense of Déjà vu

Now I was thinking that not only have I seen her before,

I have actually known her before,

It must have been in another life, she was so familiar to me,

But I just knew that I previously knew her,

Not only do I have an excellent memory of this life,

I can sometimes remember my previous lives,

Perhaps this was my recognition of that eternal recurrence

Sitting before me now, was the wife of my previous life.

After Brunch, I bid them goodbye,

I went back to my apartment in the suburbs of Philly,

The first thing I did was called a friend from New Jersey,

I said hello S.  S replied, what’s up J.

I said, guess what, S?

S laughed and said “what, J?”

“I think that I have met my wife”.

S said, “So, J, when did you meet her?

I said this time it was “2 days ago”,

“But the last time was a million years ago!”

J

You have always stood in the shadows;

Hidden by a curtain of darkness;

I have never really seen you;

Yet I have always known you were there,

As a result, there has always been the real you,

And then there was the you of my imagination;

I would always wonder if the two were ever the same.

Once while was sitting in a classroom

a young lady Walked past with the scent of your perfume;

although I never knew the name of your perfume,

I was thrown into an olfactory confusion.

A beautiful September day, many, many years ago,

You stood giggling in the doorway of our Gymnasium,

I was approached by a boy I knew,

said this girl he knew, wanted to meet me.

But this girl only wanted to introduce me to you,

As if she had already known me.

Strangely I already knew of you,

From another boy who also knew me,

This boy was a friend,

Who had once bragged about knowing you?

Yet, I still made your acquaintance,

I asked if you knew this other boy who was friend to me,

You quickly dismissed him as only a casual person you knew,

As if to say in whatever way you may know him,

You still wanted to get to know me.

When the recess bell had rung, and as I ran to my class,

I looked back and I could only see your shadow.

I started to run back, to get another look at you,

But you had disappeared into the wilderness of other students.

Later, when I was at home, sitting on the couch; 

Listening to WWDM, and I could hear Ernie Isely’s guitar,

And the Isely’s were singing who’s that lady.

And the song became a question that   

would never be satisfactorily answered.  

You would later become a profound mystery to me,

You would do things that I could never understand,

Whenever I thought I was about to understand you,

You would do something that would disabuse me of that illusion.

Then, I finally realized that there was the real you,

And then there was the you I imagined you to be.

I’m not sure if the two were ever the same.

In the end, all I was left with was my imagination of you,

But when I reflect upon it now,

I realize that It wasn’t such a bad thing. 

I have learned, in this life, that sometimes

Imagination is better than reality.

ME

And then she walked into my first-grade class,

My life was instantly and permanently changed,

Adorned in a pink dress and perhaps white shoes,

White ribbons neatly strung through long, thick, dark hair,

 Hands being held by an older brother!

And then she was sitting in a seat next to me,

I was trying to view her from the corner of my eyes,

Even then I knew how to be discreet,

How to let her know, without letting her know,

That although this is the first time I have ever seen her,

That she belongs to me, and only me.

No other boy needed even dare think about looking at her,

Only I deserved this little angel,

I was sitting in my first-grade class, eager to begin my life,

But it was as if my heart had only just now begun to beat,

I was like a newly born baby being brought to life.

Her name was a name I had not heard before,

No one else around had that name,

No one else even deserved that name.

My angel, after all, was one of a kind,

An only begotten daughter sent from heaven to save my tiny soul.

I wanted to, but dared not, pull on her hair

Run my little fingers through its elaborate luxuriousness

To pluck one its silky strands for the museum within my heart

Whose visitor would be me and only me?

One day her brother and my brother were in a fight.

My brother was holding her brother down on the ground,

She and I stood side by side near the schoolhouse wall observing them.

I was conflicted because my brother was fighting the brother of my

Angel.  I wanted him to stop, but I said nothing.

Then my angel kept saying to her brother:

“Get up B”; “B please get up”, “get up B”; “B please get up!”   

I felt so sorry for her,

I could tell that she so loved her brother.

I wanted to hug her, and tell her it was ok,

But she did not even know that it was my brother who was fighting her brother. 

And I did not tell her, ever, that it was my brother,

Fearing that she would be angry at me, and I could not have that.

And then the next year she was in another class

Although right next door to my class, I felt as

If we were in two different worlds,

I had, suddenly, lost the girl of my dreams,

There was a song out that year titled “rescue me”

I thought it was written only for me,

It was as if God had taken my angel away,

Teasing me with her presence always being just next door,

But she could have been on the moon, as far as I was concerned,

I would always have these other dreams,

About one day walking in an amusement park in the rain,

In one of those places such as six flags,

Arm in arm with the angel of my life,

But dreams rarely come true? Although, sometimes they do!

Every New Year my only wish was to rejoin her

To once more, look at her from the corner of my eyes,

To one day gain enough courage to pull on her hair

To let her know, without letting her know,

That sometimes, first love last forever.

The Dreamer