Tag: Inclusion

“Through Her Eyes: Revised”

“In the Shadows of Hate: A Journey of Love and Redemption”

Book Description:

“Shakes, Rattle, and Roll: A Powerful Tale of Transformation”

In this riveting narrative, the seismic force of change shakes the foundations of Society, challenges the status quo of Government, disrupts the traditional contours of the School System, questions the beliefs of those who do wrong, yet goes to Church, and prompts a reflective pause for parents. This is not merely a story; it’s an earthquake of ideas that resonate across societal pillars.

As the narrative unfolds, it deliberately rattles the consciousness of haters, confronting prejudice, bias, and animosity head-on. Through poignant storytelling and compelling characters, it invites readers to confront their own biases and prejudices, fostering a collective introspection that transcends the pages.

But this tale is not just about upheaval. It rolls forward with an unwavering momentum towards unity—a unity that transcends divisions and embraces diversity. The seismic tremors serve as a catalyst for a harmonious symphony, echoing the universal theme of love and, remarkably, the love for Jesus.

“Through Her Eyes: Revised”

Step into a world where perspectives are reconsidered, and realities are redefined. “Through Her Eyes: Revised” invites readers to witness a transformative journey where the protagonist navigates the labyrinth of life, offering fresh insights and revelations. This revision transcends the ordinary, presenting a nuanced and enriched version that captivates the imagination.

“In the Shadows of Hate: A Journey of Love and Redemption”

Embark on a profound exploration of the human experience as “In the Shadows of Hate: A Journey of Love and Redemption” unveils the resilience of the human spirit. This poignant journey through the depths of hatred is, at its core, a celebration of love’s enduring power. Redemption takes center stage, proving that even in the darkest corners, love has the strength to illuminate and transform. This is a tale of overcoming adversity and finding light in the shadows—a testament to the indomitable force of love and the unwavering pursuit of redemption.

“In the Shadows of Hate: A Journey of Love and Redemption” is an extraordinary tale that delves deep into the realms of human emotions, exploring the eternal struggle between love and hate. Set in a world consumed by hate and darkness, this poignant story follows the transformative journey of one man as he navigates through the tumultuous landscapes of prejudice and discrimination, ultimately discovering the redemptive power of love. In this gripping narrative, the author skillfully weaves a tapestry of raw emotions, unveiling the destructive consequences of hatred and the transformative potential of love. The book illuminates the profound need for love, understanding, empathy, and inclusion through vivid and evocative storytelling in our fractured society. At its core, “In the Shadows of Hate” is a thought-provoki one of my greatest wishes is that one day soon things could go back to 60 years agong exploration of the human condition, encouraging readers to see life through the eyes of others. It challenges the reader to suspend judgment, look beyond appearances and stereotypes, and embrace diverse experiences’ complexity and richness. The story is a poignant reminder that understanding and compassion can only be achieved by walking a mile in another person’s shoes. With each chapter, the author draws readers deeper into the protagonist’s world, painting a vivid portrait of his internal struggles as he confronts the relentless waves of hate that threaten to engulf him. As the story unfolds, readers witness the power of love as it gradually erodes the barriers of prejudice and bigotry, illuminating a path toward healing and reconciliation. Through compelling characters and gripping plot twists, the author exposes the devastating impact of hate on individuals and communities, leaving no room for complacency or indifference. In the face of adversity, the protagonist’s journey becomes a beacon of hope, demonstrating the resilience of the human spirit and the potential for love to conquer even the darkest corners of our world. “In the Shadows of Hate: A Journey of Love and Redemption” is a profound and profoundly moving exploration of the human capacity for both good and evil. It challenges readers to examine their beliefs and biases, encouraging introspection ) fostering greater empathy and understanding. By spotlighting the universal need for love and its transformative power, this book offers a compelling testament.”

Cover Page

Though the Web generation has made some reportorial contributions, it is essential to acknowledge that most blogging does not meet the standards of journalism. Journalism involves imparting verifiable facts to a broad audience through a mass medium, a bar most blogs fall short of reaching. To be a good blogger, one must possess keen observation skills to formulate opinions and draw from personal experiences, which can be advantageous. In this piece, I offer my perspective as a blogger on one of America’s most significant social disorders: bigotry. It is disheartening to witness some individuals’ obstinate and unreasonable attachment to their discriminatory beliefs, especially when directed toward black people. What makes matters worse is the perpetuation of this prejudice and bigotry from one generation to the next, leaving children unable to form their own thoughts. These kids follow the path laid out by their parents, mindlessly embracing every socio-political quackery, conspiracy theory, and cancel culture phenomenon, rather than stepping into the light and taking a stand. Jesus preached love and claimed to be the light, yet we continue to live our lives in the darkness of hate. The hypocrisy is evident, even in the words printed on the dollar bill: ‘In God we trust.’ For a nation that professes belief in God, it is ironic that there is so much hatred present. This book is the culmination of my ten years of blogging, drawing from fifty-three years of firsthand observation and the daymares of racism. The most prominent attorney in my hometown once said, ‘When you have lived long enough to reach our age, you have earned the right to speak your mind.’ I wholeheartedly agree. After all, this is America, where the Constitution guarantees freedom of speech and the press. Furthermore, I have been waiting a long time to express my thoughts openly. I am a firm believer that there are no chance meetings. I also firmly believe in divine intervention. Which brings us to the history of the book cover. While working for a contractor, doing demolition work in a federal prison, I knocked down a wall in a cell. Among the chunks of cinder blocks and dirt, I found the rugged artwork that graces the cover. It depicted someone achieving the ultimate freedom, going to heaven and was created by an amateur artist who was an inmate. This book was supposed to be published. You want proof? I used five of the top Softwares to write and edit the Book. Almost to the final editing one of the top Softwares Deleted the Book. So I decided that what I had to say is more important than any punctuation, Grammar or Ebonics.

Chapter One

Bronx U.S.A.

Spielberg said, “All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes to make them possible.” I daydream that one day I will wake up, and the daymares of racism will be just a bad recurring dream I have had for fifty-three years. The stark reality is that the daymares of hate crimes overshadow Dr. King’s dream. Sometimes, it appears that the struggles of the sixties and seventies didn’t resonate, that all the protesting by Dr. King, all the beatings, the water cannons, and the dogs tearing through protests were all for nothing. Social justice, financial equity, and equality are not just a dream. It’s a call to the social consciousness of America. Why else was the Constitution written? “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” not just for the white man, but for all the people who call this melting pot home. We are not the fools that you make us out to be; there has to be a reckoning one day. The same country that has sent troops all over the world to defend human rights, at the same time, its own house is in shambles with its citizens practicing human rights violations daily with hate crimes. The same country that placed sanctions on South Africa in the seventies for its policies of apartheid, at the same time, subliminal apartheid is prevalent in America. Fifteen years ago, I began to think I would like to write a book about racism.
The only problem was that I had no formal training in writing. In high school, I studied English Literature for two semesters. Shakespeare and Dickens stopped me from enjoying the course with their rambling and lengthy elaborate painting of panoramic verbalization with ancient words. Ten years ago, I started teaching myself to write by developing my website and posting my blogs. Five hundred blogs later, here we are. One of the books I read on blogging and writing said that you are not a writer until you have written one million words. Well, I have surpassed that, and that’s why we are here. One of my mentors in high school told me that I should never stop learning; when you stop learning, you start the process of dying. I believe that those words came from Einstein. At sixty years old, I started teaching myself to write blogs; I promised myself that each blog post would be better than the last. At seventeen, I taught myself to fix cars, and everything I put my hands on, I became one of the best D.I.Y people. So here I am today delivering my greatest do-it-yourself project, writing about racism in America and the world for that matter. Now, there is a word for all seasons: matter! We will discuss what really matters later. In March 2022, African residents trying to escape the Russian bombs were treated inhumanely and even beaten. It’s six hundred years later, and they are still giving us hell. Now the Medusa called hate has raised her head and bad heart in Ukraine. Here are excerpts from the New York Times.
Africans who have been living in Ukraine say they were stuck for days at crossings into neighboring European Union countries, huddling in the cold without food or shelter, held up by Ukrainian authorities who pushed them to the ends of long lines and even beat them, while letting Ukrainians through. Now I ask you, ‘How’s that for living in the past, present, and future?’ That is where we are in race relations worldwide. One step forward, two steps backward. And I am supposed to be sympathetic to them for what Russia leveled at them, simultaneously destroying wonderful buildings and killing innocent people. As the saying goes, ‘You don’t go to a gunfight with a knife.’ That Chihuahua should not have been in a fight with Siberian Huskies. If your adversaries outmatch you, you strike under the covers of darkness, or disguised as a friend. When I was twelve, an eighteen-year-old biker boy beat me up. They called me Big Boy, so he probably thought it was a fair fight. One night when he was coming home, I strung a clothesline across the roadway. He rode his bike at incredible speed right into it. It almost decapitated him; the bike crashed and burned. He wore a neck brace for nine months. I showed sympathy each time I saw him, asking him who did that to him. He said, ‘I don’t know who did it, but I will kill them when I find out who did it.’ It’s not the dog in the fight. It’s the fight in the dog.

I caused a severe accident. Revenge was on my mind. But guess what? The next day, I saw him with a cast on his arm and a neck brace, and I realized that my act of revenge had only escalated the violence and caused harm to someone else. It didn’t solve anything or bring about any positive change. The same principle applies to the cycle of hate and violence in the world. Responding to acts of aggression with more aggression only perpetuates the process and creates more suffering. Breaking this cycle by promoting understanding, empathy, and peaceful dialogue is essential. Addressing racism requires a collective effort and a commitment to change. It involves acknowledging the existence of systemic racism, understanding its historical and ongoing impact, and working towards dismantling discriminatory policies and practices. Education, open conversations, and promoting diversity and inclusion are crucial steps in this process. Racism is a global issue that requires global solutions. While progress has been made in some areas, it’s clear that much work still needs to be done. By striving for equality and justice, advocating for the rights of marginalized communities, and fostering a society that values diversity, we can move closer to Dr. King’s dream and create a more inclusive and harmonious world; like John Lennon said.

“Imagine.” We will expand on this thought later, but for now, let’s continue with our introduction. My name is Anthony Dixon; I was born in Pimento Walk, a mountain village in Ocho Rios, a province in Jamaica. My mother was also born in the same village. From a small village nestled far away from the hustle and bustle of the modern world, a remarkable woman began her journey. This woman, my mother, was born as the third child among thirteen siblings. Her early life was characterized by humble beginnings, where education took a back seat to hard work and survival. However, her story is one of determination, perseverance, and an unwavering commitment to her family and dreams. Let us embark on a journey through her life, witnessing her transformation from a poorly educated young girl to a revered mother figure with thriving careers as a seamstress, housekeeper, and caregiver in the United States.

The Village Life and Family Roots

Born to a mother with Negro features and pale skin, and a father whose complexion never left Africa, my mother’s mixed heritage reflected the diverse cultural background in her village. Education was scarce in those times, and the primary focus was mastering the art of work, especially in farming, in which her father excelled. With a large family home and a renowned guest house, my mother’s childhood was filled with warmth, love, and the aroma of her mother’s delectable baking, which was famous for miles.

Challenges of Education and Early Motherhood

Despite the strong family bonds and love, education was not easily accessible for my mother. She was too busy helping care for her many siblings to attend school regularly. While some might have criticized her parents for having such a large family, it was clear that they instilled valuable mothering skills and work ethics in their children. My mother learned to read by immersing herself in the Bible, which later became a refuge when she faced challenging situations and when I was a teenager and challenged her every step of the way.

A Journey of Transformation

As my mother grew older, she secured her first job as a housekeeper for a retired U.S. Army General. It was during this time that her illiteracy became evident. But instead of being disheartened, the family rallied around her and took it upon themselves to homeschool her. They displayed an unwavering commitment to her growth and development, sparking a fire within her to achieve more in life.

The turning point: moving to America

Inspired by her family, the retired General, and his wife, my mother began dreaming of a life beyond the village. They encouraged her to move to the United States, a land of opportunities where she could turn her dreams into reality. It wasn’t an easy decision, and it took her ten years to save enough money and establish the necessary connections to make the move.

Life in the United States

With both excitement and trepidation, my mother set foot on American soil. She faced numerous challenges, including adapting to a new culture, navigating language barriers, and finding her place in a fast-paced and competitive society. However, her strong work ethic, resourcefulness, and unwavering determination were the pillars that upheld her during difficult times.

Starting as a housekeeper once again, my mother quickly rose through the ranks due to her impeccable work ethic and natural flair for caregiving. From housekeeper to nanny for a mentally challenged teenager who fought everyone, except her. The family were well-off business people; they paid her well for creating a peaceful and tranquil path for their son. My brother and I stepped off the plane into a job with her boss. The Kupetz family were the closest white people in the world. She became known for her parenting skills, earning the affectionate nickname ‘Mother J’ from her church brothers. With time, she leveraged her skills and experience, one of which was as a seamstress, to an entrepreneurial level. She knew how to turn fifteen cents into a dollar, which allowed her to take care of us and have some left to take vacations on cruise ships, dining with ship captains and the upper crust of society. She traveled to many places that I have never been to. She always told me that if I made one dollar, I should save twenty-five cents. Her life is a remarkable legacy for me and many others. As the years passed, my mother’s financial skills flourished, symbolizing her tenacity and success. She provided love, care, and education to countless children,
Positively impacting their lives, most of all mine, she taught me to love and how to work. Beyond her remarkable achievements, she remained deeply connected to her roots, often sharing stories of her village upbringing with her American friends and family. My mother’s journey from a small village to the United States is a testament to the power of determination, hard work, and familial support. Her path was not without obstacles, but she faced them head-on, turning challenges into stepping stones toward her dreams. From a poorly educated girl to a well-respected black woman and mother figure, her life story inspires all who encounter it. Her legacy lives on through her children, grandchildren, and the countless lives she touched throughout her remarkable journey. My mother’s story reminds us that we can transcend boundaries and achieve the unimaginable with resilience and love. My mother possessed an incredible sense of determination and foresight, which contrasted sharply with my own youthful uncertainty. A year after her departure from Jamaica, I found myself in the heart of the Bronx, USA, on Nelson Avenue and Grant Hwy. Looking back, it’s evident that she recognized I needed to remain within her watchful gaze. Little did I know that this move would serve as the beginning of my lifelong education in the harsh realities of existence. Throughout the course of the next fifty-three years, I meticulously documented the relentless nightmare known as racism. It’s a narrative that I’m compelled to share now.
My journey commences with a song, one by Simon and Garfunkel, with a refrain that echoes through the annals of history: ‘All come to look for America.’ The Pilgrims aboard the Mayflower, seeking a new world, shared a similar quest, and so did I when I set foot on the ground at Kennedy Airport. It didn’t take long for me to see the similarities of racial and class bias. In Jamaica, class bias rules. In America, racial bias rules. At the tender age of fourteen, I dared to broach the topic of racism with the elders of our household. Their response was swift and dismissive, advising me to steer clear of such discussions. Their reasoning was simple: it was just the way things were, and I should let it be. Perhaps the pain of confronting the harsh reality of racism, a reality they had been living with, made open discourse too excruciating to bear. But my resolve was unshaken. I knew that this was a conversation that needed to be had, a story that needed to be told. It was time for me to navigate the tumultuous waters of racism in America, a journey marked by pain, perseverance, and the unwavering determination to create a better world for future generations. At this point, I must interject something that is posted on my website: ‘If you have lived long enough to grow old and you have nothing to pass on to the next generation, anything to impart, in the way of teaching and learning, you have not truly lived, only existed.’ Fifty-three years later, I am reopening the discussion. I am seeking answers to the parable of racism (unsolvable riddle). I have been looking for answers as to why the Black man has been treated so poorly since the time of Noah. In Genesis 9:23, Ham looked upon his father’s nakedness and told his brothers. His punishment was turning his skin dark. Dr. King took umbrage to that ideology, calling it Blasphemy.
“How this racist propaganda found its way into the Bible is beyond me. Like Nas echoed, ‘Who wrote the Bible?’ The subject is so taboo that no one wants to discuss it, even in this age and time right up to January sixth. Waving the Rebel Flag in the Rotunda was the giveaway of the mindsets. It’s like Nazi Germany in nineteen forty-three; no one wanted to talk about Nazism until the fire erupted into genocide. One Book Club that reviewed the first edition of this book said, ‘The author speaks excessively about racism, giving his opinion.’ Of course, it’s my opinion; this is a journal about the ignorance I have encountered since I was six. What else am I going to talk about? So, there you have it; he didn’t want to hear about it, nor did anyone else. Let’s not forget that a drunk does not want to hear about his drinking problem, and America doesn’t want to hear about the shame known as racism. I worked with a young white man, and we occasionally did each other favors; I thought he was more than his white-mindedness. After reading the first copy of this book, he posted that I was telling stories on social media. They are in denial when they see what’s going on around them. ‘It’s just how it is,’ was how my grandfather saw it. From my observations, America is pixelated with hate. That is the kind of tunnel vision that fuels the fire. Racism is like a campfire; if you keep throwing sticks into it, one day it becomes a forest fire. Like Billy Joel said, ‘We didn’t start the fire.’ 🔥 The fire was lit when the children of the Israelites had to flee for their lives. The persecution continues today. Not having the discussion is like taking nothing to the table (emotional intelligence). That, my friend, is the missing part of the equation. Haters are so consumed (pixilated) with their preoccupation with hate that emotional intelligence is not in their vocabulary. Their unreasonable attachment to their beliefs is so strong that they have repeatedly killed innocent young Blacks. It’s not all about you; we all have a right to live on this planet. The reviewer found no merit in anything; I have to say, after about fifty-three years of unjust treatment, all because of my skin color. He dismissed the conversation like my elders did when I tried to talk to them about racism at fourteen. Taft High School was where my education about racism in America began.

Three months before my fifteenth birthday, I enrolled in William Howard Taft H.S. The school was eighty-five percent white, ten percent black, and five percent Latino; I was glad to be there and eager to learn. It was there that my nightmares of racism began. Though it was fourteen years into desegregation, there was not enough time to change the prevailing mindset. Ten years after segregation was outlawed, my wife went to a black high school, no whites. Ninety-five percent of my white classmates were chips off the blocks they called parents, diehard haters who didn’t associate with blacks. Substituting the words haters and blacks for deplorable words is being politically correct for what I truly mean. I was raised instead of being dragged up. Mother would scoff at my choice of adjectives and nouns. However, the derogatory words I omitted are used profoundly daily by black and white. I have reused them minimally throughout the book. Anyway, even the dirt poor ones, who couldn’t carry my spittoon, thought they were better than me. Even though I was working and bringing money home at fifteen and worked all through high school. When they passed me in the hallway, they developed a bad cough; I called it the haters hack. They were too young for it to be tuberculosis. Remember, this is not a book of hate. It’s a book about the hate that I have endured. The looks were saying, what are you doing here? Fifty-three years later, I still get the stare, what are you doing here? Whenever I am in an all-white neighborhood, I am always under scrutiny, as if I’m there to rob, rape, and ravage, all because of the color of my skin. Years later in a Shopping Mall in New Jersey, a five year old boy looked at me and said to his mother, “He is Black, what is wrong with him”.

Marcus Garvey had the right idea about Black people leaving America and returning to Africa. With all our skills and wealth, we could take Africa out of third world status. I was thirteen when Marcus said that. Four years later, here I am in Taft, pondering those words. The names uttered under their breaths in those hallways were fighting words. Sometimes, their conversations were loud enough to hear all the deplorable names they were calling you. Nigger, Koon, Cola, Ghetto, George, Sambo, Punk, and Shoeshine were just a few. I have done my best to limit and avoid the usage of the two most flagrantly used defamatory words by black haters and white haters, ‘Niggers’ and ‘Rednecks.’ The incivility was flagrant; they acted like their byproduct didn’t stink. I ask myself repeatedly why they would want to be just as ignorant as their parents. One should strive daily to be better than they were the day before, not being an antagonist, pushing people’s buttons to violence. This behavior pushes one to take up a vantage point and start blasting caps. One of the first school shootings occurred in the basement. One of my classmates fired off six, hitting one student in the ankle. However, I kept cool and didn’t pull a Columbine on my school. Under the watchful eye of God and my mother, I couldn’t go wrong. I developed great tolerance for thorny-bent twigs, thinking they were people, and more so, thinking that they were better than me. One can only imagine how children absorb their parents’ values and become just like them. How naive of me to think that children can develop their persona? Most adults can’t formulate an original thought of their own, believing that an election can be stolen in the land of democracy. Here we are fifty-four years out of Taft High School, and a father and son are convicted of the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. He was a young black man jogging in a white neighborhood in Georgia (Any City, U.S.A.). I will forever be invoking the idea that kids absorb their parents’ values and teach them to their kids. The following is a quote from Alex Haley: ‘Racism is taught in our society; it is not automatic. It is learned behavior toward persons with dissimilar physical characteristics.’ Once again, one of the people who reviewed the first edition of this book said that everything I wrote about racism is my own opinion. Not only does being biased cloud your judgment, but it also makes you stupid. This is my recollection of fifty-three years of observing the way it is in America. Racism is an accepted behavior in America. That goes to show that they are everywhere. When you have a racist person reviewing a book about racism, what can you expect? The same goes for a racist judge meting out justice on a black person; a juror not privy to the published content of a case but tainted by his own hate is a guilty vote for an innocent black man. A racist cop arresting a black person circumvents the rules of law. My algebra teacher was racist. She didn’t give a flying horse feather if I understood the subject. When hate is the engine, your opinions, decisions, and social consciousness are corrupted. Let’s not forget that ‘Intolerance is the backbone of a jackass.’ We are who we choose to be. Most racist people have always professed that they are not racist. Will the real Archie Bunker please stand up? Believe it or not, I respect those who own up to their biased beliefs. ‘Show me my enemies, and I will be victorious.’ It’s the ones who call me brother that I’m afraid of, be they black or white. The environment in Taft was toxic enough for me to have dropped out in my first semester. It was like going home to a spouse that you hated and going to a job you hated. Many people who were put in a position

Like that, snapped. Look at all the mass murders in schools today; it is conceivable that their buttons were pushed at one point. In high school, Tom Petty was called a dirty hippie. Can you imagine the nerve of these rodents that call themselves people? If I hadn’t focused on life’s brighter side, I could have been a shooter. It happened over fifty-five years ago, and I still remember it vividly, the day one of my classmates came to school and shot up the basement, hurting one person. There were many brawls after school. I was a fierce fighter, but I never joined in any of their fracases. Racial injustice ruled my school, the neighborhood, and the rest of the country. However, I was always fair-minded. If I saw a white kid being hammered by a group of blacks, or vice versa, I would have jumped in and saved the kid. I don’t care for injustice, no matter who is dishing it out or who the recipient is. The stress was insurmountable; smoking weed helped me cope with the daily harassment and people pushing my buttons daily. However, it did distract me from my schoolwork. There, I learned stress management; I had no choice but to deal with it or go off the deep end. Learning how to cope early in life proved to be advantageous for me. As far as I’m concerned, all the mass murderers and serial killers didn’t know how to cope and manage stress. I have been gifted with the ability to learn from other people’s mistakes, which taught me how to take the right path in life. There was this one black kid whom we called Pus. The reason was that he drank a lot of cheap wine and smoked weed all day long. He came to school but never went inside. He spent the whole day shooting basketball in the back of the school. He could not cope, so he gave up on life as a teenager. I never gave up. In my lifetime, I met many black people who were defeated by themselves. Thinking, what’s the point in trying? He was one of the greatest shooters that I have ever seen. Practice does make perfect. I doubted he lived to be thirty drinking all that cheap wine so early in life. The classroom seating arrangements flaunted racism; there was never a black kid sitting in the first five rows. Seating arrangements in classrooms may seem like a minor detail, but they can serve as a powerful indicator of deeper issues related to racism and inequality. By acknowledging this observation and examining the historical context and institutional biases, we can work towards breaking the pattern of discrimination. This can be achieved by creating and empowering a learning environment that celebrates diversity and provides equal opportunities for all students, regardless of their race or background. Only then can we truly unlock the full potential of every young mind and build a more inclusive and just society.

Observing the education system discouraged me from going to college. I developed what I called “The Pus Syndrome” (what’s the point), a defeatist attitude. My mother wanted me to be a scholar, but I saw Taft and the education system as one big stumbling block. In junior high, Track and Field was my specialty. In high school, I quit jumping the hurdles that racism put in front of me, something I regretted for the rest of my life. I only went there because my mother would kick me out of the house if I quit school. Remember that an alcoholic hides in the bottle instead of facing the problem. Like Billy Joel said, “Man, what are you doing here? Sing us a song; you are the Piano Man.” This was nineteen sixty-nine, a short while after the time when a pregnant black woman or an old black woman had to give up their seats to a young and healthy white man. I call that cesspool mentality. Like Billy Idol said, “Eyes without a face got no human race.” Yet no one dares to call out these cruds. “The less said.” Not from where I stand. After reading the book’s first edition, several people told me I was telling stories. There you have it; white people don’t like it when you talk about racism. Taft and the rest of America were bad for my nerves, trying to keep it together and not snap. It’s not only adults who snap; kids also lose it. Look at Nicholas Cruz; he killed seventeen people in his school. Kids are just kids, and they don’t know that if you keep poking someone with a stick, one day the recipient will break it over your head. Racist America doesn’t know that there is a breaking point to everything.

I fed the above paragraphs into an artificial intelligence software. This is what it said when I asked it to elaborate on my thoughts. In your book, this excerpt highlights several interconnected themes related to racism, discrimination, the reluctance to address the issue, the impact on mental health, and the potential consequences of societal pressures. Let’s go deeper into each of these aspects: Seating arrangements and racism in classrooms: The statement describes the seating arrangements in classrooms as a manifestation of racism. By asserting that there were never any black children sitting in the first five rows, you highlight an apparent pattern of segregation and inequality. This observation can be expanded upon by examining the historical context, institutional biases, and the effects of such discriminatory practices on students’ experiences and opportunities. Pregnant and elderly black women giving up seats: The mention of pregnant black women or elderly black women having to give up their seats to young and healthy white men underscores the unequal treatment and lack of consideration for individuals from marginalized groups. Expanding on this theme could involve exploring the societal norms and power dynamics that contributed to such situations, discussing the emotional and physical toll it took on those affected, and examining the broader implications of these actions on the collective consciousness. Cesspool mentality and the reluctance to address racism: The phrase ‘Cesspool Mentality’ characterizes the prevailing mindset perpetuating racism. Further expansion on this concept could involve a deep exploration into the origins and factors contributing to this mentality, discussing the consequences of remaining silent or indifferent to racism, and exploring the psychological mechanisms that enable its persistence. Billy Idol’s quote and dehumanization: The quote ‘Eyes without a Face got no Human Race’ draws attention to the dehumanizing effects of racism. You can expand on this by exploring the devaluation of individuals based on their race or ethnicity, discussing the psychological and social impacts of dehumanization, and examining the broader implications for equality, empathy, and human connection. White people’s reaction to discussing racism: The excerpt suggests that some white people may react negatively to discussions about racism. Elaborating on this theme could involve examining the reasons behind such reactions, exploring the discomfort or defensiveness that may arise, discussing strategies for fostering open dialogues, and addressing the importance of allyship and collective action in dismantling racism. Taft, America, and the impact on mental health: The mention of Taft and America alludes to a broader context of societal mental health issues. Expanding on this aspect could involve discussing the specific challenges individuals face in these environments, exploring the systemic factors contributing to mental health issues, examining the interplay between societal pressures and individual resilience, and discussing potential solutions or coping strategies. Children’s mental health and societal pressures: The reference to Nicholas Cruz, a school shooter, highlights the potential consequences of societal pressures on children’s mental health. Expanding on this theme could involve discussing the complex factors contributing to such extreme actions, exploring the importance of early intervention and support for children’s well-being, and examining the role of education and social structures in fostering a healthier environment. Expanding on these themes in your book can involve delving deeper into the historical, sociocultural, and psychological aspects, providing relevant examples and anecdotes, and discussing potential solutions or avenues for change. It’s important to approach these topics with sensitivity, nuance, and a commitment to fostering understanding and empathy. During many cold mornings, I made the unconventional choice to embark on a two-and-a-half-mile journey to school, driven by the singular purpose of indulging in a joint. When I arrived at my math class, the remnants of my hazy state lingered, and I found myself confronted by the daunting presence of the algebra teacher, an individual I considered an embodiment of adversity. Dealing with this seemingly malevolent figure was a test of my patience and resilience, one that often pushed me to the edge of my temper. In those moments, my only refuge was to remain medicated during her class, as it provided a semblance of emotional stability and prevented me from succumbing to the impulse of reacting impulsively to her provocations. It was a rather perplexing experience to observe how she displayed a clear bias, favoring the light-skinned individuals among our peers, such as my friend, while simultaneously harboring an intense dislike for my own dark complexion. Amidst this challenging educational landscape, there was a glimmer of hope. My drama class introduced me to a diverse group of students, including some great white kids who possessed a unique perspective on life. It was here, within the realm of creativity and artistic expression, that I found solace and camaraderie. Surprisingly, I even found myself cast in the leading role alongside a white girl who portrayed Emily in our rendition of ‘Our Town.’ Inside the school environment, we interacted harmoniously, blending our talents and energies to create memorable performances. However, our connection was confined to the classroom, and we never ventured into hanging out together during weekends or outside of the school setting. This divergence highlighted the intriguing contrast between our artistic inclinations and our personal lives, a testament to the complexities of human relationships within the context of a challenging academic journey. In the movie The Bronx Tale, a Black Kid was Murdered, within walking distance of my School. The Movie substantiates what you are reading here. This was once an all-white School in an all-white neighborhood before we came here looking for a better place to live. My Grandfather always said, ‘That’s just the way it is. Leave it alone.’ Sad to say that haters have the same mindset, ‘Leave it alone.’ They don’t like it when someone like me brings up the subject. Having the mindset of the less said, the better creates a roadblock to the solution. As the saying goes, ‘Nothing grows in a comfort zone.’ There can’t be a solution to a problem without having a discussion. Many of my teachers were of the same mindset as my classmates. It was here that I learned the meaning of nepotism and bigotry. They took the time to explain to white idiots, but didn’t care if the black idiots understood the subjects. When I struggled with algebra, it seemed like my teacher gloated, as if to say, ‘I told you that black people were stupid.’ She was an awful hater who spoke down to me, and I will never forget that witch. I can only hope that her children were born less than perfect. I have always found it ironic how stupid these people can be. They could be way less than perfect, look like Quasimodo, mentally deficient, and smell like a bum, but if they were white, they thought they were better than I. There were white kids in special ed who had the haters’ tuberculosis cough when they saw me; go figure. The little rodents couldn’t spell ‘cat,’ but they knew that they didn’t like blacks. I squeaked past algebra; geometry was over my head, so I discontinued math. Furthermore, she also taught geometry; I would not have survived another semester with the Korn. If I had continued with geometry, she probably would have one day called me stupid. As I mentioned earlier, Taft was eighty-five percent white in the sixties, and the surrounding neighborhood from the Grand Concourse Hotel to Fordham Road. Beyond that was where the elite
Haters lived. They stood their ground, dug in, and created an invisible fence. Around that time, redlining neighborhoods began, knocking down real estate values where blacks owned homes. When I came there, blacks and Latinos had just started to populate the area. By my last day in Taft, the Grand Hotel was closed and abandoned, and so were many fine old architectures. Working-class whites occupied them before we came here, looking for a better neighborhood to live in. Do you think that I am lying? The Temptations sang about the previous paragraph, ‘Ball of Confusion, People moving in, People moving out, just because of the color of their skin.’ So, there you have it; I wasn’t the only one paying attention to what was happening in the 1960s and 1970s. They didn’t wait to find buyers; they abandoned the neighborhood. Many landlords set fire to their buildings that they couldn’t sell. The others became slumlords. White people fled like people evacuating before the hurricane. Ogden was once a thriving neighborhood with all the amenities one could desire. One hundred and seventy-second street was once a shopping hub; I lived thirty feet from a Jewish deli on Grant Highway. Then, one day, I woke up, and there was nowhere to find a knish. I have always been mystified by how they abandoned the neighborhood and fled as if we were the plague. These were the children of foreigners who suffered oppression in Germany, Ireland, or wherever in Europe. Now they were dishing out what their parents ran from. Let us not forget that this was the flaming sixties when America was on fire with hate, all because Blacks wanted to be treated like human beings. When women wanted to vote, it was suffrage; when blacks wanted to vote, it was ‘Oh no, we will
Beat them Nappy Heads into the ground before that happens. My wife went to a black high school eight hundred miles from Taft. She could not use a white public bathroom or drink from a white-only water fountain, even in dire straits. How do you like me now, hanging out your dirty linen? That’s part of the discussion that no one wants to have. That’s the way it was and still is after sixty-three years. Progress has been made, but the pervasive mentality remains. Why else would you have a Congress that wants to revert voting laws to the period of Bloody Sunday? On that day, black people left church. They walked across the Selma Bridge to protest voting laws in Alabama, only to be met by brutality and death. Sixty years later, their grandchildren stormed the Capitol waving the Rebel Flag in the Rotunda. There’s a message that Congress cast a blind eye on. It was denial and lies that brought out the dormant rage. As I have said, haters are everywhere, including the government. In high school, I befriended a light-skinned Negro, and we were best friends for four years. He always spoke of the need for brotherhood among black people. I thought that he was genuine. One day after reading in the newspaper about a black man committing a heinous crime, he said, ‘Black niggers are messing up the world.’ Even in this late stage of the struggle, black people still refer to each other with this defamation. That was my second experience of black-on-black hate. Did I mention that the brainwashing was deep? I promptly asked him, ‘What about me, whose complexion was not watered down?’ He responded, ‘No, not you, you are my man.’
“Translating – you are my Nigger. Black people use that terminology all the time complementing each other. At twelve, one of my friend’s mothers was black and his father was white. He inherited eighty percent of his father’s genes, and he and his brother could almost pass for white. Yet he was proud to be considered black. People of mixed race are not necessarily what or who we perceive them to be; it’s all about who they perceive themselves to be. They often have a white-minded perspective, like my friend telling me that black people are messing up the world. I am often in a mall in an all-white neighborhood, and light-skinned black individuals give me the same judgmental stare I received in high school (what are you doing here?). I should have asked my friend who believed that jet-black people were the ills of the world. What about all those fanatics all over the world? Killing in the name of the Lord, and the colonialists, slave traders, and owners in our foreparents’ time. Ignorant black individuals have allowed supremacists to delete the memory of how their ancestors were mistreated in this country. Surprisingly, many would like to return to those early days. They proudly waved the rebel flag in the Capitol on January sixth. This is the conversation I referred to earlier. Nowadays, black people are no longer called Negroes; they are politically correct “people of color.” Dr. King spoke of a rainbow coalition; he said nothing about a discombobulated mentality (not knowing who we are as a people). Those words coming from my best friend’s mouth had me reliving all my years in that solitary moment of ignorance. I was seventeen.”,
Struggling in the deep waters of an identity crisis, it was my kind pushing my head under. It was Phil Collins’ air of night twenty-five years before it was released. It was Argent singing, ‘Hold your head up’. This was the same guy who volunteered us both to join the Black Panther Party without my consent, trying to get us both killed when J Edgar was waging war against the Party. Thank God my mother’s eyes have never left me. After putting down my G.Q. attire for a Green Beret and Army Green Jacket, on the day I was to be initiated, she told me, ‘If you are going to do what I think you will do, don’t come back home, you have no home.’ Two hours after she changed my mind for me, the safe house where we were supposed to meet blew up, killing two. It was a bomb factory. I was seventeen, destined to die that day, but God favored me, Hallelujah. It was my calling to follow him more closely, but I wasn’t paying attention. Living life through my mother’s eyes: A journey of vision and inspiration. In the words of the renowned music group Rebelation, ‘Twenty-twenty vision, we’ve got eyes in the back.’ Those words resonate deeply with me as I reflect on my mother’s incredible impact on my life. She was a visionary, a seer with a 20/20 perception, possessing both hindsight and foresight. I chose to live my life through her eyes because she was an individual thinker who listened to advice but ultimately made her own decisions. When my mother became pregnant with me in her late thirties, she faced numerous challenges and obstacles. Everyone, including her doctor, advised her to consider aborting the pregnancy, citing her age and potential health concerns. However, she made the courageous decision to carry me to term. Today, as I tell my story, I realize the profound truth behind her choice: you never truly know what or who you are getting rid of. That decision allowed me to exist, thrive, and positively impact the world. My older brother’s father was a blue-eyed Syrian man who loved my mother deeply but wasn’t ready for the commitment of a family. My mother’s decision to have a child with a white man taught me the beauty of diversity from an early age. My free-spirited Rastafarian father also loved my mother. He wanted to marry her, allowing us to start a new life in England, where he had a job waiting. However, my mother, driven by her strong sense of family values, chose to remain close to her loved ones. It was a testament to her selflessness and unwavering devotion,
dedicated to those she cared for. My mother was always there for anyone who needed her help. I vividly remember a time when I witnessed her selflessness firsthand. She gave her last dollar to a needy friend, not knowing where her next dollar would come from. Charity should have been her middle name, as she embodied the teachings of the Bible in her everyday actions. Her unwavering faith and belief that we are all God’s children inspired me to write this book. One of the many skills my mother possessed was cooking, a talent she learned from her mother, a famous baker. She honed her culinary skills while working in the kitchen of a popular restaurant, blazing a trail for women in a male-dominated industry. Her dedication and expertise quickly garnered the respect of her colleagues. No matter the job she undertook, my mother approached it with boundless energy and an unwavering work ethic. She instilled the same drive and determination to excel in everything I do. My mother’s motto was simple yet profound: ‘Hate no one and be always vigilant of those whom you think are your brothers.’ These words, coupled with her insightful perceptions, shaped my worldview and continue to guide me today. Choosing to live my life through her eyes is a conscious decision to embrace her values, wisdom, and unwavering love. With the eyes of my mother forever watching my back and pointing out the way, I navigate life with a sense of purpose and gratitude. She taught me that true vision extends beyond mere eyesight; it is about perceiving the world with compassion, empathy, and an unwavering belief in the inherent goodness of humanity. In conclusion, my mother was a visionary and a guiding light. Her legacy of love, selflessness, and resilience lives on through me. By living my life through her eyes, I carry her wisdom and strength, ensuring that her impact on the world continues to shine brightly.