Returning soon!

I think over three years of not writing an entry is long enough! Time to Spring back!

Regarding the Children of Men

A friend began telling me his story, without any warning, and without getting my permission as to whether or not I wanted to hear it. I was not asked if I wanted the pain of his experience to become a part of my consciousness. We were just talking, and the next minute I was hearing about the most horrific things. Things I could not imagine happening to a young boy. I was so stunned I didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop. I felt trapped, but I was his friend. I had to support my friend by listening.

It’s been many years since my friend told me his story. When he was a twelve year-old boy, a male relative would sometimes invite him over when he and his buddies would have beer-drinking parties. On several occasions, the relative would have him strip so that he was totally nude, tie a rope around his genitalia, and parade him around the room. The other men would laugh, beat him, call him lewd and sexually demeaning names, and totally degrade him. Sometimes, another male partygoer would bring an additional young boy to abuse. The boys were often called upon, under threat of violence, to perform oral sex on the men.

The current headline-grabbing, head-snapping news regarding Penn State has completely overtaken the media. Having been in social services for most of my professional career, I am a bit surprised at the pervasiveness of the behavior, and the length of time over which it occurred. I was not surprised when I heard the title the perpetrator held, or the venue in which it occurred. Sexual abuse perpetrated onto young boys by trusted men in power or holding celebrity status is an unfortunate yet common event.

However, there is one note in this story that continues to ring in my ear. Many of the victims are referred to as children. The ‘child’ I saw this morning bravely telling his story on television had a full beard. I assume that most of the victims are men now. I imagine there are many who are dealing with alcoholism, and experiencing failed marriages and/or relationships without knowing why. Many may have single or multiple convictions, based upon unresolved anger that led to uncontrollable behavior. Many of these victims may lack self-esteem and have become unbelievably passive, their desire to fight having been drenched and ignored long ago. Almost all, whether it is topical or buried, are probably very angry. The acts were unspeakable. And unspeakable acts are usually consumed without benefit of being examined, let alone being resolved.

Children are presented with cultural situations very early in their lives. They understand what is okay to talk about, and what is not. They get a sense of who is supposed to be trusted. Teachers, relatives, religious leaders, celebrities, community/political leaders, people who are in the helping professions, etc. The dangers of the internet are promoted continuously.  Yet many child molesters and pedophiles are people with whom the child knows, and with whom the family has trusting relationships.  And when a trusted person does something that just ain’t right, conflict occurs and the child doesn’t talk about it because it wasn’t supposed to happen and stuff that wasn’t supposed to happen does happen anyway…and the child internalizes it as being his (in these cases) fault.

Many men have somehow survived the silence, somehow navigating through the pain and the struggle to lead a “normal” life. You know these men. They are your friends, your neighbors, your co-workers, the guys on your bowling league, the men who attend your church, the 10-years sober gentleman in the local AA group, the anchorman you watch on CNN. The fathers who are determined to establish a safe haven for their children, free of any sexual or verbal abuse that was prevalent in their own lives as children. I know many men like this. I have heard stories of abuse, neglect, pain, suffering, and the tremendous anger, shame, and guilt that can accompany such damaging events. With help, support, therapy, the coin can be flipped. But it’s not easy. It may take a few generations for the victim’s family to recover.  

Please, fire the coaches, fire the president, and rid the school of anyone who should have mandatorily/morally reported these abuses. Clean house. To me, that is an expectation. For many of these male victims, what has been sealed in the past may burst scarily and uninvited into the present. I encourage us, as a society, to take care in how we communicate our thoughts. No rape jokes, no funny stories like “did you hear the one about the coach…” blah-de-blah-blah-blah. Pay attention to the bathroom humor that is already a result. Not all victims of sexual abuse live in Pennsylvania. One may be sitting next to you, existing silently in shame and embarrassment. Be aware of your own biases, and perhaps your own uneasiness with this subject. Otherwise, the real crime of child sexual abuse becomes trivial, and more perpetrators are hatched. Those of us who hear, who question, who are angered, who are appalled, but NOT abused…we are not the victims.

A boy was violated, without any warning, and without his trusted relative getting permission as to whether or not he wanted it. He was not asked if he wanted the pain of this experience to become a part of his consciousness. They were just talking, and the next minute he was feeling the most horrific things. Things he could not imagine happening to him. He was so stunned he didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop. He felt trapped, but the man was family. He had to support his family by…being quiet.

Flip it. Pray for the men who are our children.

If you are a victim of male sexual abuse, consider visiting www.MaleSurvivor.org

Thanks, Mr. LaRussa! From a Chicago Sock

Pitchers Dennis Lamp, Floyd Bannister, and Cy Young winner LaMar Hoyt. Fielders Harold Baines, Ron Kittle, and Tom Paciorek. Designated hitter Greg "The Bull" Luzinski. And to wrap it up, the penultimate catcher, Carlton "Pudge" Fisk. These men were just the core of my favorite baseball team roster, the  1983 American League West Championship-winning Chicago White Sox. The White Sox heretofore had not participated in a post-season game since 1959. Prior to that, there had been no post-season appearance since the 1919 'Black Sox' debacle. That's a long time to survive without a championship coffee mug.

Winning UGLY! (Literally)

The leader of the pack in '83 was manager Tony LaRussa, who was given his first pro-baseball managerial position by Chicago in '79. A few days ago, LaRussa retired from baseball after crafting a career  that began as a player back in the 70's. Though I realize talent, skill, athleticism, and good management  are a must for a winning team, pride and spirit is what gets the fans going and makes us happy. The team possessed a loyal fan base dying for some good baseball. A crumbling Comiskey Park was hanging in there, patient but sad as its new home across the street was being planned.

I was living and working out-of-state in 1983. Beginning that spring, I listened to each White Sox game I could via radio. Soon it appeared that my Sox would be appearing in their first post-season game in almost a quarter of a century. A local friend assured me that a buddy of his in Chicago would be able to get us tickets for one game. We drove over 350 miles, but the 'assurance' never worked out. Standing on the northwest corner of 35th and Wentworth Avenue during a day in early October, we ended up scalping a pair of tickets for about a hundred bucks. Fortunately, the tickets were legit and decent. Unfortunately, the Sox lost the game (and the AL West series) to the Baltimore Orioles. Baltimore fielder Eddie Murray was on fire that year, and the Orioles went on to win the World Series.

LaRussa was fired in 1986, to the disgruntlement of many Sox fans. He was picked up by the the Oakland A's, winning a couple of AL championships and a World Series while introducing us to bash brethren Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire. In 1996, he was hired by the St. Louis Cardinals, where he led them to two World Series and multiple post-season appearances. With his retirement, he scores near the top of many "Coach with the Most" lists. Baseball Hall of Fame? Right this way, sir.

As for Chicago, there would be a stream of managers and notable players that would pass through the Sox clubhouse after LaRussa's departure. Fregosi, Torborg, Manuel; Belle, Thomas, and newly-announced manager Robin Ventura. Since LaRussa and the '83 Sox, the White Sox have gone on to appear in four post-seasons of play: '93, '00, '05, and '08. My sheer joy, delight, and jars of tears cannot be virtually shared regarding my man Ozzie Guillen and the 2005 World Series Champions, THE CHICAGO WHITE SOX!!

So thanks, Mr. LaRussa, for all you did for my team. As far as I'm concerned, you put the Sox on the modern map of baseball. I'm not a devote historian, nor am I a master of statistics. In the 80's, I was just a young man looking to feel good about my childhood team. To me, sir, you will always be the founder, creator, and father of modern Chicago White Sox baseball. And for that, this long-time south-sider will be extremely grateful. You brought respect to a historic southside team in need of acknowledgment for how they played, not for where they were located. You helped change the perception of the Chicago White Sox, and you personified a winning attitude. You lit the fire that became the flame.

Enjoy your retirement, Mr. LaRussa. God bless you, and thanks again. See you in Cooperstown.

I'm Hip

One of my BFF's calls me a "Face Book fool." I tweet, blog, chat, and text. Voice mail is for babies. I sign into CNET regularly, and I am on the Email list of several online forums. I built my son's computer. I receive all Tiger Direct/CompUSA mailings as they continue to struggle with their identity. I have a net book, and a printer/fax/scanner combo that I hooked up wirelessly to all said devices. By myself. I live on a cloud.

Currently, I own an HTC EVO. I rooted the phone myself, running Vaelpak ROM. This means I have customized the unit so that I have more control and choice over appearance and applications. Not an easy task. I keep up with all the latest tech reviews and announcements via @admillios.  I hope that Sprint offers a version of the upcoming Nexus Prime, because I don't want to transition to an iOS platform. So I'm looking forward to the release of the Galaxy S III, just in time for my upgrade. It should drop during Q1 or Q2.  I REALLY want an ice cream sandwich.

Am I speaking in a foreign tongue to you? Do I want a real ice cream sandwich, or a virtual one? Ha ha...get with it. If you are unaware of any of the information regarding my tech knowledge, I consider you beneath me. You are an amateur. In the class system of technology, you are unworthy, low-level, and on the verge of becoming a moron. Why am I so pumped up about this? Because I'm 54 years old.

And I'm hip.

An IBM PC similar to my first workplace computer! 

                   

Very few men and women in their 50's are as tech savvy as I am. It is an amazing world to me. While most technological advances can be just ho-hum occurences, I am in awe when even the slightest tech advancement is announced. Tempus fugit. When I was in high school, I about lost my mind when I was able to buy a pocket calculator at Walgreens. A wireless phone? Back in the day, not only were they wired, you couldn't even unplug them...from the unit or the wall. Hey, you had time to go to the kitchen and make a sandwich while the television warmed up. Black and white television, that is. Can  you say 'solid state?' (No, it's not a political term.)

In May, 2012, I will officially be a speed limit on most interstate highways. I have arguments with my father over who gets the AARP credit when we simultaneously flash our cards. It's shameful that, at 92, he sometimes shows his card quicker than I do. I hope I'm blessed with much more improved pavement on the expressway of my life. However, turning 55 is a bit of a big deal to me. At times, I enjoy the signs of aging. Less energy, more wisdom. Less shame and guilt, more forgivness and hope. Less condemnation, more self-reflection. Less novice and kid, more elder and mentor. Less extravagant, more pragmatic. Less Bose, more Dynex.

Praying that God grants me the opportunity to work through some current kinks, I look forward to the future. We as a society seem to always denigrate whatever young generation is the current bullseye. The truth is, past generations have not always let the sun shine in. I look forward to supporting young men and women as they try to clean up this mess of economic and societal distress. My mission is to offer guidance and encouragement to young adults that have been raised in an enviroment of greed, negligence, broken promises, and little-to-no integrity. I need to be prepared to assist them using their own tools.

(did you buy that?)

Okay, okay. While all of the above is true, I'm also just a big kid with childhood completion issues. So what? All this techno-stuff is fun. I'm completing my masters in communications. I've got to keep up with what's happening! And I refuse to use Centrum Silver for no reason. One of  'the kids' I used to teach in Sunday school a couple of decades ago referred to me recently on Facebook: "Bro. Brantford! He was the bomb!" Wow. I feel like a CareBear sitting on sale at Target next to an XBox 360 bundled with two Kinect consoles.

Well, let me tell you one thing. I am a former 'mayor' of a local restaurant, and I'm gonna get that honor back.

Hopefully, Applebee's will supply feeding tubes for card-carrying AARP members.

Represent

        Fortunately, I am not disturbed to the point of wanting to light a match to any of the Quran haters who are making the news. I am disturbed by those who claim to be patriotic, God-fearing Americans, who cannot in any way, shape or form, prove their venomous statements. If we are to respect the Constitution, then respect it all. I would imagine that those who are ready to deny religious freedom would be on the streets in protest if you tried to repeal the right to bear arms.

         I am a Christian, and happy to be so. It was an act of faith that was my choice. Christianity is a garment for my soul that fits me very well. And having read the bible a lot, I can tell you straight up that Jesus did not condone his people burning  property that didn’t belong to them. He never said that if someone disagrees with you, vilify them. He never tried to blackmail someone into following him.  He always gave people choices. He did teach, however, that making the wrong personal choice may catch up with you later. But his actions never involved, let’s say, hmmm, burning your boat if you didn’t put down your nets to follow him.

               

        I don’t need hateful teachers who spout words of anger without proving them. I need what the Bible teaches in the New Testament. I need to examine myself to make sure what I speak is pure and honest. I gotta look in the mirror, and judge myself first. I need to love, to encourage, to help, and to teach.  To love God, and to love others. The colors of Christ are warm, encouraging, inviting. Not cold and hateful.

      

"Jesus is Love!" The Commodores

        So would u media folk please find another story? Can u talk about Ms. Lohan some more? (God bless her.) Didn’t someone somewhere get stuck in an air shaft trying to rob a bank?  Would you please turn the camera off this guy in Florida, and anyone else who sounds like him?

        They ain’t representin'. 

The Eyes Have It!

            My first blog last week was a complete success! It was my first post, and I was humbled by the feedback I received. In just two days, I was blessed with seven followers of the site. In addition, I have over 100 followers on my Twitter accounts combined. It has taken me some time to get used to that bird. Shout out to @JustJoeJohnson (my Buckeye godson) for really helping me start tweeting!

           

One great joy of tweeting (YES, tweeting can be joyful!) is communicating with folks who share similar interests. One of the first communities I hooked up with is #DadsTalking. Fathers from all over the world tweet about the joys and challenges of fatherhood. Hey, if there are dads who boldly proclaim the love of their family and want to share their enjoyment of fatherhood…heck…those are the fellas I want to twitter around!

           

One of the more prolific men in this group is @DadStreet. His profile says he’s 30ish and has two kids. He lives in California and, via his avatar, represents Cali cool with his sunglasses. So when I am sitting down with my first cup of coffee at 9 a.m., worn out from getting my one son on the school bus, it’s only 7 a.m. where @DadStreet resides.  He’s already up and on the road! He talks about the Cali sun, his great kids, and “hey guys, let’s get moving!” Barf. He’s an ex-hippie…figures. I’d rather hear from @ExhausDad (get it…like exhausted Dad?). He talks about being tired from staying up all night (lovingly, of course) with his crying baby, and about not getting much sleep. Ahhhh…that’s what I’m talkin’ bout. The good ole’ days.

           

Just as every dad story is different, and every baby is different, there are scores of birthing and parenting techniques. Natural or cesarean, breastfeed or bottle, cloth or diaper, stay-at-home or work, spank or time-out, yada or nada. Most of these early choices involve the health/well-being of the child or mother. And that’s the way it should be. The early care of your child is of the utmost importance, and it’s imperative that mom be able to heal, relax, and bond with the baby in a peaceful environment. But there will come a time guys, and it comes quick, when we must seriously step up to the plate. And after fifteen challenging years of fatherhood, I believe I know one of the top ten keys to successful fatherhood.

The eyes have it.

As my wife and I prepared for the birth of our son back in late 1994, I was reading every parenting book I could get my hands on, and there were plenty. So to weed them out, I picked the ones with titles that made sense to me. No need to read about ‘The Yoga Parent’ when I can’t even cross my legs. I perused the ones that I felt in my gut would work with the kind of dad I visualized myself as being. Yeah, gut. Now that I got.

           

I believe that the responsible husband and soon-to-be dad can use this period to prepare for the future. Not just to begin a college fund (good luck with that one, btw), or to make sure the crib isn’t on a recall list. You are preparing to train another human being; to be the male role model for a person who will be contributing, in some shape or form, to the global community. Wow! It really is an amazing assignment to take on. I honor all fathers who have chosen to accept.

Anyway, I read somewhere the importance of establishing a visual bond with your child from the first time they open their eyes. The article’s premise was that if you connect with your child through staring at him or her, the child will feel comforted, supported, and safe. Made sense to me. I loved sitting on the couch with my baby boy, leaning over him and looking at him straight in the eye. I will always remember the first time that HE really got it, and he let go a really big grin. It was then that I knew he saw me. He gurgled, giggled, and drooled. What a moment! The eye-bonding advice has since become #1 on my list. (Wait… ReTweet with comment: “It was then that I knew he saw me. I gurgled, giggled and drooled.” Sorry).

           

            Additionally, I believe there is a hidden disciplinary aspect that comes with the eye contact process. I realize the term ‘discipline’ is the unturned stone in parenting, especially when looked at from the father’s perspective. The roster of choices reads from “don’t spare that rod!” to “I would never hit my child!” I’m not a child psychologist and won’t condone any particular brand of discipline. However, I have established a simple disciplinary relationship with my son, and it doesn’t involve me raising my hand or opening my big mouth.

I just look at him. Although he knows he’s loved, safe, and cared for, he also knows when dad is not playing. Things get done when I give him my cold eye. When he was younger, he’d sit down at McDonalds, or stop acting up at school. As he’s gotten older, he knows that he needs to take the garbage out, or clean up after himself. I also use it to reinforce positive behavior. I’ll give smiling eyes when he does well in school (along with the mandatory high-five or ubiquitous fist bump), or I’ll look at him and tell him to hold his head up and walk proudly, looking others straight on as well. I believe that the truth, honesty, and integrity of a man comes first from his eye. That’s just how I roll.

                                        

So from the moment they open those wrinkled lids, look at your child and smile. Look at them as the precious bundle of joy they truly are. Smile and silently communicate to them that you will be there for them when they are in need, that you will take care to provide them with comfort, peace, and safety. Look at them for so long, you get lost in the innocence of those sparkling, marble-sized gems. Look at them and whisper “hey, I got your back.” Time flies, they’ll make mistakes (BIG ones!), and other influences begin to sneak up before you know it. Hopefully, they’ll always know you are there, even though they can’t see you. But the comforting visualization of looking at dad may sway them in a direction that will contribute to their maturity, and to the satisfaction that you have done your best.

I appreciate the dads at #DadsTalking. Our chat last night (weekly on Wednesdays at 10 p.m. ET) was in regard to video games: age appropriateness, privacy settings, etc. If you’re a dad, come join us. It’s wireless group therapy! WITH NO HOURLY FEE! So, a big shout-out to my daddy tweeps! And if you aren’t on Twitter, and don’t know an @ from a #, I don’t have time to help you. I’m too busy looking at my son.

For Josh and Vince

Forty Years and a Mule

     I am almost speechless. September is here. Forty years ago this month I began the eighth grade, the final frontier before high school. CTA only cost about fifty-cents per ride, and transfers were a nickel. The Jackson Five, Soul Train, Ed Sullivan, the Miss Black America Pageant, the Brady Bunch, and Julia. “DOOM!” equaled today’s “SNAP!” Telephones seemed to weigh about 100 pounds and had one - just one – ringtone. I sang about peace on earth at school. And I never, ever wore blue jeans on Sunday in Chicago.

     1970. The start of the 70’s. Finally, untainted numerals to designate a new era. No more shadow of the 60’s. Yet the wounds of Martin Luther King’s and Robert F. Kennedy’s assassinations were only two years old. Wounds fresh enough to be tender and painful. It’s agonizing to remember that these history-making events occurred just two months apart. MLK is a hero, and rightly so. But I wonder if today’s youth even know who RFK was, let alone what he stood for and his accomplishments. One hero shot on the balcony of a motel, the other shot in the ballroom of a hotel. The black and white photos of these fatally injured crusaders now serve as desktop screensavers for my mind.

     It seemed the moon returned to its first house, and Jupiter and Mars went their separate ways.*

     Mayor Daley and the city were still reeling from the events of the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Ancient videos show crazed young people with long hair being grabbed and hand-cuffed by crazed men in white helmets. The grainy film gives the era a ghostly feel. I remember driving with my family through Grant Park toward the end of the melee. It looked like a tornado had defied the laws of avoiding tall buildings. It was a mess, and I would never complain again about cleaning my room. The flower children were empty-handed as they wandered aimlessly through garbage and trampled signs. Those demonstrations are faintly remembered now for their attempts at creating something different.

     I remember, however. I remember the fear, the uneasiness, the distrust, the pain. I remember it well.

     Cities burned with untamed fire and with the rage of people who were tired of promises and non-existent goodwill. Neighborhoods were destroyed with the fierce anger of those who had witnessed heroes gunned down. Once-great cities still struggle to rebuild. Children and young people, filled with restlessness and a maturing power, grew to forget those travesties. They instead began to fuel a new, invisible fire with chants of “we finally got a piece of the pie!” Injustice and greed remained, continuing to fan the eternal flame.
    
     The events of this past weekend in Washington, D.C. caused me to reflect on the time when the fires raged. There are stark differences between the two eras. During the original civil rights movement, countless American citizens were murdered, tortured and abused. Young people, of all colors, gave up their lives to canvass the south for freedom. Dogs attacked peace-seeking citizens, their already bruised skin damaged even more. Houses were torched. Crosses were burned in darkness to give light to the hate. But powerful speeches that children still memorize today were spoken to a desperate and anxious nation. Speeches encouraging us, all of us, to hold on to hope, to wait for the promises to be delivered. The children…the mountain top…the dream.
    
     We, as a country, continue to plow, sometimes treading ground already sown. My fear is that despite our efforts to move forward, we’ll end up right back where we started. Or worse. That our plows will break, and our mules will die from exhaustion. If we don’t stop and observe, we‘ll overlook important pictures we’re painting for our community. Scenes that may have nothing to do with freedom, equality, or peace. How dishonorable it would be to all shades of our forefathers and foremothers if we do not teach personal responsibility, sense of community, and the power of failed good intentions. In our efforts to be ‘transparent,’ we ultimately resemble glass patio doors that haven’t been cleaned after scores of Chicago winters.
     
     Due to fear of the unknown, our society has grown comfortable with listening to cardboard leaders without valuing our own individual worth. I hereby propose that we stop. Stop and investigate our history. Read about George Washington and our nation’s founders, and then keep reading. Read about slavery, Sojourner Truth and Malcolm X. Research the rich history of Native Americans and Hispanic Americans on the soil we now call “America.” Research stories about the Holocaust and the persecution of religious groups throughout history. Read about the Asian muscle that went into building our railroads. Then teach and discuss what you’ve learned with your children, with your community, to those with whom you have relationships. Closely compare how some themes shouted today may resemble unfortunate chapters from our past.

     I was a child once, and I was a dreamer. And now, magically it seems, I am a middle-aged adult, trying to learn and harness the abundance of outrageous technology. But I’m still a dreamer, and I still sing. Most importantly, I still have hope. I invite you to hear my voice, and share my hope. My song may not be all that different from yours. They may even be the same, just written in different keys. Perhaps we can attempt to sing in harmony, even if we’re a little off-key. Harmony takes practice, but our children will reap the benefits. And like the air, harmony has no color, just the sweet melody of a smile.

     “Well, I’ve got a hammer, and I’ve got a bell, and I’ve got a song to sing, all over this land!

     It’s the hammer of justice, it’s the bell of freedom, it’s the song of love between my brothers and sisters, all over this land!”

(Words and music by Lee Hayes and Peter Seeger)

Wow. I remembered the lyrics without having to look on Wikipedia. DOOM!! I think there’s life in this aged mule yet. If you recall, I said I was almost speechless. Now if I can just master this tweetie bird thing…


* If this sentence caused you to say "HUH?" please go to your nearest music download application. Search for The Fifth Dimension (artist) and/or "The Age of Aquarius" (track). The Fifth Dimension is/was an ancient, Afro-American, non-neo-soul pop group from a galaxy far, far away. The song is from a pre-historic Broadway musical called "Hair."  It was made into a movie, but we won't discuss that here. 
_______________________________________________

For my father, Gerald, with love

"The Birthday Clock"

...the story begins September 15, 2010

Cynthiana, Kentucky, is a small town in the northeast portion of the state. Although considered north of the Mason-Dixon line at a time when it mattered, its tie to antebellum customs of the south was strong. Named for two daughters of the wealthy man who donated land for the town, it was the site of two Civil war battles. The first was a fierce, unexpected capture by the Confederacy; the second, a joyous re-capture and victory by the Union.

By 1902, only one generation has passed since the Emancipation Proclamation and the end or the Civil War. Amid tense changes in racial relationships, two children learn early lessons about being white, black, and in-between. One will become the leader and namesake of a popular jazz band of the pre-swing era. The other will live a simpler yet complex life in the Bluegrass state. As their separate lives unfold, however, their connection to the cotton picker will follow them both.

"The Birthday Clock" introduces Tillie, one of the major characters in the upcoming narrative non-fiction novel, "The Cotton Picker Scat," by David Alan Brantford. The story debuts here Wednesday, Sept. 15, 2010.