I was born in Maryland, and at a very early age moved to Atlantic City, New Jersey with my Mother. I think of these times. I distictly remember the smell of the Funny Papers, I know now that it was the ink, but even so I always remember living in an apartment on the third floor. I occassionally looked out the window at huge icicles and snow drifts with muted sounds of the blues being played on the radio and looking at the cartoons in the "Funny Papers" .

The "Ole Kitchen Folk" had a saying. "Boy you eating your white bread, now! . I now know all to well what was meant by that.

I remember sitting in the classroom quietly working away at a task when the quiet was interrupted by several nicely dressed young men and women. They were talking excitedly and waving their hands around. They were saying things like " come on children, come on lets go. Lets march for freedom"

Our sixth grade teacher was trying to shoo them out of the class and was trying to keep us quiet . She kept telling us to be still, but several of us had already jumped up from our seats. As we were leaving the class she leaned over and whispered, " run children, go on, go on now" And so we did.

The day was hot and the sky was clear and blue. I remember the long walk from our elementary school to downtown Nashville to Capital Hill Baptist Church. Dr Kelly Miller- Smith was our leader. He was tall, thin young, and energetic. He gave us a little pep talk before we took to the streets of down- town. He told us that we would be called all kinds of names and that we would be spit on and that things would be thrown at us. He gave us an opportunity to turn around, to go back but we stood firm.

The walk downtown was eventful. It was so hot. Eggs were thrown out of upstairs windows. Some one spit on me and the spit ran down my face and dried in the sun. I remember Dr Miller- Smith saying, " that's alright daughter, that's alright" And so we march on. And we sang songs. We were just children and were so brave.

Every time I go downtown and see the old Wilson Quick Drugstore ( once a feed store, now a Country Music night spot). I remember how we entered the store and sat at the counter. We were told to leave the store. I remember standing in the middle of Broadway and linking arms and singing "We Shall Over Come " and how the Nashville Fire Department came in and turned the water hose on us.

I can still feel the force of the water knocking me loose from my partners. I remember tumbling over and over as the water hit me. When they turned the hose off we left the area and marched up hill to the church where we were fed sandwhiches and given cool drinks. I am not too sure on this, but I believe that our clothes were dried off in the churches clothes dryer and we went out again- singing and marching... those days are ever etched in my mind and I proudly tell all that will listen, how this little skinny black girl experience being egged, spit on, and hosed down all in the name of freedom------

I have met many people who use african-amercan language and listen to african-american music and claim to be part of some great big anti-racist party. Personally, I think that is stupid. Racism is wrong, but being ignorant to your own culture is just as bad.

I am not trying to say that any other color of human that listens to african-american music is wrong. I am just saying that taking on their fashion and dialect of speaking is bad. It shows disrespect for their culture as well as their own. If they have to look somewhere else for their inspritaion in music and and personal life, well I will just say to them :TRAITORS!

Usually, these people have no concept of love for another race . Their concept of respect is to talk down to people who try to express to them that they are being ignorant and should not continue doing so in case of the wrong person overhearing them and perhaps a confrontation stemming from it. In my heart I know that people will look upon culture stealing as a problem and eventually harm anyone guilty of it. All I am saying is that people should not try to be what they are NOT!

What a surprise to find 4 Oakland headlined by tributes to the Black Panther Party, a celebration of Huey Newton, Bobby Seale, and David Hilliard.

But then I find Tallulah Dancier, a different kind of chronicler of events--unknown to me but somehow sending forth poetry that hums a fragrant tune, and I realize each of us carries such tunes. Fragments of events and concussions. We don't explain too much without realizing we have moved outside of the bounds of other people's ability to follow.

I like your choices and wonder where Ron Dellums fits in, or is he a son of Berkeley? What about unsong fallen heroes like Marcus Foster, another son of Louisana alongside Wilson Riles? What is the internal class commotion that assumes the costume of street hoods who pull your heart strings with their intense emotion? They do want to read music, and perhaps compose it, but there is that continuous commotion.

"Change what you can what you can't, leave alone and have the sense to know the difference between the two." Marvin Gaye is it not the time for oakland to grow up? The panthers were a trip not unlike wavy gravy across the bay. Acid was plentiful and damaging to a lot of souls of whatever background.

If the history is to be told, does it need to be re-written to the exclusion of players some gone and many still alive particularly women who staffed the breakfasts for children, cleaned and cooked, bore the children and increased hope during turmoil and lengthy jail terms.

Thus life goes on and how do we celebrate oakland and the human spirit? I do not write for publication, I did not surmise a message, I reach out as another born in Iowa a man without pedigree or presumption wanting to express pleasure in finding your portion of the Black Panther Party portal to Oakland.
by Hank Maiden

This morning I cried. Now at the age of 55, I've had many reasons to cry; many easily identifiable reasons that is. Today for some strange reason I remembered Emmitt Till. I don't know what triggered the memory but it was quite a vivid one; a memory of seeing his body displayed in the centerfold of Jet Magazine. While I'm sure of the event, I cannot verify whether the memory of a photograph is a true memory.

I was 9 years old in 1955, the middle daughter of three in a small rural area of Jefferson County, Alabama. That was the summer I discovered that not only was I considered less than an equal to whites, but actually inferior!!

My father worked for the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company (TCI) and my mother worked at a small powdered milk factory. We lived a fairly good life in that ours was a small family in an area where many had 8-12 children and most mothers were not employed outside of the home.

Interaction with any other ethnic group was limited to the occassional trip to "town" for a new pair of shoes or other needed items where we were waited on by the white clerks. Strangely enough, I have no memories of ever having been slighted or treated poorly on any of our many excursions. Did the murder of Emmitt Till alter the fabric of our lives? Or did my own perception of that life tilt and twist? All that i know is that things were never the same for me again. I suddenly saw racism, I saw hatred for my skin color and I felt the stigma of being nonwhite,and I became aware of the need to fight ignorance and embrace a cause for justice and equality under the law.

While life has brought me neither fame nor infamy, I am proud to have been one of those many school children who, in 1963 participated in the demomstrations in Birmingham. I,too faced the wrath of Bull Connor and his dogs, the fire hoses and the billy clubs of the racist cops. My family sent me north to my grandmother to get me out of town as they feared for my life. In fact, I was in Detroit on the morning of the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church,having arrived the previous Thursday.

So while my name may mean nothing, and I may just be another face in the crowd, multiply me by ten thousand and I AM. Now middle aged, approching my senior years, I look around, and Ilook back and Ilook ahead.... Hence, sometimes I cry.

I was a student at Mary Washington College and had a chance to take a Civil Rights class under Dr. Farmer during the spring semester of '86. He was one of the best teachers in my life and the lessons he passed on stay with me to this day. He motivated me enough to earn the first �A� for a course in my college career.

He lived the Civil Rights movement, starting his efforts during W.W.II and on into the twilight of his life decades later. His was a commanding presence, knowledgeable but humble and I sat in awe of him. I once had the honor of escorting Dr. Farmer back to his office after class one night, since he was blind and needed a guide. He took my arm and we talked about small things. I sat with him in his office for a bit, waiting for his daughter to show up and take him home and while there I questioned him a bit about a point in his lecture and then we talked about my life and goals. That shared moment is precious to me and I am so grateful to have talked with him.

It is a shame that he does not get more credit for his contributions, but he was content with the role of supporting those who rallied the public to their cause. His teachings were simple, we are all equal and deserve a chance. I believe that his autobiography �Lay Bare the Heart� should be required reading for every college student.

Thank you Dr. James Farmer.

I live in an area in the south where my community is full of Blacks with Indian blood. Most are Cherokee, I am Choctaw with a mixture of Indian blood. My father said that he would hear the adults talking when he was a child about people with Indian blood. Many were the result of Indians being raised by Black families.

In those days there were Indian wars. The Indians would take their babies into the woods and hide them in hollow trees. When Blacks went into the woods to cut down trees for the winter, they would find the babies and raise them as there own. The parents of the babies were killed by Whites that wanted this land for themselves.

The parents of those children knew that if they wanted their seeds to survive, they had a better chance with non-Indians. They did indeed survive.

One thing they did after growing up was not to mention their Indian heritage again. Instead they went as Mulatto. Then they would marry into Black families. The Indian blood has not yet been depleted because many of the people they married were mixed with Indian.

This is how the Indian survived in this area and how their heritage was hidden. Many elderly people today won't mention their Indian heritage unless they know you and feel secure about talking about it. Once they do, loads of information comes pouring out.

Growing up in the 50's was the ultimate time to be young and growing. There was a lot of prosperity, the war in europe was over and there was work and time for families to be together and prosper. Television hadn't caught on good yet, because people didn't sit idle and stare at a tube for hours they socialized, a word that is lost in todays world.

When I was growing up in Connecticut the family was a whole life style with three generations living under the same roof, no one would ever think of farming there parents out to a home just so they could run wild. People knew what direction they were heading in.

The drug craze haden't taken hold yet and kids played together and shared life together, neighbors were like family and we all visited each other often." I like Ike" was the most popular saying in the world and you could believe a polticians (almost believe them) that at least some of there promises would be kept.

Acid rain wasn't invented yet and you could still drink out of a running stream without dying from toxic waste. Kids didn't have to be told to be civil and respectful they learned these values by association. The schools weren't preocupied with sex, just teaching and education. Sex and other moral values were left up to the parents and the court didn't step in everytime a child was sent to there room! Growing up in the 50's was like no other time in history and I feel God blessed me for making it the best time to be a child.

(My earliest memory of our family coming together was as a young child. My family travelled home, to Louisiana. I remembered seeing somebody placed on a board in the house and all the mirrors were covered and the walls were draped. I can remember being scared to death, but I would peek and look at the still body lying on this board. I heard my grandmother say that the body was placed on a cooling board. Why, the body had to cool is still a mystery to me. The cooling board was the same board they used for ironing.)

As long as I can remember, it seems that the largest family gatherings were always funerals,(or homegoings as my older relatives called them). Depending on the loved one who had "gone home" would determine the type of celebration we would have before and after the funeral. I know there was a lot of food and drink with tears and laughter. These gatherings brought some of the most exciting times and most memorable events.

On one such occasion, a call came, and it was time again for us to gather. It was late spring, with my immediate family we travelled to Louisiana. With heavy hearts we made the trip, yet I was so excited, I knew this would be a good time. A chance that I would get to visit with family that I hadn't seen in years and different family members would comment on how all of us had grown, and who we most looked like.

We would arrive and like clock work everyone knew what they had to do. The women and older girls would start preparing food and the men would sit around, run errands and sometimes would even slaughter a hog or go fishing. All us kids played outdoors and had a great time. There were lots of cousins to play with.

The time of year would determine what foods were prepared. My family in Louisiana lived in the country and raised plenty of hogs and chickens. There was always plenty food and drink. Some liked the drinking more than eating, and as the day wore on, we knew who was doing more of what.

We had come together as a family to bury our beloved, yet, it was more like a reunion. As our parents all took care of the business at hand, all of us kids were left to explore and renew our kinships. Well, in the country you can always find something to do. I was about eleven years old and I learned to drive. There was an old school bus behind the barn and we all took turns learning to drive this monster. There was a large field in the back of the barn. My uncle just let us have our way. My cousin Gerorgette was the instuctor, she was nine years old. I could drive anything from that day on. We sneaked and drove out on Highway 80. At that time it was the main highway betweem Mississippi and Louisiana. With this old bus filled with children, we must have been a site.

Keeping with tradition, the night before the funeral we would have a "Wake" where we all would gather at mortuary with the body and we would take turns speaking about our beloved who had "gone on home". (Years earlier the body would have been at home and we would have had the wake at home rather than a mortuary.) Everyone spoke in whispers. There were sometimes quiet moans with tears and praises. A lot of "hallelujahs" and "thank you Jesus".

After the Wake we would all get together and have supper, and the drinking would continue. My Aunt Sista always drank her share along with everyone elses. Aunt Sista was not the only one. There were many more. The children were all put to bed as our parents readied for the following day.

I can remember the funeral as though it were yesterday, however I don't recall who we were burying. The church was hot and crowded. The minister spoke and the choir sang. Family and friends of the departed stood before the congregation and spoke. There was crying and shouting. They had real church this day. After the services there was the burial to attend.

Well, Aunt Sista stood behind me at the grave site. Auntie was snotting and crying. She kept calling out saying that she too wanted to "go on home". Each time she was overcome she flung herself forward, pushing me to the edge of the grave. The minister spoke and said the last prayers and the casket was lowered. As the casket was decending Auntie pushed me once again. (It seem to me to be the hottest day of the year. Now, I was getting tired of her shouting and crying and pushing, I was already at the edge of the grave site.) My poor Auntie had had too many drinks and all I could smell was "Evening In Paris" and whiskey mixed with sweat permeating from her 250 pound body.

With her arms flailing over her head and still about to push me into the grave, I suddenly moved to one side. Into the grave on top of the casket she fell. There was a hush around the site for what seemed like forever and then slowly I heard snickling as my father, uncles, and cousins rushed forward to get this drunk, 250 pound woman out of the grave.

It took about six grown men to lift her out of the grave. With torn stockings, she was covered with dirt and sobbing . Her hat was cocked and twisted, she was a real mess. Everyone could hear her huffing and puffing. When she caught her breath, she was cussing and trying to wipe the dirt from her legs and clothes.

My mother locked on to me and we started to walk away from the burial site. My mother gave me the "eye", the eye that tells you that you are in trou--ble. About this same time I hear my granny--and I was rescued from my mother.

There were about 150 people at this burial ceremony and word of exactly what had happened was spreading and so was the laughter. When we arrived at the "Repast", there was laughter all around. I am teased till this day about that incident. My Aunt Sista forgave me, she really didn't know what had happened until she sobered up a little.

A few years ago the call went out, this time it was my mother who had died. We were all devastated. Aunt Sista came, she is still a large woman and she still drinks on these occasions. I remember we were about to leave the church. The Funeral prosession was lining up. My grandmother, two sisters and my Auntie Vy we were all in one of the limos. We were about to pull off and we see this hugh woman looking a bit lost as the cars were starting to leave. We all spotted her at the same time. We halted the driver and I got out of the car and went over and took her by the hand. We got into the car. We sat her up front and looking into each others eyes we all laughed until tears rolled down our faces.

Aunt Sista had again over indulged herself. When we reached the cemetary I took her by the hand and led her to a chair. As she sat down she squeezed my hand and pulled me to her and hugged me. We cried and laughed so loud until heads turned our way. It had been about 40 years since she had fallen in the grave. Aunt Sista said, "I think I can wait baby. I don't want go home...just yet".

by Betty J. Green

Until the civil war of the 1960's was brought into our living room via television, I never even knew there were "races" of people. My parents had friends of every nationality and never was there a reference made to their color or religion. People were people.

I wasn't even curious about skin color. I was truly born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Oh, it isn't that we had a lot of money. Many dinners consisted of fried potatoes and gravy. It's just that both my mom and my dad taught me about real wealth, which is a love for all mankind. I was taught to pray when I could barely walk, and that instilled faith has kept me going through many tears and trials, some of which were self-inflicted.

I thank God for my color blind parents who were the richest people I've ever known.

My father was a great friend of buddy Holley or Holly as he dropped the e. My father was the top DJ at KSEL in Lubbock, Texas.

In my opinion, had David Duke been elected, we as Americans (especially Black, Jewish, Hispanic, Native American, etc.) would have been victims of an American version of Adolf Hitler.

But in the same token it's nice to know that blacks and other minorities have the power to vote. David Duke despite his intelligence is an ignorant and stupid man. It's very sad that in this day and age that people like him still exist.

Some people may take this comment out of context, but I must say it. At least with the KKK and David Duke, you know they are prejudice and will express it openly. I would rather have someone be prejudice to me in my face instead of being prejudice to me behind my back.

It was in 1992 that Sir Elton John started a Aids foundation. He has done so much for this cause he should be remembered for all his great doings for other people.

It was on this day, August 16th 1977 that one of the greatests entertainers of all time died. His music still lives on in the hearts of many people. Anyone who didn't live in his generation missed a great rock and roll beginning. Elvis will always be remembered
Rose

As I search the net for information on The Montgomery Bus Boycott, I'm don't see any mention of brother E.D.Nixon, who got Mrs. Parks out of jail then came up with the plan to boycott. Mr.Nixon made a couple of phone calls to local young ministers, Ralph Abernathy and Martin Luther King, Jr. to set up the first meeting to organize the boycott them nominated Dr.King as president of the movement.

This man E.D. Nixon was the real driving force of everything that happened, he should be greatly appreciated.

I feel that Janet Jackson is a force to be reckoned with. Her forever reinventing style of music, fashon and she sets the trends and all the ladies seem to follow. In 1993 I met Janet (mind you that she is a mentor to me ) and it was a dream come true for me.

We talked and the most surprising thing is that she isn't like, I 'm up here and your down there .She made me feel very comfortable and after our conversation I let her know that I would be graduating from high school soon and I would be pursuing my dream as an entertainer and she didn't deture me away from that, but she expressed that an college education was very important and that if I had the chance to get one get it.

I was hurt at first because all I wanted to do was be an entertetainer like her and here is my mentor telling me to go to school. At the time I didn't see that you need to further your education in this day and age. I am a full time student at my local university here in Ohio. I'm doing pretty good with my grades and presently I'm writting a play. I dance and I will be an entertainer one day and to Ms. Janet I say thank you.
J'Syn Pruiett

I was born in Marin County, CA in 1953, and lived there in San Anselmo and Novato. In 1964 my mother, sister and I moved to Oregon to live with my maternal grandmother. I never saw any "negroes" until I was in Junior High School. There were entertainers on television, now and then, and my grandmother always commented on how talented "they" were.

The Civil Rights "hullaballoo" (my granny's word for it) was less of a controversy than "beatniks, hippies and free love" in our household. I know my grandmother had some issues arising from her upbringing in Kansas, but my mother and my older sister were very liberal. I had no understanding of why Granny would use such a hateful word as "nigger" in a very casual manner. Whenever my mother or sister would rebuke her for this, her huffy response would invariably be: "Oh, that's right, they're our "chocolate brown brothers." Other than this verbal indication that blacks (and THAT was considered to be a distasteful word to my mother) were somehow different, there didn't seem to be much of an issue about the races in our household.

Once while I was in my early teens, my grandmother made a point of telling me not to go wandering about after school, and to catch the bus home right away, because "the Job Corps was in town." I didn't understand the reference, so I asked her what she meant. She said, "They're all blacks." And? She simply told me to stay at school until the bus brought me home. Curious. Interestingly enough, most of the other kids that waited for buses also hung out at school instead of drifting over to the Dairy Queen, which was our usual practice. I guess many of us received the same cautions.

When the bus passed through town, I could see a small group of young black men at the Dairy Queen, and I couldn't see any reason to be afraid of them. I don't know what I was expecting, particularly from Granny's vague onimous warning , but nothing lept out at me. They were the only customers there at the time. Leave it to a small fishing port town in Oregon to foster the concept of "us" (white people) and "them."

My father was NOT the liberal person my mother had been. He used a variety of slurs and epithets when referring to anyone that wasn't a WASP. He even thought Masons and members of the Church of Religious Science were "cultists." He respected "Jews" as "good business men as long as you're not looking for a break." I wonder what that meant? Maybe folks who happened to be Jewish didn't care for the "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" method of doing business that my father practiced? You know, that "good ole boys" network. He even once made a sarcastic remark about my mother having participated in Job's Daughter's activities as a young woman.

I don't know why he was this way, either. I didn't recall him being like that, when I was very young. Was it visible, then? Did it just not manifest itself because there wasn't much of a multi-cultural or multi-ethnic population in the cities in which we'd lived during those years.

In any case, I am very grateful that the mores my mother attempted to instill in her daughters, while less memorable recollections, have stuck with me. I really don't know if persons of color who don't happen to know me personally would think much of what I've written here. I may very well have a long way to go before being "color-blind." But I'd like to think that I am.

I was born in 1970, so the decade of the 80's stand out clear in my mind. When I think of the 80's images of breakdancers and funky fly fashions flash through my head. If you did not have a Jheri Curl, you were not cool. The longer and wetter the better. In the 80's urban music was known as Rap, not Hip Hop, but we did "Hip, hop, hippy to the dippy to the hip hip hop, you don't stop the rockin,' to the bang bang boogie up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogity beat".

Michael Jackson was black and he was "Bad". Prince was "His Purple Majesty" and you could still verbalize his name. Everyone had a rhyme to rap, a step to dance (or break) and everyone who was anyone had Guess ? on their chest or their behind.

I also remember the tragedies of the 80's and with a child's mind I remember worrying about world affairs with fear in my heart. I used to wonder about "the button" getting pushed and the threat of nuclear war.

I remember the first time I saw a missing child on the back of a milk carton and the fear of getting "snatched" or abducted. I would run home from school clutching that house key strung around my neck with a piece of yarn, tucked safely under my shirt, looking back hoping no strange person or car was following me to my destination.

I rememember rushing home from school to watch "Yo MTV Rap" for the first time and seeing my favorite groups on the TV screen live and in person! All of the girls on my block would gather in a circle on warm Saturday afternoons learning the choreography to the music videos, especially "Thriller".

If you were a girl, you just weren't cute if you did not have a key hanging from you earring, emulating the trend set by Janet Jackson (before she dropped the last name). If you were a boy on my block, you just weren't cool if you did not have a high top fade. Girls wore asymetrical hair cuts and dyed our hair with Kool-Aid. Cherry was da bomb!

The 80's, to me, holds very dear memories. In the 80's, I blossomed from a young child into an adult, all in the same decade. Oh, how I love the 80's!

Do you know what it is like to be a teenager in the nineties? I do because I am one. Teens like me are tempted to do drugs or steal. Peer pressure comes down hard. I have to make tough decisions every day like should I go with my friends even if they are going to steal a coke or should I stay here?

That is only one example of the choices teens have to make when growing up in the nineties. The technology also causes problems. Just think what the teenagers growing up in the millenium will be like.

I am very disappointed to see no acknowledgment here of the massive influence of Hip-Hop music and culture on or African-American community. How can you try to summarize the last two decades with no mention whatsoever of the single most important cultural phenomenon of that period?

This is but another example of how the older generation refuses to accept us as part of the family, yet rushes to chastise us when things go wrong.

Dr. Clarke was a great intellectual historian. He constantly strive to bring to life the contributions and the rich heritage that belong to African people. He was incredibly knowledgeable for a man self-educated. I hope his works on world history do not become obscured.

As a young a Black Woman I would like to say that this is very inspirying that someone took the time to reconize Black Historians. I live in a small town where Black History is either forgotten and or not mentioned. So I would like to say I appreciate it. Thanks.
Jessica Hale

I was born to the sound of the balefon and wounded by the lyrics of Independence. I smiled at the sun, amazed by its grace, And its warmth I embraced. My navel was connected to the world, to life, to my ancestors�

Independence was a jewel wrapped in a colourful package, handed to a child, gratified by a smile. When he held it in his hand, He wasn't aware of it sharpness So didn't wear his gloves. He got wounded by Independence, A unique stone, diaphanous in the sun, mottled under the moon.

He was hoping that Africa would become the centre of the world, Not a scar on the map. But were we ready? No, we were fooled by others, by ourselves and by the relativity of time. We had Independence and yet nothing had really changed, Except that we had lost all the strength we had fought with.

Anyway, the world wasn't sad every day, We were artisans, creating laughter's, tears, out of nothing� Appreciating life at its best, every second of the day. Our ways were intact; our system wasn't the same. We remembered stories we couldn't name. Because we are running away from each other. But our roots go deeper underground, to the essence of human kind itself.

I never thought that I would be in exile today, I never thought that knowledge would print wrinkles of pain on my face. Looking back in my life, in childhood memories, I always say: "How fast it all happened! Am I one step ahead from yesterday?" Then I smile�

In my parents' house is a bookcase containing the usual figurines, trinkets and memorabilia that a family tends to collect or inherit over the years. A stranger might find a bit unusual that one of the many items in it is a brick. It's not the kind of brick that your house here in the States might be made of, but one made from concrete poured around small rocks.

I don't actually remember the night my father brought it home, but it must have been sometime in 1961 or 1962. He'd received it from an Air Force buddy of his who'd had guard duty at CheckPoint Charlie (the main access between East and West Berlin during the years of the Wall) the night a very brave man made his break for freedom.

I don't know the man's name or what his motives were for risking his life to get into West Berlin. I don't even know if he survived. All I know is that he drove a truck past the East German guards and crashed it through the Wall in order to escape.

The Americans on duty at CheckPoint Charlie gathered the bricks that were scattered in the escape attempt, and one of them found its way to our family.

To me, it's always been a symbol of one of the greatest of human strengths, the ability to face overwhelming odds and have the courage to do whatever you have to to reach a goal.

During the past several months, whenever I mentioned to anyone that this year is the fortieth anniversary of my graduation from high school, the response was, �Gee,� or �My goodness!� or �You have to be kidding? These expressions were usually followed by, �Why, you don�t look that old.�

At first I took the comments as complimentary and I went around primping in the mirror, but one thing about mirrors is they don�t lie. The mirror and my stiff joints told me that no one was really amazed.

They were just trying to be polite, even kind. What they really did not want to say was: �My you�re getting up in age, aren�t you?� Since youth is revered in our society, folks just don�t want to acknowledge the aging process of another person. Well, I know I am getting up there and, considering the alternative, I am very glad.

I�m truly grateful to have survived long enough to be a part of this fortieth reunion. There is no place on Earth I would rather be tonight and for the rest of this weekend than with you, my old Lanier High School classmates.

This fortieth reunion seems naturally special. Forty years is more than a few years. When you�ve gone through forty years, forty trials, forty repetitions of anything, forty feels substantial. Forty is a number to which numerologists have assigned great significance. They see it as a magical number that marks the end to a long period to testing. It signifies a new beginning.

This property of forty has been magnified in the Bible over and over again. In Genesis, if we count the number of days and nights it rained before the Earth was finally renewed and the first rainbow appeared in the sky we see that it was forty. In Exodus 24:18 and 34: 28, we learn that Moses stayed on the Mountaintop for forty days before he was ready to come down and lead God�s people to the Promised Land. In Numbers 13:25 spies were in the land for forty days.

In 1st Kings 19:8, Elijah traveled forty days before he reached the cave where he had his vision. In Jonah 3:4, Ninevah took forty days to repent, and in Matthew 4:2, Jesus spent forty days in the wilderness praying and fasting; hence, in imitation of our Lord, Lent is a forty-day period. I am thinking that many of you like me were motivated by the weight of the number forty to come to this reunion.

Tonight we acknowledge that we have served our own forty years in the wilderness and have not only faced fears and dangers but have found many oasis along the way. The journey has not always been easy, but, we have gotten through it whole. We all have made it here tonight and, we all have to admit that, on balance, life has been good.

We are all here because we are thankful for the role Lanier High School has played in our development. You know, after I committed myself to coming to this reunion, a change came over me. I spent a lot of time daydreaming, recalling the good old days at Lanier. Back then it was more than �up in the morning and off to school where our teachers truly did teach us the golden rule.�

It was once a week assemblies in the auditorium, where we learned what it meant to behave formally and follow protocol and reap the civilizing effect of ceremony. It was cafeteria where home cooked meals were served�the cooks, under the supervision of Mrs. Bracey, made real pecan pies and apple cobblers and you could buy fresh cold milk for a nickel a carton.

It was football and basketball rallies in which school spirit could raise the rafters. It was homecoming parades and floats decorated with crepe paper cut into flowers and streamers. It was talent shows where doo-wop singers could croon like Harold Melvin of the Blue Notes and a boy named Benny could shake his body down better than Elvis Presley. It was Friday night dances where we perfected the mashed potatoes and the slop, flashing psychedelic under a ball of light we called a sputnik.

It was a full and interesting life for a teenager who gave up candy cigarettes for the real thing, but had no idea what marijuana and dope were. For the most part, we had the kind of fun that young people today would call B-O-R-I-N-G. But we had fun, nonetheless. As I recalled those old days, I realized now that I have never had more fun than when I was a student at Lanier. I also have not had as much of a sense of belonging to an organization as I had at Lanier.

It�s not that I have lived my life since high school feeling like an outsider, but Lanier gave us a special sense of belonging to an extended family. Everybody knew everybody and everybody felt accepted.

Since 1961, we have all gone our separate ways and have lived, I am sure, very different lives. Across forty years, we have all had numerous successes and failures, marriages that succeeded and marriages that did not. Most of us have raised children, and today some of us have grandchildren, possibly great grandchildren. According to our separate goals and interests, we chose a variety of occupations and perhaps some of us have retired already or are getting ready to retire. But the one thing we all have in common is that we received our foundation from the same place�Lanier High School. Lanier was our training ground and graduation was our rite of passage.

I have been to many places all over the world, and I have participated in a lot of different events, but there is one that I shall never forget and that is our graduation day. The evening exercises stands out in my mind as though they happened yesterday. As you may remember, I gave the commencement address for our class. The title of my speech was �What America Means to Me.� I remember writing the speech and rehearsing the words over and over again.

The inspiration for the speech came from my mother who helped me find inspiring quotations to weave together, and my speaking coach was Miss Lindsay. I wanted something dramatic to say to begin the speech and Mrs. Pitman had taught me a lot about the power of description as a hook for arousing interest and stirring the imagination.

So I started out by describing the landscape of this great nation without having been any further away from home than New Orleans. I began: From the icy waters of the Atlantic to the golden shores of the Pacific. [That I thought was very good.] So I continued painting the fruited plains, rocky hills, stone mountains, grassy plains and verdant valleys that I also had not seen. And, I ended my description with these words: �This is America�my home.�

When I quoted from William Cullen Bryant�s Thanatopsis, �life is real, Life is earnest and the grave is not its goal/dust thou art to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul.� I did not know just how real and earnest life could get. I would learn across the next forty years that these were not just pretty words. I now know that life being real will bring you to your knees and if you get up in the midnight hour unbroken, you find another level of understanding and coping.

A seventeen year old, like I was back then, speaking about life without experience may gain a little poise from the exercise, but forty years later, for a fifty seven year old, it is testimony. But I did not come here to testify. I came to touch base, to remember and celebrate the good news that we have come thus far and we are still strong. We are still the class of 1961; nothing can ever change that. I believe that our principal, Mr. Buckley, the teachers, and staff at Lanier did a lot to prepare us for life.

They helped us feel that we were the best despite segregation and everyday humiliations we suffered as we walked through white neighborhoods. We were not ashamed of being black because they taught us how to be proud. Whatever your talent or your interest, Lanier had a program to motivate you and help you to feel good about yourself. There were sports: track, baseball, football, and basketball; a drama club; chorus; band; speaking contests; foreign language clubs; honor societies; early morning enrichment; square dancing; social; proms, parades; cheerleaders, homecoming drives.. We were busy, busy, busy.

Pep rallies were major ego-building events at Lanier. After all, the Lanier Bulldogs could beat Jim Hill Tigers any old day�well, maybe we could beat them a few more days than they could beat us. At this reunion, we do not expect to recover the past. We cannot pick up exactly where we left off�too much has happened.

We are all different people from who we were back in the days when could eat a sour pickle with a peppermint stick stuck in the middle and chew frozen grapes without getting a headache. Yet, we share a common bond, the experience of being a class. Coming together after forty years is like a return to hallowed ground. This evening we honor a tradition of overcoming that was handed down to us.

The fellowship we have been sharing at this reunion is special because we cannot attain it with any other group. We are unique . No other group of people on the face of the earth has has the experience we shared forty years ago. We are a one of a kind class today as we were forty years ago, as we will be tomorrow and forever. So, I say it�s about time to become reacquainted and share our stories so that the next time we meet we�ll have less to catch up on.

I would really like to end this talk with something inspiring. I hope this little anecdote I am about to relate will serve that purpose. This short narrative is about a woman named Rose who was old enough to be one of our parents when she went back to college to complete a dream. In the year of her graduation, she was asked by a young football player to say a few inspiring words to younger generations (and that would include us). Not long after Rose received her degree, the young man learned of Rose�s passing and, as a tribute to her, wrote the following:

>�The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know. I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being. She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?"

My final wish for the Lanier High School Graduating Class of 1961 is that we may, like Rose, stay forever young. May we keep in mind that there are miles and miles we can still go before we sleep. Let us begin the new journey with this fortieth reunion. We�ve gone through the requisite testing period and the horizon still looms ahead, beckoning tomorrows of fulfillment and greater joy. It is time to celebrate all the living we still have left to do and commit ourselves to making positive changes, small and large, for the years people call golden because they truly can be the best years of our lives.

My Dream was to designe a black doll for all the world to see. I therefore, submitted a package of my works of art. They are all a part of the African American Museum Of Art which is across the street from Mowtown.

My works of Art will be displayed in the Museum for all of mankind to see as well as a legacy for my children. In The Land Of Imagination...that is a good start to discover new possibilites! Look for my exhibit at the Museum in July!

In the 1960's when Berry Gody,Jr, ran the Motown label from his house, the producers technicians, artists, and worker bees of the company had a Day-Care center for their kids across the street. Today, that small house serves as the Institute Of African American Arts, look both ways across the street!

Thank you so much for that article you wrote. It brought back so many memories of my own growing up here in Missouri...

When my Dad and I moved back to Missouri in May of 1955, the street we lived on with my Paternal Grandmother was called Bedford, and one side of the street consisted of white families, and the other side of the street was black families.

Kids being kids, we were all constantly running back and forth to each others' houses, and I probably spent as much (or more) time in the homes of my friends who were black as I did in the homes of my white friends. I ate many a meal at their dinner tables, and they ate many a meal at ours. We were all the best of friends, and those of us who are still living remain so to this day, 43 years later.

I remember clearly the one (and only) time I asked my Father about the word "nigger," and his reaction was both angry and swift. He clamped both hands down tightly on my shoulders and put his face right up to mine. He said very slowly, "Don't you _ever_ use that word around me again!" And since I had never seen his face looking like this before, it scared me and so I never did. When Dad had calmed down, he sat me down and told me a story, one which I will never forget.

My Dad had a younger brother who died before I was born. My uncle Charles had worked for the railroad, and he was killed one night during a heavy rainstorm when his foot got caught in a "frog" which was a section of switchable track. There was a locomotive coming, preparing to change tracks, and it struck my uncle and killed him before he could free his trapped foot.

Dad said that at the funeral, two of the Pallbearers were Norman and "Bizzy" (Dean) Gorham. They were two black brothers who had grown up with my uncle and when they got word of his death, they dropped everything and flew back to Missouri from California to help carry him to his final place of rest.

Dad told me that when they were growing up, my uncle loved to fight, and the Gorham brothers loved to fight, and so Norman, "Bizzy" and my uncle spent most of their youth trying to beat each others' brains out! lol. These fights were usually about kid stuff, but never racial simply because they had all grown up from toddlers on, and the Gorham brothers simply looked upon my uncle as another "brother," years before that term became cool, only in their case they meant "brother" as in the flesh-and-blood sense of being a brother. They loved my Uncle Charles and he loved them. At the funeral, Dad said both brothers wept openly as they carried his coffin.

Up until my Dad passed away in 1977, telling that story always made him weep. He said that at Uncle Charles' funeral, he (my Dad) simply couldn't shed any tears, for whatever reason, and yet here were these two tall, strong, ex-college football stars, weeping openly for a man they both loved. Dad said that at that moment he understood what it _really_ meant about love being "color-blind."

The issue of race relations in America is a difficult one, to be sure. But all my life, Jeff, I have lived by one guiding philosophy. That being, simply put: If we are not _all_ free then we will _all_ die shackled to our chains.

America is such a beautiful, bounteous land. We are _all_ of us a great people and what makes us great is what each of us brings to the tapestry that is the fabric of America itself. We all need each other, and if we will all recognize each other as equal members of a large, and ever-growing family, then our achievements in the next Century will be magnificent beyond anything we can imagine today.

Thank you Jeff, for everything. I am grateful for your friendship. I want to wish you and Pat a Happy 4th of July, and I hope that your day is a good one! Please take care.
Bob

"We never know when lightning is about to strike, or a cornice to fall. Perhaps it is just as well." - Jean Shepherd

The year 1979, I remember that day being sunny and beautiful. I was 5 years old and It was me and my father just hanging out. I remember him saying too me let's go to the store. We went to the store and we was looking around, for what I don't know, but I do know it wasn't for food .But I do know we were looking in the music department and being that young I did not know who was who but I did know the albums and 8 track tapes had funny looking people on the covers.

Anyway my dad picked up this album. On the cover a guy with his arms streched out and a guitar in his hand, thats the only thing I remember. We took the album and listened to it and I remember this guy singing and playing this guitar. I asked my dad how is he doing that? And my dad looked at me and shrugged his shoulders and said "I don't know."

Well now it's the 90's and I have a 5 year old son and the same album that me and my dad listen to, me and my son listen too. It was funny, he was looking at the album and he asked me daddy who is this and I said his name is George Benson. We were listening to GB and he also told me daddy he has the same guitar like you and how does he do that? I looked at him with a smile and I said like this son.

I am still wondering Why ? The killing of John F. Kennedy , then Bobby and the King . Why Oh why, did it have to happen . With our President , John F. Kennedy , I never thought anything could hurt so bad . I was in Harrisburg , South Dakota , first year of high school . I admired Mr. Kennedy for civil rights , for the fitness programs and for what he was trying to do for this country .

My friend , Myron Lee, was ask to play and headline the Dick Clark Caravan Of Stars Tour in Dallas that night . Myron told Dick, he must close the show cause he just could not go on after such a terrible thing had happened .

I remember being so afraid that day like what is going to happen next and to such a starry eyed still in some respects, a little girl, this awfull thing that had happened to this day still leaves me shaking and very cold inside.

I was also very worried about my friend Myron Lee, from Sioux Falls, South Dakota , just as much worried as I was for Jackie and the rest of their people like LadyBird Johnson and also Dick Clark . Cause see , I had no idea what or why, all I knew was this terrible thing had happened .

From that day on I was not 14 any more but more like 21, an adult, I felt I grew up in a matter of minutes where terrible things like this could happen. I could not any longer be this starry eyed little girl any more and could not close my eyes to what was yet in store for this country . I moved to Fort Lauderdale, Fl . where there was so much hate towards the black skin and towards the Indians. My coming from South Dakota in 1964, beforehand my Dad taught us that race, color, or religion did not mater ; it was Pretty Bad .

Then I was right here inthe nations capital , Washington D.C. , when first my hero , Martin Luther King was shot. I was 19 and felt like 40 cause yet anther very deep tragedy had happened to our beloved United States Of America. Then that summer, again living around our nations capital, it happened again. My dear God ---- this time, Bobby.

When that happened I felt 100 and that deep sense nothing would ever be the same in this country again. I will always believe that the 3 people I admired the most were killed by the same people. No matter what the the reports were these three help change America for the better and some people just did not like that

So, until they come up with more truth on who did all this, I can never believe . I believe in God though , and believe that someday we will have a great country again . I am going to be 50 this year and hope and pray that another young girls life and childhood will never be robbed of hopes and dreams as they are growing up . This is my true story , Debbie .

I was 14 years old in the fall of 1955. I went to the "Teen Center" with some friends . They introduced me to a girl named Linda, she was 13. She and I started to dance each week, slow dancing to The Platters, The Dream Weavers, The Four Lads, The Four Tops, etc. I still remember and still care.

I am a child of the Jim Crow South--Born in 1951, in South Carolina, when Jim Crow was alive and well. My memory is alive with the vestiges of "white only" and "No Coloreds." Educated in segregated schools by teachers who taught and enforced values, dignity, respect and self-awareness as children of God with worth far more than the labels of unknowing people.

As soon as I could break away at age 17, I packed up my dreams and headed away. I sought to go anywhere that was not here as fast as I could go. My life in the military carried me on a trek that took me farther south to Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana; then North to North Carolina, Virginia, Washington, Rhode Island; West to San Diego, Los Angeles.

I saw much of the Western Pacific; Mexico, Hawaii, The Phillipines, Korea, Japan, Hong Kong, China, The Gulf, Africa. Finally, I have returned as part of the retro-migration. All that I left in South Carolina in the sixties is still here. However, now with the wisdom and experience imported from other worlds, I perceive that there are new forces and power at work. I am a part of the force that makes a difference.

At the same time that the ages old struggle of evil rages against right, many who left the South in years past, are back energizing the battle in positive directions. Everywhere one looks are signs of change in areas that once served as bastions of hatred and racism. Some say that the evil has just be chased underground. That may be true. I contend that chasing stuff underground is the first step to its ultimate burial.

The lesser migration--the return to homes all across the South is a good thing. Those who properly embrace the lessons of the past to use as a footstool for empowering today's actions, build the framework for the history that will be championed tomorrow. If any lesson comes out of this reverie, it is the admonishment that each of us makes a difference when we decide that we individually are the authors of history. We make a difference in the recorded history of mankind when we decide to make a difference.

I was in attendance at the historical event where over one million black men of all backgrounds and religions joined together in peace and brotherhood in WASHINGTON D. C. This must be recorded in history as one of the events in the 90's....OCTOBER 16, 1995.

I am Proud that "our" Native Americans took a stand at the island in 1969 to bring about an awareness of Native concerns and discriminations.

I am a European "mongrel", being parts Irish, English, German, and Welsh. I wish I could say with any certainty the level of my knowledge of any past concerns my ancestors in Europe may have had. It appears Native Americans are doing a fine job educating their young about the Traditions and concerns of their cultures.

I'm also proud of that fact. My mother and sister have both been reading up on the Lacota (sp) tribes and other Souix tribes and I find myself picking up their books and leafing through, curious about the life and times of some of America's fine Ancestors.

I am personally Very Sorry about the terrible treatment my fore-fathers showered on Native Americans as they took over a truly beautiful land and some truly beautiful People.

When in Jr.High in the seventies there was lot of tension going on between the whites and the blacks. What you ask is the million dollar question? I couldn't figure why people were not liking each other for who and what we are . I wondered do we bleed different, do we ache different, do we not feel pain and sorrow the same way as everyone does.?

Imagine me thinking all these questions and not able to find out the answers I wanted from home . See my dad was the Archice Bunker of Queens. But I did find out that we were all the same no matter what. After a few run ins with people, they saw that I woudn't back down they began to realize hey this person isn't half bad.

When I left home at 14 who wanted to take me in but a family of color not my own kind either. Of course Archie wouldn't here of it. So I was placed in a home for girls, who was there and who did i live with? Everyone regardless of age or color. I learned a lot from everyone. I learned to love everyone and respect everyone no matter what color or who you are.

Now years later having learned to live that way, I raised my own children to be the same. It took my son a lot of years to realize my best friend was not of his race, he said it once and that was it. He was not harsh or mean but just observing what was around him. I am told I am color blind and by God, I am glad I am. People are people no matter what.

When Ed Sullivan first had the never seen before on stage, Elvis, on his show, there was a lot of talk about showing Elvis's hip gyrations. After Ed assured the authorities that Elvis's hips wouldn't show, the show could go on. The people of that era were sure this would corrupt the teenagers. It didn't!

Smokey Robinson is among the true musical geniuses of our time. In my estimation, he should be ranked alongside Rodgers & Hart, Duke Ellington, and all the other songwriting greats we have come to admire. His sense of storytelling is awesome and his poetic nature can teach English majors a few things.

Robinson's songs not only display his command of the language, but it also shows his highly sensitive romanticism. His voice is also truly a great instrument that just pulls the listener in. I think he is the greatest romantic pop music songwriter of the latter half of the twentieth century. A bold statement, but he's done pretty well for himself since being a little boy from Detroit.

In 1963, my Dad took a vacation trip to see where he had been born. My Mom and Grandmother accompanied him on this trip. When my Dad returned home, he wrote about his experiences. Here is his story written in his own words.

OUR VACATION IN THE SOUTH

During the first week in July of this year, my wife and I had a route proposed to us at the public service desk at the Milwaukee Journal; we were going to take my sixty-three year old mother to visit her last sister who is a retired school teacher in a central Mississippi town.

As we studied the maps, we saw about twenty state parks listed on the map of the State of Tennessee for 1963; two of these were designated "Negro"; upon seeking an explanation of this "Negro" designation, we were told that this meant that these two parks were in honor of Negroes, and we should feel free to enjoy the public parks throughout the state. Later on our trip, we saw various premises and facilities conspicuously designated for Negroes � for example, rest rooms, toilets, and drinking fountains in courthouses. Were these also so designated for the purpose of honoring Negroes?

We left Milwaukee on the morning of July 18, 1963. We took Highway 15 to Rockford (where we took our first picture) and 51 to Memphis, Tennessee. Some people drive all day and all night until they reach their destinations in the south, because they do not feel free to travel in the South and enjoy the facilities along the way � the restaurants and the motels. I felt that this was no way to travel over long distances; those who do this endanger the lives of other motorists; and they miss the beauty of creation and conservation when they travel all night; and they are not physically fit to drive the next day. We stopped at a nice motel in Vandalia, Illinois; and at the Holiday Inn motel in Memphis, Tenn. Along the way, my mother who had been born and raised in Greenwood, Miss. � who had come to Milwaukee forty-four years ago, still has the fear and expectation in her heart of the average Negro who has been raised in the South. We argued much of the time going down and coming back. Because we are Negroes, she doubted that we would be accepted into the motels and restaurants. I had to fight against the depression she was trying to enforce on us, unwittingly. She would suggest that we sleep in the car on the highway. I constantly reminded her of how onery her son was by nature; and without a satisfying night of rest, I might be unbearable.

We stopped along the way to rest, eat our lunch and take pictures of the journey. In the southern part of the State of Illinois, we saw the first sign of racial segregation, which tried to tell us we were not as dignified, law-abiding, nor as clean as a white skinned person. This I refused to accept! I smiled when I saw my first sign in a county courthouse that said COLORED over one door to the men's toilet; and WHITE over another door. No one was around and the one designated COLORED was downstairs; so I used the one marked WHITE, which was upstairs on the main floor. Even this one was filthy. I wondered if it would not be better to have one clean toilet than two filthy ones.

WHITE LADIES in six-inch-high letters, was painted in red over an out-side door; COLORED WOMEN had been painted over another door. We saw signs like this at some filling stations where we bought gas too; this angered me! My dear mother kept telling me, " I told you it was like this." One toilet for COLORED MEN in Jackson, Miss., was really clean; but I still had a guilty conscience when I used it.

We crossed into Arkansas and took some pictures of WELCOME signs along the highway. Our hearts were thrilled as we entered the State of Mississippi; we got out of the car again and set up the delayed action mechanism on our 35 mm. camera; and we all stood in front of the signs of WELCOME and had our pictures taken.

We began to see many sharecroppers and their families; my mother rebelled every time I mentioned the misery and obvious deprivations with which these people were living. My mother said that God would punish me for talking the way I did; she even said that she was sorry she had brought me up North when I was two years old. But I know that if God loves anything, He loves truth and righteousness � right-doing; and what I was commenting on was the truth. I wondered how I would fare under such circumstances � even with as much faith as I think I have in Christ. Some people lived miles and miles from the nearest town and they had no car or telephone. I wondered what they did when they got sick; I supposed that these people had to be resourceful and self-reliant in order to survive. What hopes did they have for the future of their children?

I wondered how these families washed up after having worked in the dusty fields all day; I wondered how many hours they put in; I wondered how many times they had faced these realities and actually allowed themselves to think on these things � or were they like my mother who found it too unbearable even to talk about.

As we went though Clarksdale and entered Greenwood where I had been born, a thrill entered our hearts again; my mother was almost beside herself. She wanted to show me the street on which I had been born, and the church or the site of it, where she had gone to church as a girl. As we drove down a main street in a residential section of Greenwood, I saw a large Confederate flag hanging from one of the mansions. I had an American flag on my car where it had been since the July Fourth holiday. My mother had wanted me to take it off the car before we left Milwaukee; but I refused because I was proud to have the flag on display.

Outside the courthouse in Greenwood, there was an interesting monument from the Civil War. I wanted to read the inscription and take a picture with us standing beside it. My mother tried to discourage me and put fear or "sense" into my heart; but I refused to heed her. I parked the car in a parking place alongside the courthouse and read the inscription and set up the camera; I stood by this statue and took a picture. Then I saw two police drive up in a squad car; and I smiled and waved at them like I do here in Milwaukee. As I folded up my tripod and closed my camera, two policemen came running out of the courthouse with guns on their hips. (My mother afterwards told me that she had a sinking feeling in her stomach when she saw them come running up to me. Colored folks who have lived in the south seem to be used to police brutality against Negroes; perhaps this accounts for some of the hostility of some Negroes towards police up here in Milwaukee.)

I smiled and tried to be friendly towards these two police who had come running � as I try to do here in Milwaukee. In harsh language and tone of voice, they asked me what I was doing here; I told them I had just taken a picture of this monument. I was still smiling and trying to be friendly. They told me that I should have come and asked them, if I had wanted to take a picture of this monument; they called me a "Nigger", saying that I should not get fresh with them because they had a place to keep me; they said "niggers" must say "Yassuh" to white people down there. By this time, my blood was beginning to boil.

The two police were in the car at the curb; these two were insulting me; my wife and mother were sitting in our station wagon; and crowds were looking from across the street. These two police asked for the exposed film from my camera; they told me not to get smart because they had a mind to take my camera. I gave them the film from my camera on which I had paid taxes. They came over to where my wife and mother were sitting in the station wagon and questioned them; they threatened to search my station wagon.

An American flag was on display on my station wagon, along with some Bible verses about Jesus; and a sign that reads "LIQUOR KILLS, DON'T DRINK.' My wife told them that we were just passing through the town. One of the policemen said the sign about liquor was a good sign. He took my license number and told me that they would develop that roll of film and if there was nothing harmful on it, I should come back in about a week and he would give it to me. I tried to give him my name and address and he should mail it to me; but he refused to listen to me any more; he told me to come back if I wanted it. Our plans did not call for returning to Milwaukee that way; and besides my mother and wife were so fearful, and I was getting a bad attitude, and I did not want to subject them to any more such experiences.

We left Greenwood immediately; my mother did not have the stomach for trying to show me where I had been born in that town. I even feared to stop and rest at the wayside areas along the road for fear some white traveler might want to rest there too and he might insult me and ask me to get out of his way � and the police would back him up rather than me. In all the towns where we stopped, we tried to stop near the police station or court=house; I have always believed that the public officials were our best friends; we even influenced our son to become a policeman with the Milwaukee Police Department. However, after this experience in Greenwood, I began to fear the police and tried to stay away from public tax-supported houses such as the policy department and courthouses.

After listening to stories at my aunt's house of how white people are allowed to treat colored people � and of how some white people do treat colored people and are not punished for it � I cowardly took off my American flag and hid it underneath the seat. I took very few pictures after that. I had wanted to attend a Baptist revival meeting in a tent, but my aunt told me that that was for white people only. Colored people in that town did not attend political meetings; my aunt who had taught school was not allowed to vote. She told me that about fifty of the leading colored citizens had signed a petition for a better school building for colored children � even schools are segregated down there � tax-supported, public schools, at that. Every one of those fifty colored citizens who had signed that petition had been driven out of town. One man who had lived across the street from her was a carpenter; he had been boycotted; no one would give him work; no store would sell him food in that small town; his neighbors would sneak food over to him at night she told me; he finally left town.

The campaign for governor was now going on in Mississippi; and we heard some speeches over the radio; it seemed like the candidates spoke as much on racial discrimination as they did on the progress of the state; they ridiculed Negroes and made jokes about them in their speeches, it was sickening.

We stayed with my aunt about six days; she tried to show us her town, but we never felt free; the lot of the colored person is too confined, restricted, and deprived. She bragged about the hospital for COLORED; my wife who is a licensed practical nurse saw the heart-breaking condition of this place my aunt had bragged about; my mother and I toured it also. We saw the outside of the new WHITE hospital and the new WHITE school. I could not blame a colored child for not wanting to attend the COLORED school in its ill-kept, dirty, depressing condition. My aunt said the white people were just about worried to death in fear that the colored people were planning a demonstration in that town.

We wanted to go to Vicksburg and Natchez and see some of the beautiful mansions and Civil War monuments we had read about and take some pictures of them, but we were fearful to travel to those places. We visited Jackson, where there were many places of historical importance that I wanted to photograph, but was afraid of being annoyed by the police � and my wife and mother were telling me not to take any more pictures. I parked the car and went walking around alone in Jackson; I wanted to take a good look at the White Baptist church building which is segregated; I saw a colored janitor and man working on the grounds around this church which is across the street from the State Capitol in Jackson.

I read the inscriptions of some monuments on the grounds of the State Capitol in Jackson, Miss. Tears flowed from my eyes as I read some of these things. An elderly white gentleman of about 70 years of age was in the park there; and I took the initiative and began talking with him. First I put out my hand for a handshake and said "Hello" to him; he accepted my hand and returned the greeting. We talked about things in general � hinting about the racial unrest that prevailed in that city. We mentioned that we hoped nothing like the events of the Civil War would ever come again. He told me stories he said his mother had told him of how poor his family had become after the Civil War; his grandmother would take some red clay from the earth and soak it in water to get the salt from the water in order to bake bread.

Tears streamed quietly down my face as I mentioned that life was too short to spend time in war and hatred; disease and nature were working to end our lives; and we should do all in our power to live together in peace the short while we had to live on earth. He said his parents had told him that there would be another war over this race matter. I told him that I hoped that would not be the case.

As we parted, I offered my hand again which he accepted, and said that I would like to count him as a personal friend of mine and that if we never met again on earth I hoped we would meet in heaven. He said he would try to influence the hot heads in his group and I should try to influence the hot heads in my group. While we were talking together, a white motorcycle patrolman drove by and looked at us; this made me afraid for my safety � the stories of my aunt, mother, and others of police brutality went racing through my mind. I wondered what might happen if this white gentleman should make a false accusation of me to this white policeman. The laws favor a man if his skin is white down there; this is a tremendous load for a colored skinned person to carry; and perhaps the only way a colored person can feel any sense of freedom is for him to stay clear of all white people unless he is working for them � the colored person dare not try to associate with the white person as equals and discuss man-to-man, as I had just done.

Here in Milwaukee, I am a member of the Milwaukee Civic Symphonic Band and the Milwaukee Arion Chorus; for the last six or seven years the other members of these organizations have treated me not only with respect, but with genuine friendliness. It would not only be against custom and tradition for me to belong to such groups in Jackson, Miss., but worse than that, it would be against the law of the State. Colored people may not compete in sports with white people; many jobs are not open to colored people; one of the demands made during the recent demonstrations in Jackson was that the police force be open to colored people for application for those jobs; the Mississippi National Guard is closed to colored young men by State law.

I suppose I have been as harsh in my criticism of colored people as anyone; many have been the times the hearts of my mother and other elderly colored advisors must have been broken by criticism of mine from my youth up until this very present time; when I have unsympathetically rejected their explanations as to why they had not lived in the mainstream of American life. I utterly rejected the idea that there were State laws which segregated them from the mainstream of American life � laws which based qualifications on the "accident of birth" rather than upon merit and competence. Many of these laws help to maintain and perpetuate the conditions that are criticized by many white people � and criticized justly.

As we would drive through and see the signs that said, "WELCOME", I would say, "Welcome if your skin is white! Welcome if your skin is white!" This obviously irritated my mother and my aunt; perhaps they love the South so much that they refuse to acknowledge an evident philosophy that hinders them regardless of their love for the South.

One day we visited a small town in the southern third of the State of Mississippi. We were welcomed by an in-law, served a delicious meal, and sat discussing the Bible and God's Plan of Salvation. We sang songs about Jesus, prayed, I took some more slides, and we left after about four hours. My impression was that these people were about as interested in God as anyone we had ever met; we sensed the Presence of God there.

On the way back to Milwaukee we passed through Alabama and stayed at the Gaston Motel which had been bombed in May of this year � the day before Mother's Day; this was in Birmingham. We came to Chattanooga, Tenn., where we visited Lookout Mountain. I was glad to see other tourists with their camera, so I used mine. There was an outdoor restaurant on top of Lookout Mountain, and I wanted my wife and mother to have the experience of eating on top of this historic mountain. We sat down at an empty table and, after some waiting, were served.

As we inquired at different motels in Tennessee, I believed it when one manager at a Holiday Inn told us that they were filled up because a convention was staying there that Saturday night. At another motel, which had only one car in the court, the manager sheepishly told us that his motel was filled up. We politely told him we were glad that business was so good, and left. I believe he was lying; but a lie is between the liar, his conscience and his God. The least we should do is present ourselves for lodging; what they do is between themselves and God. One woman told us that her husband was not there at the time and she had never had colored people stay at her motel before; we politely bid her goodnight and left. We felt more at ease in Tennessee because they have a more fair=minded governor in Frank G. clement � from what we had read in the newspapers. Because people usually follow the leaders, I would never have inquired to stay overnight in a motel in Mississippi and Alabama; the white owners might have insulted us or done some other dirty work � depending upon how they might have been feeling � but in Tennessee we felt that they would at least speak civilly to us.

Because it was Saturday night, we made it a policy to inquire at motels that were on the outskirts at the entering of the towns. We felt that after having gone through a town, our car would be more easily identifiable, and thus a target for any active segregationist, or mischievous young persons who might be out to vent any pent-up emotions that Saturday night.

When we were about to resign ourselves to sleeping in the car all night, we stopped at one more motel outside of Knoxville, Tenn. This white owner of the motel welcomed us; his motel was nicer than some others; the rates were lower too. We needed two rooms a night, so the ones that refused us lost the rent of two rooms. (As we were looking for lodging for the night, we were guided by the words of the Lord Jesus who, upon sending forth His disciples, once told them to be "wise as serpents and harmless as doves." We were not particularly going about doing the Lord's work, but this is good philosophy just the same; we tried to be wise as serpents � wise enough to keep others from harming us; and harmless as doves � harmless in ourselves enough so that we would harm no one.)

We took baths in every motel before retiring; and baths every morning before leaving the motel. We left "thank you" notes in every motel; thanking them for allowing us to be refreshed and rested in their motels along the road.

The next day was Sunday and as we drove along the road, we came upon a small church and felt led to go in. My mother was not eager to visit this white church; nevertheless, we introduced ourselves to two white men outside the church and went in and sat down in the rear by the wall � apart from the rest of the people, feeling that it was their prerogative to invite us up to where the rest of the congregation were sitting if they wanted us with them. Some people welcomed us as they came in and saw us sitting there; others, a few, seemed not to like the idea that we were there; most of them seemed to be neutral. When song service began, we joined in wholeheartedly � at least I did � and sang the tenor score, and was able to sight-read any song I had not seen before. This seemed to cause the leadership to warm up to us. The Sunday School superintendent announced that there were some colored visitors in the congregation; he made a few remarks that Christian love is the only thing that would solve the problems in the world today; then he came down and invited us to sit in the adult class. The teacher of this class spoke more on Christian brotherhood than on the prescribed lesson.

During the worship service the pastor introduced us by name to the congregation; he made remarks on Christian brotherhood and said it was an old colored man who had most impressed him as a boy to become a Christian and get into the ministry; and that there would always be a warm spot in his heart for colored people. This seemed to make the congregation warm up to us more. The white young people who were sitting in front of us seemed eager to turn around and shake our hands when after a song the pastor told everyone to turn around and shake hands with a number of people. When the offering was received, I wrote out a check and put my tithe into the collection.

After church, we were warmly greeted; and I remembered that I had some bumper stickers about Jesus in my car. I rushed out and began offering these gospel stickers to certain ones; very shortly we ran out of them. The pastor came out of the church and offered me a dollar bill; he said I was doing a good job in passing out these stickers and those about LIQUOR; he said I should use that dollar to buy some more; O graciously refused his money; he firmly insisted that I take it; telling me he would give me more if he had it at the time; he put the dollar into my shirt pocket and I thanked him. We waved "goodbye" and left.

I think this did much more good than if we had visited a colored church; the races need the opportunity to practice some of what they are taught in their churches. No matter how much good doctrine is taught in church, Christ and Christianity will not be the answer to the race problem or any other problem in life unless we get out and put it to work; this is the only way God and Christ will get credit in this world.

I believe it is the responsibility of government to provide a legal support enabling men of goodwill to fellowship together regardless of race, if they so desire. Segregation laws make it unlawful for men of goodwill to fellowship together if they have skins of different color. Some public libraries are not open to students with dark skins; sports events are banned between competitors of different skin color � banned by segregation laws; public school children, if they have a different skin color, are banned by segregation laws from going to school with children they might live next door to.

It is up to local governments to provide a legal support for men of good will to fellowship together if they choose to do so. If the local government fails to provide such a support, the state government should take steps to do it; if the state government fails to provide such a support, then it is up to the federal government to do so.

Parents should d provide for their children; if they fail to do so it is up to the government to see to it that they do so. The people who complain about being forced to do what they ought to do are usually those who have not willingly done what they ought to have done. Those who complain about being forced to pay their debts are usually those who have not paid their debts willingly. People who are not decent and fair=minded enough to do what they ought to do, are usually not decent and fair-minded enough to graciously accept the force which they caused to come upon them.

I am in favor of force; I am in favor of laws. God is a God of laws. God gave laws by which mankind is to live on this earth and reap the greatest amount of good and blessing. God's laws are accepted by those who want to please him and reap His blessings. God has retribution coming in this life and the next for those who refuse to abide by His laws; the more we break God's laws, the more we suffer. God's laws apply to all men alike, of whatever color, custom, tradition; God's laws apply to all men alike, even of whatever creed! God's laws are righteous and just. It is up to law=makers to try to make their laws copy those of God, and not favor those on one skin color over the others, or those of one creed over another.

We do not expect individuals to be perfect, but isn't it the duty of lawmakers to be everlastingly trying to make their laws perfect and just to all men? Segregation laws make it unlawful for men of good will of both races to associate or join together for a common purpose � never to be seen together as equals in public; these laws are unjust and unfair; they hinder both the white and colored people of good will. White people who publicly befriend colored people are mistreated by other people who have white skins; they are beaten up physically by vigilante groups; and oftentimes not protected by the white policemen, it is reported in the news.

I have been convinced for a long time that many colored people have not been taking advantage of the opportunities they have � especially so in Milwaukee. Some white people who have the authority for hiring, etc., seem to use this as an excuse for not hiring those colored people who do qualify for the jobs for which they have applied. This seems to give an excuse to the colored people who do not take advantage of their opportunities here in Milwaukee; they say they would not be accepted even if they did qualify themselves.

Living together is the only way to bring about understanding and mutual respect; state and local laws must not hinder those of good will who want to help bring about understanding and mutual respect. I am thankful to have grown up in a legally fair-minded city like Milwaukee; where I like to feel I have tried to be a pretty good citizen. I like to feel that I love everyone in this city, while not always approving of the conduct of everyone. I like to feel that I would inconvenience myself just as readily for the benefit of a white person as I would for a colored person, even a member of my own family. I like to feel that I would be impartial in my judgment between white people and colored people � between strangers and members of my immediate family. God is no respecter of persons, and I think He does not want me to be a respecter of persons in the matter of fairness and judgment.

Even at this late date (August 22, 1963, five weeks later) I have not received the film the officers in Greenwood, Miss., took from me.

Edgar William Gordon

1917-1997

Long before the Rodney King beating brought the L.A.P.D.'s penchant for brutality to the forefront, victims such as Ruben Salazar paid a heavier price.

At the time of his death, the Los Angeles District Attorney's office did not even consider opening an investigation into the shooting. Since no formal investigation was conducted, no charges were brought against the policeman who shot Salazar with a tear gas projectile as he sat in a bar.

This left many with the impression that Latinos, no matter how prestigious they are, do not warrant an investigation into their deaths at the hands of police officers.
by Robert Munoz

This is a story for women. It's a special story about a little girl adopted into a wonderful family. It is a true story.

She only weighed four pounds, but she held her own. A tiny thing, all alone in a big world. Her mother didn't even acknowledge her presence. Presumably because she would never be allowed to hold the baby in her arms. The child was to be given up for adoption.

Her adoptive parents came to take her home. Home to a big brother, a nice house in the suburbs and two dogs. Her new family abounded in relatives.

Her father had ten brothers and one sister. All of the brothers served in the Army. Her father had achieved Master Sargent and was well respected. His family had served in every war including the Civil War and the American Revolution. He himself was part of the Korean War and had received a Purple Heart for internal injury from the stress of the war.

A truly rich American heritage was established in her father's family. His sister was loved by all of the family and had a wonderful husband who doted on her. The little girl was always in awe of her pretty aunt who resembled Audrey Hepburn.

One brother nicknamed "Chunchy" was a small man with a great laugh and sense of humor and a witty wife. This woman served as a nurse in the army and always told stories about delivering babies with her bare hands.

Her mother was an only child. She had almost had an older brother but he died from lack of oxygen in a breach birth. She was beloved by her father who died in middle age from a sudden heart attack. Her mother lived to become the beloved grandmother and most important person in the little girl's life. Of all people in the world, the grandmother loved and accepted her unconditionally.

Her grandmother had brothers and sisters that added great aunts and uncles and cousins to the little girl's world. Many happy memories were spent in the gardens and homes of this extended family. A warm country experience gave depth and meaning to the little girl as she grew.

With such a rich heritage of a large and warm family, the little girl had every indication of acheiving success in life.

At a glance, she looked frail and fragile. In reality, she was wiry and fast, as she was strong. Anything little boys could do, she could best them or hold her own. The elementary school she attended pronounced her "talented and gifted". No one guessed she had a disability.

Her mother knew. When she had taken the girl to the pediatrician for her first physical, he told her she had a "handicapped" child and really didn't want to deal with "that kind of child".

Her mother did want "that kind of child". She raised her as if the child were normal, which she was. The only difference the child had from other children was that she was deaf in one ear. Her other ear actually overcompensated for this loss for many years. She could grasp concepts very quickly and loved to read and write. She had no loss in intelligence.

Her only problem was that adults in her world singled her out from others in order to "protect" her. The only real "protection" she needed was from the insensitivity of others. To be singled out, ridiculed by her peers, and looked upon as being less than perfect was very painful for her. She wanted so much to be perfect!

She was a beautiful child, but all she could see in herself waas imperfection. She desperately tried to compensate by doing her best at everything. She excelled in school and sports. She participated in choir and piano. She was in school and church plays. But no matter waaht she accomplished and acheived, she never seemed to accomplish waat she desired most of all - to be admired and accepted for herself.

Adults seemed to think she was pretty and sweet, but she thought that was because they didn't know her imperfection. To make matters worse, she had to begin wearing glasses in fifth grade. Her hearing was slowly deteriorating. By the time she was in 7th grade, it became apparent that she would always be the shortest kid in class. To top things off, she had the worse case of acne imaginable. Small children would ask if she had the measles.

Time and medication eventually took care of the acne. Nothing stopped the insensitivity of others. A terible fungal infection destroyed high tonal hearing in her good right ear. For a time, she couldn't hear at all and the teasing was unmerciful. A strong child, she finally wore down and requested to be sent home with her work until she regained what hearing she would retain. Eventually, hearing aids were purchased while she was a sophomore in high school.

Hearing aids were a wonder to her. For the first time, she could hear everything normally. Whispers were still a little difficult, but not nearly so much as before. But being able to hear better had no impact on her peers. She was still seen as the girl who wasn't like everyone else.

Just as before, she did her best at everything. She decided not to join the drill team, even after the instructor asked her to try out when her dancing skills were observed in aerobics. A girl like her would just be laughed at. She had gymnastic skills and height perfect for a cheerleader. Previous cheerleaders encouraged her to try out. Again, girls wearing glasses and hearing aids did not try out for cheerleader. She couldn't even try out for deaf cheerleader because she wasn't truly deaf.,/p>

She didn't seem to fit in anywhere. Her confidence level was almost zero.She never talked about her disabiltiy. she didn't want special privileges or treatment. She just wanted to be accepted the way she was.

In high school, she found she had a talent. She was gifted at writing. Writing was her constant companion and friend. She could tell her journal anything and be understood. Of ocurse, she was the one who was the understanding friend. But, what good did it do to understand herself? No one else did.

As she grew and matured, she understood that it was important ot understand others. One could only relate by being understanding.

She made it a point to encourage and understand others. In this way, she felt she could contribute something to society. Maybe she had no place, but she could help others find their way.

Meanwhile, she still searches for her niche in life. Maybe there is someone else with a disability who feels they can accomplish nothing.,/p>

People with disabilities are intelligent and must overcome great odds to achieve their goals. The girl has held jobs others thought not possible. She even earned a degree while being married, working full time with two small children.

Life is full of obstacles. How one handles them determines success.I still have a journey before me. This story is mine.

I was also bused to school. From 1961-1963 to a downtown Kansas City, MO public school. I remember that the white children were attending classes downstairs while black children had to climb stairs to the upper floors. We had separate playground time, separate lunch periods, and separate bathrooms to go to.

All in all though I feel that I got just as good if not better education than those white children. My teachers cared about me. I didn't have to ask for special attention, it was always there. I lived in the same community that my teachers lived in. That is something I feel that our children are missing today.

Although Brown vs. Board of Education bought recognition to our situation with public schools in America. Segregation was still around for a very long time.

The 1960s opened up my world to the sounds of Rhythm and Blues. In 1965, when I was 12 years old, my mother allowed me to go to the Apollo Theatre on 125th Street, in Harlem with my younger sister and older cousins. Other than television and Dick Clark's TAMMI Revue in the movies,I had never seen an R&B; show.

The Apollo became the neucleus of my teenage world. I lived for Saturday so that I could go to the Apollo for the 12noon show and stay until 6 or7 p.m. (sneaking in the bathroom to hide from the guards because you were supposed to leave after each show). Seeing Smokey & The Miracles, The Temptations, James Brown, Otis Redding!

Sometimes they were on the same show! Imagine, these larger than life singing sensations! Every Easter, James Brown sold out the Apollo for one week. On Easter sunday, you had on your best clothing and stood in a line that wrapped twice around the corner to see James Brown! Who cared about the wait, that was part of the fun! No mega arena can ever replace the Apollo Theater in my heart and soul.

There is such a wonderful feeling when surrounded in the company of sisters. We can be who we be, eat what we eat. Talk what we talk. We can laugh, shout, dance, yell, praise, gossip, and joke around if the mood suits.

I have watched sisters for a long time. Their many different styles, personalities, backgrounds, and cultures. I have the good fortune of being loved and supported by a diverse array of sisters. Sisters who feed me when I am hungry. Sisters who nurture my inner spirit as I walk through the valley of a shadow of doubt. And sisters who encourage my life in a love far beyond my own, a divine love; a love that loves me unconditionally.

Entering my senior year at Bennett College, a historically black 4-year institution for women in Greensboro, North Carolina and being a member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated has molded me and encouraged me to develop a bond with my sisters without losing my identity. Some women are affraid of sisterhood because they have the assumption that sisterhood is a made-up term that creates friction.

I share my experience to enlighten sisters on the importance of the development of sisterhood and how it can shapen a persons life.

The heart-to-heart sister chats. The late night ordering of food. The ten hour gossip sessions in the hallway. Even the arguing makes sisterhood fun. Take a sister by hand and learn more about her and get to know her. This environment has allowed me the opportunity to be more trusting of my sisters. He have more patience and love for my sisters. It also has shown me what it really means to be a friend. Sisterhood has shapened me into a divine, articulate, assertive, and understanding woman. Thank you sisters I love you.
Kameelah Brown

My name is Jane Marie Thorson. I was born in New London, Minnesota, in the year 1936. The town was very little with a population of approximately 200 or so. Most people were farmers with a lot of children. They thought that the more children you had, the more people you had to work on the farm.

Downtown was just, about 1\2 dozen shops: The grocery store, flower shop, hardware store and others. In my family there were 6 girls and 2 boys. We lived on the outskirts of town. We had a small one bedroom, one bathroom house. I lived in that house till I was sixteen years old. When I was nine my father was killed by an overturned train. I was very young.

In my town the only race was Norweigen or what they called us then, " Brush Yankees." Most babies where born at home, and the doctor had to come to you. Also there was no T.V, no cars, and no indoor plumbing. Hair was worn long and down, and the clothing was made out of potato sacks.

I think that it is great that you have these pages because as years go by people forget about the terrible things that have happend in the past, and that is not right.

It opens peoples eyes, I think a whole lot and maybe what prevents it from happening again. I am German and it really sucks because although I was not born in Germany my Aunt lived in Frankfurt , and alot of my famiy lived in West and East Berlin and they were there while the war was happening and it just destroyed much of they're ife. It's a sad thing. Great page gotta go . Danielle

After reading your pieces on the decades from the 60s to the 90s, I realized more glaringly that with each passing year, decade, century, and millenium, life gets blurrier. I am in my early fourties, so I don't pretend to know all there is to know; but, in looking back at the evolution of man I notice that people with substantial wealth are still able to manipulate the masses.

We saw it with the ancient Egyptian pharaohs, and how they used the common people to build their monuments to themselves; then, we observed how the ancient Chinese emperors forced the workers there to make thousands of statutes of clay soldiers to protect them even in death, while others put workers to the task of building "The Great Wall".

Today, we see the cities being built up around us, without our input. Workers who once found jobs within reach of their homes and families, now have to travel, and some willingly, a hundred miles or more to and from their places of employment. Shopping malls with gigantic superstores displaced the momma/poppa stores that so conveniently served the neighborhood.

Instead of going to a hardware store, today I go to Home Depot; Pathmarks wiped out neighborhood grocery stores, and Costcos are nearly eliminating them. Barnes and Nobles and Border bookstores have chased the neighborhood bookseller off the block. Wealth creates more wealth, and the poor working man and woman are sadly displaced.

Remember Breyers ice cream. Well, I lived across the street from a huge factory, where many people along Ferry Street, in the Ironbound section of Newark, New Jersey, worked. People sent their children to local schools, and we had some descent teachers working there, too. Since they closed their factory, and moved (possibly out of the country where labor is cheaper) the community where I grew up has been nearly wiped out.

At least, that is, for the Black people. Of course, as you've probably heard, the Portuguese have immigrated to the U.S., Ironbound, and put up shop. Why couldn't Blacks had done the same? Money!!! The banks closed their doors to Black people seeking business loans - bad risks. The wealthy let us see what they want us to see, hear what they want us to hear, go only where they say we can go, and do what they tell us to do in this matchbox they call democracy.

Unfortunately, I don't see any way out of this situation that we find ourselves. Unfortunate, because it seems as though the older we get, the less objective, or idealist; each generation passes this venom onto the next. So, we look to what is conveniently termed the "new millenium" with some hope that life will be better for common people; but, let's face it - unless there is a change in the economic structure, it's a shame, but life will be the same.

I have been a fan of the music of my fathers and mothers generation. I am now 19 years old and out of high school. I have been rapping for 7 or 8 years. My rap group has been through several different names.

Just recently I have been listing to The Temptations . I love the Tempts, Otis, Paul, Eddie, Melvin and David Ruffin . They have inspired me so much and I like to thank Berry for signing them. I also like to say that my group is going to call ourselves TRAJADEE(pronouced Tragedy). I would love to get a record deal with Motown and If not then I would love to be a talent search for motown I love music and my fav record label of ALL times is Motown. so i will like to say thank you.

Why is it that black folk will be the main supporters of a music that is creted by Black musicians and then we will be the first to abandon it leaving it to be loved and respected by the people of the white persuasion, examples?

Rock-and-Roll, Jazz!! Do we forget that our people started these musical expressions or are we just never taught it? Whatever the cause is of these false feelings, the effect is the loss of a deeper understanding of ourselves and the plight of the Black man.

Music teaches us so much more than any of us are willing to recognize. The smoothness of Mahalia's voice can take you all the way to Africa then to America and then to another place within yourself that you never knew existed. Feel the Black man!! The Black man is JAZZ and I am his daughter--Jazzonia. Nice to meet you all!! I depart this contribution leaving you with mad love, mad peace, and mad blessings!!

My Grandfather, George Rupp, is an amazing man. I always knew it growing up, but it wasn't until graduating from university that I understood just how important he is. I wrote to him this Memorial Day, and thanked him for protecting my right to live life MY way.

Just as any soldier or serviceperson makes that selfless contribution in protecting the American interest, my Grandfather has been critical in developing our nation's defenses. And while I am not a 'warmonger', I had to realize that he and other members of my family have been part of the American military-industrial complex. I must honor and respect the contributions of our military and intelligence corps, for without their sacrifice Americans would have much less opportunity.

However, the issue is complicated by all the international negativity of the American paridigm. As such I must attempt to perceive this reality through self-knowledge and global awareness.

We are widely viewed [and rightly so, perhaps] as being a greedy, corrupt, heretical people; meanwhile, the world consumes American pop culture and entertainment in huge amounts. People are wrapped up in cycles of hate and jealousy that are only reinforced by the weakness of Earth's established political and social systems.

How can humanity reconcile equality for all with the inherent flaws of both Imperialist Democracy and Marxist Communism? On one side is the extreme of property ownership, and on the other is the extreme of wealth redistribution. The problem is that personal freedom does not equal anarchy or mob rules, and the rich will never trust the majority to define what is an 'equitable distribution'.

Ultimately, therefore, society has advanced too far to reconfigure without first being destroyed. I believe this because the status quo is firmly established, and the collective social models have temporarily failed.

America is a social experiment, and it may not survive. If not, it is humanity which is to blame - because people have been destroying each other since the beginning of time. Competition is natural, and humans of today have evolved the survival game beyond 'the basics' to include the mental and emotive.

Human nature did not start with the Europeans, but it may very well end that way - especially if the Y2K media hype reaches its fullest fruition. I desperately hope that nuclear and/or chemical terrorism is not the wave of the future, and I fear that as a nation America may already have it coming.

What to do? As an individual I must strive to be as good a person as possible, and I must try to understand life regardless of my pole position. Out of 6 billion people I was born here, and if not for service people like my Grandfather I might never have had a chance at happiness. Thanks, regardless of how brief my moment may be.

Born 1983, Stephen went on to inspire the Hollywood Connection of Columbus ,GA. He has earned over 65 awards since 1992. He was raised in Fort Meade, MD outside of Baltimore for seven and a half years. His grandfather Alfred Sterling was the first black man to drive a boat through the Panama Canal. His parents are both from Panama.,/p>

Stephen helped raise money the veteran service of Fort Benning, GA. Throughout Stephen's life he has constantly had upset after upset. For example, a girl he loved dearly was killed in a car crash in the summer of 97'. Then, a little more than a year later, a close friend died from a stroke. Just a month before that happened he and his girlfriend broke up after he was told that she was cheating on him.

Now, most of his time goes toward a personal that he started making in the summer of 96'. A model of a city. The name of it is Camry. The city location is planned for Lake Texaco,OK. In less than five years the model city will be released to the press of Columbus, GA where it is located. When the soon to be proposed city is built, if built, it will be home to 700,000 people.

Stephen was forced to be on his school drama club twice in a row when he was in middle school. Now he plays tennis and is currently in charge his JROTC Leadership Challenge Team. In JROTC he is the highest ranking cadet in 10th grade. In his neighborhood he is part of a rap group. Although his rap skills are still unknown by his group he the youngest. He loves to mix caribbean music with his style of rapping called Yorktown. He was raised on mostly reggae,oldies,and calypso. Over the summer of 98' he was a volunteer computer programmer.

This is written in loving remembrance of Dehlie.

For many years, I have wanted to pay tribute to a wonderful woman who made what is probably the greatest impact on my life. She is part of my earliest memories until I was eight or nine years old, and it would not be an exaggeration to say she changed my life with her influence, encouragement, and love. This unforgettable woman was known to me as Dehlie.

Dehlie, whose given name might have been Dehlia, was a black janitress at the local hardware. During the 1950�s, black people were almost never seen in that suburb, which mainly consisted of southern men who migrated north to find jobs, then married woman from the area and settled there. The two counties to the south of the area were heavily populated by KKK members

Dehlie�s rarity went far beyond being the only black person employed in an all-white community�she was a unique and beautiful person. My respect for her grew even more when I recently learned more about Dehlie�s life from my mother.

Married to a drunken, violently abusive husband, Dehlie had many children to raise on her very small income, but she always had a smile and a kind word for all those around her. She never complained; she just accepted it as her lot in life, trusted God, and made the best of her situation with her usual friendly, sunny disposition.

In her own quiet way, Dehlie taught me many things by word and example. Her first lesson was about love, impressed upon me by her love for one small white girl with red hair and freckles, who had no other real love and who was the victim of abuse by family members and their friends.

I was that little girl.

Although we didn�t usually talk about such things, perhaps we recognized the hurts in each other; but for whatever the reason, we formed a strong bond of friendship that nothing could shake. Though my mother was very strict, she knew that each time we went to the grocery store, I was going to go into the hardware to see Dehlie, even if I got punished for it. Dehlie�s boss also knew that she would always take time for me whenever I came in, even if she had to work late to make up the time.

It became our regular practice for me to stand beside her as she worked, sweeping or cleaning counters, talking together until my mother made me leave the store. I lived for those times with Dehlie, which became fewer when I started going to school and could only see her during holiday breaks and summer vacation.

Sometimes, there would be comments made about us by customers who took offense at seeing the affection between a black woman and a white girl. I didn�t learn the word �prejudice� until many years later, but I did not like for people to say bad things to Dehlie. She took it all in stride, explaining to me about people, white and black, in simple terms a child could understand.

The seed her words planted took root inside me and caused me to see all people in a different light, rather than to form prejudices against any race or group of people. Love grew in my heart for her and everyone at a time when my own troubled life was so painful that I might have learned hatred. Instead, she taught me to forgive and love anyway.

Because Dehlie was so special to me, I began to watch for black people when my mother took me downtown. Being an only child, I was fascinated with the large black families I saw. When my mother would become engrossed in pattern books and material, I would slip away to mingle with the black families, wanting to be part of the group. They reminded me of the good times spent with Dehlie, and were just as friendly and welcoming.

Often, one of the mothers would hug me on her lap while her children would talk to me as if I were one of them, making me feel as if I belonged. All too soon my mother would spot me and the special moment would end. Looking back, I am horrified at the realization of what great risk Dehlie and those other ladies took by closely associating with a white child in that time and place. It could have caused them many problems�probably did, but I was too young to know at the time.

From Dehlie, I also learned so many other things, such as strength, purpose, commitment to doing the right thing, and faith. There was never any doubt that she loved me as much as I loved her. Dehlie was such an important part of my life in so many ways.

One day, I entered the hardware and there was no Dehlie to greet me�nor the next time, either. I kept asking my mother about her, but all I was told was that she was ill. Summer vacation came, and Dehlie was still not there. My mother only told me that she wasn�t working, and I was too heartbroken to ask why. I just kept hoping she would be there when I walked in.

Before my mother died, I finally asked her about Dehlie. She told me of her hardships raising her family and that her illness had led to death. Somehow, I had always known, but could not bear to think that Dehlie would never be a part of my life anymore.

Now I realize that part of Dehlie is alive in me because of her love for me, mine for her, and all the things she taught me. So many times I have wished for those talks with her, especially during life�s hardest moments. I can only be grateful for all the time I had with Dehlie, when I needed her most. During those years her influence helped to shape and mold my life.

I can only hope she knew what a difference she made in my life, and that the love I returned for her was somehow a small token of repayment for all she did for me.

I have moved to a different state and live in a predominately black community now. It is an experience in being a minority, but not in discrimination. I know I owe my acceptance to Dehlie, for teaching me about accepting others for who they are, rather than judging them by the color of their skin. My neighbors here are much friendlier than any I had before I moved, and sometimes, I even get a glimpse of Dehlie in those around me.

Music Videos to me, are like little stories telling us about the song or rap that the artist is performing. It gives everyone a broader stand point to what the message is about, that the artist wants to bring to the public's attention. But it seems like the the concept of all music video's, reguardless of the lyrics to the song, is about how much skin can you show these days.

I am not a hater, but a lot of music videos to me, portray women as being a " high class hoe" by the clothing they wear. Most rap and r&b; music videos show women wearing close to nothing clothing, dancing in videos at a club scene or at a beach.

If that is the only way music video directors can make the artist look good, by having half naked women running around, to me that is not good work on the director's part. There are other ways to bring the message of the song across with out so much skin showing from females. Just because directors want women in the artist's video to look sexy, doesn't mean they have to put them in slutty clothing. A woman can look just as sexy without looking like a street corner prostitute. But that is just my opinion.

Angela Yvonne Davis is one of the handful of people in this lifetime who have totally committed their lives to the struggle for liberation of all people, particularly people of color. Angela Davis was born on January 26, 1944 to Sallye and Frank Davis. Since early childhood, along with her mother, she has participated in demonstrations protesting such racist tactics advocated by "Bull" Conner and the Birmingham police force.

At the age of 15, she won a scholarship to attend a radical high school, Elizabeth Irwin High, in New York City. She sooned joined a Communist Youth group labeled Advance. Although the shy, girlish young student struggled to adapt to the more challenged academic atmosphere at Elizabeth Irwin, she soon excelled at her studies, and the won a full scholarship to the prestigous Brandeis University.

At Brandeis, she majored in French literature, and graduated magna cum laude in 1965. She spent a year of study abroad in Paris, France her junior year, where her stunning beauty and immense brilliance captivated the likes of the French and Algerian citizens, especially the young men. She accepted the advise of her mentor, famed Marxist philosopher Herbert Marcuse, to study abroad again, this time at Van Goethe University in Germany. Finally, she received her masters' degree from the University of California, San in Diego, Philosophy.

In 1968, she made the tedious decision to join the Communist Party, after brief stints with the Black Panthers, SNCC, and Maulana Karenga's male dominated organization, "US". In 1969, she accepted a job as a philosophy professor at UCLA, fulfilling partial requirements for her PH.D. She received rave reviews from the student body and faculty alike for her brilliant, well-thought ideas and lectures.

But information soon leaked to the UC Board of Regents of her Communist Party membership. To the staunchly conservative, then governor of California, Ronald Reagan, this was enough to fire the popular young professor from her short-lived position. Sadly, her troubles would only expand largely.

Angela fought for her reinstation as a professor, clarifying that the Board of Regents' actions were beyond unconstitutional. She eventually took the case to the Supreme Court, who ruled in her favor.

Around February of 1970, she learned of the case of the "Soledad Brothers" three Black men who were being tried in court for the murder of a prison guard. There was no substantial evidence that the three men were in any way linked to the crime, but unfortunately for them (among hundreds of others) their radical political organizing and "Black militant" reputations caused prison officals to automatically indict them for the crime.

Angela, amidst her many other liberation and political activities, the ongoing battle over her job at UCLA, and attempting to complete her doctoral dissertation, immersed herself for the freedom of the Soledad Brothers. She became good friends with the late George Jackson's (famed prison-author and leader of the Soledad three).younger brother, seventeen year old Jonathan Jackson, and also established an intimate correspondence with George Jackson.

On August 7, 1970, Jonathan Jackson went unassisted into a San Rafael courtroom with the guns that Angela had purchased to protect herself from various death threats. He distributed guns to a few other men in the room, including Ruchell Magee (Who remains in prison today) and together they taped a gun to the presiding Judge Haley's neck, took hostages, and hustled the group out to a rented yellow van.

They demanded the release of the Soledad Brothers in exchange for the captured jury members they took hostage. In the parking lot, a bloody shoot-out followed, resulting in the murder of William Christmas, James McClain, Jonathan Jackson, and Judge Haley, whose head was blown off. The guns used in the incident were quickly traced to Davis, whose was then indicted for the crime. Angela, who feared she would not receive a fair trial, fled into hiding.

She was captured in a New York motel and arrested on October 13, 1970. A "Free Angela" movement quickly erupted around the world, with a chapter of the National Committee to Free Angela Davis in nearly every part of the world.

During her time in prison in August of 1971, George Jackson was murdered by prison guards, who claimed he was making an escape attempt. According to friends, the tragic event left Angela inconsolable. After his death, letters were found in his cell from Ms.Davis that dicussed, for the most part, the Black liberation struggle in the United States.

However, it was also revealed in the letters, that they were in love, and that Angela considered herself married to the slain prisoner. Because of this, the prosecutors of her trial attempted rather poorly to convey that Angela was "involved" with the crime so she could "free" the man she loved, George Jackson.

Nonetheless, Angela, despite the filth and brutality of prison, and the intense pain of suffering for a crime unbeknownst to her, began to organize and educate the women within the prison complex of the liberation struggle and historical racist oppression and imperialism that was still practiced in America.

On June 4, 1972, for the three charges of murder, kidnapping, and conspiracy, Angela was acquitted on all counts. Flanked by her mother, father, brothers, sister, and friends, she burst into tears. M

Nations around the world rejoiced, and soon Angela and others converted the chapters of the National Committee to Free Angela Davis (and all Political Prisoners) to The National Alliance against Racist and Political Repression.

She also toured the Soviet Union upon her acquittal, although certain alleged contradictions involving her speeches and actions caused a few to question whether she was cynical, dishonest, or speaking of certain aspects to certain people to "buy" the support of selected socialist leaders, etc. Regardless of this, Angela Davis continued her lifelong habit of committing herself to work to defend and free those unjustifiably accused of crimes, victims of racism, political oppression, and under political persecution by the State.

As the 1970s' progressed, she was awarded an honorary doctorate in philosophy, awarded the Lenin Peace Prize, and held temporary lecturing, teaching jobs at Stanford, Claremont, and Moscow University. In 1979 she accepted a job as a professor at San Francisco State University. She married briefly in August of 1980 to Hilton Braithwaite, a fellow professor at San Francisco State. This was followed by a divorce.

Since 1992, she has attained the rank as a tenured Professor of History of Consciousness at the University of California, Santa Cruz. In 1995 she was elected to a presidential chair in the History of Consciousness department at UC Santa Cruz. To this day, at age 56, she continues her stance as a lifelong freedom fighter by remaining active in the struggle for prisoners' rights, social reform, the abolition of prisons, etc. She remains a dinstinctive role model and overall inspiratiion to anyone committed to the welfare of others.

I am 39 at this writing, so I was about two and a half in 1961. I was barely old enough to be trusted near the TV, which was the prized luxury item in the house. I was so proud that I could reach the big knobs on the console TV and click them to my favorite cartoons.

I turned one day to a program I found quite strange. I saw a bunch of people walking down the street, holding signs. It looked like a parade, so I stopped a second. There was also crowds of people that were angry and yelling at the sign carrying people. The people in the "parade" were trying to ignore them, but they looked scared, and the police were all around, keeping the angry crowd back.

Something struck me at that age as particularly noticeable.... The sign carrying people in the parade, most of them looked like my aunts and uncles, members of my family. It was probably the first time I saw other black people on TV. Maybe they were not supposed to be on TV, thats the problem, I thought.

I yelled for my Mom to come, and I asked her what kind of show this was. She just said, "Change the channel sweetie, let's find some cartoons," as she clicked the knobs, "you gonna have plenty of time to find out what that is about."

I later saw more of it, and eventually learned about the civil rights marches that blacks and whites conducted in the deep south, the fire hoses and attack dogs, and I spent years of my childhood of fighting off that little kid's feeling that there must be something really wrong with the sign carrying people....the white crowd can't be angry for nothing.

The angry crowd looked like the good guys. I just could not reconcile why people who looked like me would want to put themselves in harm's way like that. Why would you go where you are not wanted? I would be very nervous when we when out shopping, because it took us out of our neighborhoods, and we were surrounded by large crowds of whites.

The suspicion that they may turn on us at any moment, like on TV. Its in perspective to look back on it now, but that was the impressionable years when kids believe in Santa and magic, and the good guys were Roy Rogers and John Wayne. It was engraved in my psyche that there might be some inherently wrong with me. In all friendly debates on race with friends that happen to be white, when we reach an impasse of sorts, when I am told that I am not personally affected by race matters because I "made it" out of the innercity, and are living a middle class life, I just have to temper my feelings that were expressed a few years back in a popular T-Shirt: "It's a Black Thing, you just don't understand."