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Two years old today. My boy’s boy. His first born. He has been in his own space, locked in combat with a body that he can’t control, since he was 9 weeks old. I want so much for him. I want to see him run and play, hear his laughter, see his smile. And I am denied.

I know he is in there. I feel him. I sense him. And more aptly, I love him. His confinement is physical, mine mental. And yet we are both the same. He is a part of me.

Happy Birthday, my sweet, little Wolf, my Nugs.

Nana

There is a reason the Union Jack left Boston harbor
There is a reason the confederacy fell
There is a reason Hitler’s final solution failed
There is a reason McCarthy was shamed for life
There is a reason the barricades at Selma gave in
There is a reason the segregation signs came down one by one
There is a reason the Berlin Wall fell
And there is a reason that Charlottesville will belong to the correct side of history.
To all those who deny life liberty and the pursuit of happiness to all races, religions, genders
Consider this
Others have failed… what makes you think you’ll win?“

Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, with respect to the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all, and a successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2019, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other great cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great (not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country or is the only “America” in the Western Hemisphere), and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform, or sexual preference of the wishee.

[Note: By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms. This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with any and all alterations to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/himself or others, and is void where prohibited by law. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and said warranty is limited to replacement of this or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.]

Best wishes (subject to the above warranty and disclaimer),
the Webbs

I have never liked the idea of the backstory, the rags to riches tale that every minority or person of color who garnered any success had to have in order to prove to White people that no matter what the odds, we could improve our lot if we just tried hard enough.

I grew up in East St. Louis, Illinois. Started out in the projects next to the high school where I would eventually graduate in one of the top ten. There is nothing spectacular about that because it was expected of us. In a town where more than 95% of the population was Black, it was the norm. Because of the flavor of our family, I didn’t really see or understand what true racism was.

We moved from the projects across town into a beautiful home that had been owned by a banker. He was a participant in the “White Flight” movement. Within the year, my neighbors on both sides of us (also white) would move. I loved my life, new home and making new friends. I didn’t realize that the childhood I enjoyed was an oddity. Everyone had two parent homes, friends of different ethnicities, relatives who had children out of wedlock.

M first years on the planet were fairly reckless so I learned later in life. Retrospect is a beautiful thing. Over the next year, I will discuss some of the things I’ve learned on my trips around the sun. I will share my work, my loves, pieces of my life and tales of people who made an impact. There will be politics, religion, arts and crafts, family, whims, fancies and idiosyncrasies, I hope you enjoy the perspective of one who has survived herself. Happy Birthday to me.

Sometimes a singer/songwriter gets it right. This is one of those times. Every year, George Michael would sing this live somewhere, on some show. Now he’s gone and we only have the memory. The words are still as potent today as they where when LISTEN WITHOUT PREJUDICE was released. Now more than ever we need to heed the message.

Praying for Time

These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers

This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses

The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we’ll take our chances
‘Cause God’s stopped keeping score

I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all God’s children
Crept out the back door

And it’s hard to love, there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much, much too late
Well, maybe we should all be praying for time

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh, you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there is over here

So you scream from behind your door
Say, “What’s mine is mine and not yours”
I may have too much but I’ll take my chances
‘Cause God’s stopped keeping score

And you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you
That he can’t come back
‘Cause he has no children to come back for

It’s hard to love, there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late
So maybe we should all be praying for time

Songwriters: GEORGE MICHAEL© Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.For non-commercial use only.