A buddy and I sometimes joke about the reasons the Universe has not seen fit to let either of us win THE BIG ONE. It is never because of the staggering odds against it. It is always because the Universe knows better. With him, It knows how much of his winnings would be spent on the storied bevy of buxom beauties. With me, the Universe knows how much I would spend making trouble.

My failure to win, thus far, has never prevented me from making a wish-list, and checking it twice. One bullet point reasserted its presence just a few days ago. When reviewing it, I realized just wanting to start that particular kind of trouble makes me (among a host of other problematic attributes) presumptuous; judgmental; culturally insensitive; meddlesome; and maybe just downright ignorant.

Ah! Ignorance. That is really where this story begins: high school English class and one of the most important writers of the last century – George Orwell. We were reading his Animal Farm. It quickly became one of my favorites. I thought I knew exactly what he was saying, and to whom he was saying it. It was years later that I learned otherwise. Until that point, I truly believed Orwell had written a biting, satirical allegory on the American Revolution, its betrayal, and its present-day aftermath. How wrong I was, and how glad I am to this day that I remained in the dark as long as I did. The dark allowed me to see our history from a wholly different perspective. It prevented me from falling into a my-country-right-or-wrong mindset. The dark made way for objectivity.

Finding out what Orwell was really up to proved enlightening. Though my high school years were in the midst of the Cold War, the only thing I knew about the Soviet Union was what I learned in school, read in the newspaper or saw and heard on the television. You can imagine how all of this was presented. It was probably only slightly less filtered than what the Soviet Union was presenting to its populace. At any rate, the man Orwell sought to shine his light on, the brutal dictator Josef Stalin, died when I was a one-year-old, and his policies and legacy were repudiated by Nikita Khrushchev (in word, if not deed) when I was four. Stalin was directly responsible for the murder of millions of his compatriots, responsible for the undermining of the Russian Revolution, substituting a fascism that always seemed to smother such revolutions like infants in their cradles. Orwell (like my wife’s father and uncle) had gone to Spain to fight against the right-wing fascists devouring Europe. He did so nearly a decade before the rest of the world realized it had to do the same. Imagine his disappointment in seeing a revolution he admired succumb to the fascists of the left. Imagine my surprise at learning this.

So, one of my what-I-will-do-when-I-win fantasies from my trouble-making list came to mind while watching the news a few days ago. There was a story about an academy for training butlers to serve the rich – in China. Yes, you read that right. It was not about Taiwan, not Hong Kong, but mainland China – The People’s Republic, communist China. The real estate mogul bankrolling the school, when asked about how such a thing jibed with Mao’s revolution, said she believed it was necessary to keep the good things Mao said, but not the bad. It was not clear in which of those two categories she placed repression. It was then I was reminded why I’m never awarded money to blow. My mind immediately took flight in one of my fanciful forays over China in an old propeller plane. (Since it is fantasy, I can do so without getting shot down by the Chinese air force). Anyway, I’m flying back and forth over the countryside, and I’m dumping copy after copy, countless copies of Animal Farm on the farms and villages and cities below. The people read the book, and like I so many years ago, they know exactly what Orwell is saying, and to whom he is saying it. After awhile, thanks to Powerball and the power of literature, the masses rise, the pigs catch hell, the revolution is made right.

It warmed my heart recently to read Fidel Castro, Cuba’s unrepentant communist, is appalled by the Chinese. Despite his flaws, he at least remembers how his game is supposed to be played. Thanks to adolescent ignorance, Orwell helped me bear in mind how ours is supposed to be played as well.


Several years ago, in the now (I think) defunct magazine Human Behavior, there was an article about a man who – while just listening to NFL games – could tell whether a particular player was black or white. He couldn’t watch the games because he was blind, but by listening to sportscasters talk about great plays made on the field, he learned whites made them through skill, but blacks by luck.

He noticed. Most of us don’t, but that does not mean the message has not been received: the notion that the value of black men can be so easily dismissed. That sentiment – so rooted, so pervasive it no longer requires the malice originally attached to it – is perpetuated in ways large and small, passed from one generation to the next. Whether or not we realize we are taking in such subliminal suggestions, we are. It damages all of us, but it can kill black men and boys with impunity. The grand jury decision in the death of eighteen-year-old Michael Brown and the killing of twelve-year-old Tamir Rice are the most recent manifestations of this cultural virus. As if his very killing had not been enough, the devaluation of young Rice’s life was made clearer when a local news organization chose to investigate and report on his parents’ arrest records.

In the midst of these tragedies, I call your attention to an absurdity (in that you might find it absurd I would waste time even thinking about it). As stated above, the dismissing of value happens in small ways as well, but that is no small matter. It is still prejudice clouding our collective subconscious. This time it was presented in the form of an innocuous, network television advertisement for NBC’s singing competition program “The Voice”. As I write, eight contestants remain, including one woman and one black. Some ad guy or gal thought it would be cute to give them monikers for the few-seconds promo. So, there is the Soul Man; the Dreamer; the Hipster; the Heartthrob; the Tattooed Teacher; the Comeback King; the Stay-at-Home Mom; and the TSA Agent. If you were to make the obvious assumption about which one is the black contestant, you would be wrong.

(I have to digress. It’s about that whole “Soul Man” thing. That once meant being a black man, born and reared in Jim Crow America, who found solace in making a joyful noise unto the Lord in his youth, but gravitated toward secular song as an adult. You could hear every bit of that history in his voice – and more – when he sang, and when he sang he moved everyone who heard him. Yes, others who have grown up burdened by life in certain ways have had that experience infuse their art as well. Still others are mere mimics, good ones, but mimics nonetheless, and mimicry does not a “Soul Man” make).

Viewers of “The Voice” might decide for themselves what they think about that show’s singers, but they’ve already been given a nudge by the ad folk who seem to have decided how the audience should think. Despite their phenomenal voices and singing, the woman should stay at home with her kids where she belongs; the black guy should just be happy working for the TSA. No adjectives or superlatives for either of them.

Do I think the folk at NBC or its ad agency intended to denigrate the worth of that young man and convey that message to viewers? No. Am I being ridiculous to see it as an example of the prejudice the subconscious can produce? Perhaps, but I would be less so were it not for the undeniable examples of our history.

The last time I wrote about the differences in what people see when looking at the same thing was August 1, 2013. The subject was the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the death of Trayvon Martin. Here we are again, staring into a chasm seemingly too deep and wide to bridge. It makes one wistful for the clarity of blindness.

…and, on the third day…

It is a fact of human history that when we encounter a thing for which we have no word, we appropriate the word from those who do. It can be the word for an object or a practice, a color or a concept. An interesting thing about this phenomenon is that it does not necessarily occur in the manner that a clash of cultures usually does.

Historically, the backdrop for culture clash often has been invaders imposing their lifestyles on the conquered. Language, religion, customs and even dress are likely to change. This is why so much Latin went into the German dialect that became English, and why the Angles and Saxons adopted so many of the ways of the Romans. When, however, the victors are only mightier than the vanquished, but not more advanced otherwise, certain influences will flow in the opposite direction. This is why so much Classical Greek went into Latin, why so much of Greek thinking went to Rome.

The mighty, sometimes, are civilized by the meek, the restless made less so by the settled. The Hamites of the Nile Valley, the Semites of the Mesopotamian Valley, and the eastern branch of the Indo-Europeans (the Indo-Iranians or “Aryans”) of the Indus Valley all benefited from the civilized, indigenous peoples who inhabited those valleys first.

Why, in the world, am I even writing about this? It is because of an ancient word that confronts us every day, even more so during an election season. The word is “pundit”, conveyed to us through the Indo-European language known as Sanskrit, spoken by the Indo-Iranians who settled in what is now India. I say “conveyed through” because the Aryans had no word for who a pundit was or what a pundit did. The word is from Dravidian, the language spoken by the people who inhabited the land in which the Aryans were newcomers.

To be a pundit, originally, was to be a sage, a wise one. Many who have been given that title today don’t bother to even attempt to live up to its original meaning. Lacking all irony, some even manage the opposite. Wise or not, our pundits, for months now, have been telling some of us to expect the worst on election day. That advice, of course, is only for those of us who believe “the worst” entails a Republican takeover of the Senate. I’d like to think they are wrong, but the last time I convinced myself of that, I turned out to be the one who was wrong.

It was election night, 1980. During dinner at a restaurant with a friend, a busboy came out of the kitchen and announced Ronald Reagan had been elected President. I was stunned. It never had occurred to me this country could elect Reagan, even after he had impressed me with his convention speech four years earlier when he had lost the Republican nomination to Gerald Ford. That speech made me wonder how in Hell had that party chosen Ford over him. Still, I never imagined, four years later, that the country would choose him over Carter. Politically, my eyes were opened that night, and I’ve tried to keep them open ever since. I believe that is why I could look at John Kerry in 2004 and know he would never be President, that the country would – as crazy as it seemed – actually choose the man foisted on us by the Supreme Court four years earlier. I believe that is why, while watching the 2004 Democratic Convention, I saw the keynote speaker could be the country’s first black President – if such a thing were to ever happen.

So, here we are, three days until we find out if today’s “pundits” are correct. This time around, we don’t have the seeming wizardry of someone like Nate Silver, whose crunching of numbers in 2012 was so precise it made political prognostication look easy. He was widely dismissed by those who fervently believed Romney would defeat the President’s re-election bid, just as I had not believed in the ascendancy of Reagan.

For me, there will be only one consolation if the pundits are right this time. It comes from a wise man who said something that made me and many others in the room gasp audibly when he said it. The late Maharishi Mahesh Yogi of India, during a videotaped lecture, made the statement (quoting philosopher Joseph-Marie de Maistre, I’ve since learned) that “every nation has the government it deserves.” To hear someone suggest such a thing, particularly at a time when apartheid was the way of life in South Africa, was unnerving. Unnerving, but true nonetheless, as it will continue to be no matter what happens in three days.

Once more unto the breach

Unless you’ve been completely zoned out recently, you know the American-made mess in Mesopotamia has gotten messier, so much so that our cooler-than-cool President has become heated enough to dispatch bombers not only back to Iraq, but to Syria this time as well. Did he have a choice? What was the alternative? These are questions we will debate (but probably not definitively answer) for some time to come.

One premise that has been and will continue to be proffered is that we have no business involving ourselves in the Levant’s centuries-old, religious civil war. Let the original combatants have at it, let the victors take the spoils. The counter-premise is that we can’t be certain the victors will be amenable to our way of life, so we had better try and control the outcome as much as possible. Add to this all the hooey about “those Muslims” and “their Islam”.

I was reminded, a few years back, that even hooey must be placed in proper context. A reader’s comment on a news website suggested that the purveyors of anti-Muslim bias should either acquaint or reacquaint themselves with the history of Christianity at the tender age of fourteen centuries, the age Islam is now. I knew what he meant. Years ago, research for an on-again-off-again project had me immersed in a bit of regional history. We don’t even have to go back to the Christianity of the 1400s. The English-speaking Christian world of the 1600s will do just fine.

The land on which this city sits was once home to the Algonquian-speaking Nacotchtank people. I don’t know if there was any religious animosity between them and the other Piscataway groups in the area, but by 1632 people well familiar with religious strife claimed the land for their own, courtesy of a royal charter granted by King Charles I of England. Thus was born Maryland, meant to be somewhat of a refuge for English Catholics chafing under the Church of England – the Anglicans. “Refuge” may be a bit of a stretch. In 1644, a Protestant uprising began a two year period known as the Plundering Time, when Protestant forces roamed the colony, robbing citizens at will and taking Jesuits back to England as prisoners. The Calverts (The Lords Baltimore), Maryland’s ruling family, regained control in 1648. The following year, the Maryland assembly passed the Maryland Toleration Act, mandating religious tolerance in the colony for the protection of Catholics and others at odds with Anglicanism.

In 1650, the Puritans, the Taliban of their time and place, revolted against the Maryland government, setting up a new government prohibiting both Catholicism and Anglicanism. During its time in power, the Puritan government persecuted the colony’s Catholics. Every original Catholic church in the southern part of the colony was burned down by mobs. In 1655, in an attempt to end the Puritan revolt, Lord Baltimore sent his Catholic army against the Puritan army in the Battle of Severn, thirty miles from where I now sit and write. The Puritans were triumphant, and remained in power until 1658 when the Calverts once again regained control and re-enacted the Toleration Act.

Maryland’s history even shows how religious and political upheaval an ocean away can cause turmoil here. What was known as the Glorious Revolution in England in 1688, the time when the Protestants William and Mary replaced the Catholic King James II on the English throne, led to the Protestant Revolution in Maryland. The Lords Baltimore lost control of the colony for the next twenty-five years, during which time the Toleration Act was permanently repealed, Catholicism was against the law and Catholics were not allowed to hold public office. (This is much like what we did when we invaded and destabilized Iraq, purging the Baathist Sunnis from the ranks of government and the military and driving them into the arms of what has become ISIL). There was no religious freedom in Maryland until after the American Revolution.

“Freedom” can be made into a relative term. It remains to be seen if anything approaching the “absolute” will emerge in the Middle East. Even the Maryland Toleration Act had its limits. It sentenced to death anyone who denied the divinity of Jesus.

Summer’s End

(This summer seems to have passed without ever making its presence felt. Here is a story about a past one.)

It was so hot,
Venus thought she’d better not
venture outside her door.
She piled ice into her biggest pot
and put it on the floor
in front of the fan.
“Got to keep cool, if I can.”

Venus sat still in her chair,
waiting for cooler air,
running wrinkled fingers
through gray hair.
Beads of sweat lingered
at her brow.
“Got to keep cool, somehow.”

Ten were dead already.
The killer heat had held steady
at one hundred, one degrees.
Venus had begun to feel heady
and weak in the knees.
She hadn’t felt good all that day.
“Got to keep cool, someway.”

Venus soon dozed,
nodding gently, eyes closed,
not thinking of the melting ice
or the threat it posed,
thinking only of how nice
it is in the coolness of dreams,
of how cool everything seems.

Venus dreams of long-past days,
of sunbaths and gentle waves
from late morn to early noon
on the shore of Chesapeake Bay.
She dreams of picnics in late June,
and of having to decide whether to go
with either this or that beau.

Venus sees her husband’s face,
laughing in some unfamiliar place.
He had been gone for more than a year,
taking a love full of grace
that lacked all fear.
He turns to her with an outstretched hand,
and she begins to understand.

The blades of the fan continued to spin.
Tepid water sat where ice had been.

c. 1982 g. r. adams


I recently watched a television program in which a black character had her pronunciation of a word corrected by a white character. The word was “ask”, mispronounced as “ax”. The setting was the 1950s, and the characters were an upper middle-class housewife and her household help. As the employer explained, her concern was for her newborn. The young actress portraying the servant conveyed a barely discernible displeasure and quiet humiliation. My sympathy lay with the mom.

I don’t remember the first time I heard about teaching English as a second language, but I remember it was long before I ever heard the term “Ebonics”. It was like a light turning on. Why, I wondered, had a similar approach not been taken for some black students? That “light”, I’m ashamed to say, never grew brighter than a recurring thought, brought to mind this time by the convergence of that television show and a news story about some young black men blowing job interviews because of poor grammar.

If I seem to have overcome the dilemma that is the English language, I assure you I have not. It is a constant struggle. I have a bit of an easier time writing than I have speaking, but neither one is without effort and my efforts are not always successful. Four hundred years after African slaves were brought here from their native-speaking lands, too many of their descendants still have trouble mastering standard English. Yes, there’s a story behind that. Learning was prohibited during slavery, and for a hundred years after slavery those descendants were given much more to worry about in their lives than things like syntax. There was little evidence any benefits would accrue to precise elocution. At times, in fact, the opposite was true. Being “articulate” could be dangerous in the presence of whites who could neither define nor spell that word. Still, some blacks became English teachers while others remained Ebonics speakers. Fortunately, deficiencies in diction and grammar are not necessarily an impediment to effective communication – as many a rapper will attest.

It’s questionable how much any of this matters. Languages change over time. The English of Beowulf is not the English of The Canterbury Tales, both of which seem to have been written in foreign languages when compared to the English of Othello. William Shakespeare’s English doesn’t read the same as Mark Twain’s, and Twain’s wonderful writing has begun to seem archaic to some modern minds. Change in a language is not something that only happens over long periods of time, but from moment to moment as well.

At present, we seem to have unknowingly yet collectively decided a few picayune points – none of which have anything to do with slang. I don’t know when or why it began, but for some time now I’ve been plagued by noticing things I’d prefer not to notice. Increasingly, I hear fictional characters and real newscasters, talk-show hosts, pundits and others say things they ought to know better than to say. I put some of the blame on their writers. If, for example, your job is to put words in the mouth of Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham on Downton Abbey, it shouldn’t be grammar no English aristocrat would be caught dead using. At least, that should be the case, but even Julian Fellowes, the creator/writer of Downton (and, himself, a Baron and member of the House of Lords) occasionally forgets. It is either that, or he enjoys the idea of having an old man yell at the television.

So, for the sake of sanity, I’m asking everyone to rethink just a few, small things. First, I want people to lie down again. No one lies anymore. Everyone lays all the time. People are more than welcome to continue to lay anything they want, but I want them to lie when appropriate. Also, I want this request to remain between you and me, not between you and I (no matter what you and I may think). Finally, keep this in mind: others may complain about the state of the language less often than I, but that does not mean they have “less” complaints; it suggests they have fewer.

See? It’s just a short list, perhaps a pointless one if we already have reached the tipping point. If that’s the case, we’re well on our way to a new English. I have no idea what it will be like, so don’t ax.

Body Slamming

A few days ago, the DC Poetry Project sponsored an open-mike reading at an eatery where I happened to be helping the owner. I liked some of the poetry, but it is what I heard afterward that fascinated me: stories of mothers and their recalcitrant daughters.

The tales of fathers and sons are ones we usually hear. Even the stories of single mothers and their sons are not news to our ears. There is no shortage of literature describing the relationships between mothers and daughters, but I had not previously been privy to much of what I heard the other day.

After the poetry reading ended, a few of the participants sat around engaging in conversation, one subject easily flowing into another. This one included a few young women talking about what happened to them when, as teenagers, they had the temerity to attempt to buck their mothers. These were all dynamic, successful, professional women who seemed to bear no enduring damage from their experiences. Instead of rancor, their stories were told with great hilarity.

One young woman talked about mouthing off at her mother one moment and, in the next, being pinned against a wall, her throat gripped in the tightening grasp of a woman she no longer recognized, thinking “Oh, God, I’m going to die!” Everyone listening to the tale could not help but laugh along with her as she told it.

Her sister recalled being out past curfew with friends and determined to rejoin them once she went into the house to retrieve something she wanted. As her friends waited for her outside, her mother greeted her calmly at the door and made it clear to her that she would not be going out again that night. She tried to make it clear to her mother that she would, indeed, be going with her friends. What came next, she never saw coming. With what appeared to be no change in her tranquil demeanor, her mother picked her up and body slammed her on the living room floor. Stunned, the young women said she was just grateful her mother was kind enough to have not done so in front of her friends, who wondered why she never emerged again that night.

All of this reminded another young women of what happened to her whenever her “attitude” triggered her mother’s default mode: a hand to the throat that lifted her from the ground.

None of these women found any fault in what their mothers had done; the fault was their own. They weren’t mothers themselves, and did not speak about how they would respond under similar circumstances. Is the past always prologue?

My only familiarity with such stories came from my wife, who adored her mother. Even so, she describes herself as an occasional pill, drama queen and thorn in her mother’s side. She says her mother usually had the hide of a rhinoceros, but even she would, at times, succumb to the urge to put a mouthy daughter in her place: a slap to the face, a blow to the ear.

I don’t remember any of my women friends relating similar tales (not to say they didn’t have them to tell). When queried, one told me about the moment in her life when that sort of punishment came to an end. She believes every woman remembers that moment in their lives. Hers happened while standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes as her mother beat her with a belt. She acted as if her mother weren’t even there. This was eerily similar to a childhood friend whose “moment” came while sitting at her vanity brushing her hair. She never missed a stroke, ignoring the strokes of her mother’s belt. My wife remembers grabbing her mother’s hand to stop her.

Since the poetry reading, I’ve taken an informal poll of young women coming into the eatery, asking them about their experiences with their mothers. Most of their relationships seemed to coincide with the pattern followed by my mother and sisters.

I had no memory of my mother going through any of this with my sisters. As a little girl, one was full of an energy that sometimes exhibited itself as a contrariness requiring the occasional spanking; when she began holding her breath until she passed out, there were no more spankings.

Their adolescence seemed drama-free, so, to test my memory (and theirs), I telephoned a sister as well as my mother and asked them to recall those teenage years. Apparently, my memory was correct. My sister said none of them ever gave my mother a reason to jump on them. My mother said she was blessed in never having to go through any adolescent tumult with any of her daughters. The one time she had to object to anything involved my youngest sister, who was a young married woman at the time. Separated from her husband for a brief period and staying with my parents, she thought it would be okay for a male friend to come to the house and pick her up. My mother said she and my father told her that as long as she was a married woman living in their home, that sort of thing was not okay. Boring, right? Thank God for boredom.

I’m also thankful for those more eventful stories. Some of the poetry that day was good, but I had to point out to the young women that the passion with which they told their tales means there is great poetry to be found in their stories of warrior moms.