The Secret That Eats Its Keeper

               I purposely chose a title that was ominous and dark, hoping to set the mood for the seriousness, attention and urgency that I hope this blog ignites in each reader. I would like to talk openly and honestly about an unspoken ill that plagues communities of color. This problem is not limited to only people of color; I’m sure it has far reaching impact on other communities as well. But I cannot speak intimately of their experiences.

                Unfortunately our society does not promote intimate and personal levels of communication for men, whether it be with other men or with the women in our lives. Our conversations safely skim the surface levels of our lives. Our highs and our lows are relegated to snapshots and highlights. Rarely do we delve deeper. We are content to know and share just enough. Emotional and introspective conversation is uncommon and therefore uncomfortable.  Vulnerable and honest conversations are reserved for life’s highest and lowest moments: weddings, funerals, births and retirements.

                This is not an indictment of the general shallowness of male communication skills. It is merely an attempt to expose what I feel may be a featured cause for the true point of this blog: mental health. According to the Health and Human Services Office of Minority Health, African Americans are 20% more likely to experience serious mental health problems than the general population. Common mental health disorders among African Americans include: Major depression, ADHD, PTSD, suicide and anxiety. But, only about one-quarter of African Americans seek mental health care, compared to 40% of whites.

                Why the disparity? There are a myriad of reasons.  The negative social stigma of mental health issues, the economic burden of mental health services and access to services are just a few. In a Psychology Today article, Monnica T. Williams Ph.D., sheds some light on why people of color fail to seek mental health solutions.

“In places like Los Angeles and New York, everyone and their pet has a therapist, yet even among the wealthy and elite, many African Americans continue to hold stigmatizing beliefs about mental illness.”

“Many African Americans with mental disorders are unaware that they have a diagnosable illness at all, and are even less aware that effective psychological treatments exist for their specific problem. Because of the taboo surrounding open discussion about mental illness, African Americans often have little knowledge of mental health problems and their treatments.”

                I have had my own personal battles with mental health and without the love and support of my wife and son, my family and friends I am not sure what the narrative may have been. I was fortunate. I was lucky. I had been seeing a counselor and I also had developed relationships with friends that I loved, respected and trusted as my brothers that gave me the opportunity to share my dark thoughts and seek the professional and medical help I needed.

                Mental health issues are not easy to detect. They can be hidden behind the shroud of smiles and “normalcy” needed to keep the secret. They can be masked and misdirected as “he’s just tired,” “he’s having a bad day” or “work/home is just crazy right now.” So to not notice that someone you care about is suffering through mental health hardships is not a measure of how much you do or do not care for him. But we also must be comfortable with the conversation. Ask the questions that need to be asked. “Are you OK?” “Is there something you want to talk about?” “How are you doing…no really, how are YOU doing?”

                Since addressing my own mental health, I have come to learn that a few of my friends that I have known for years have also had their battles with mental health. It’s an odd duality to feel relieved that I am not alone in my struggles but to also be made aware of my ignorance to my friend’s struggles. This is why it became important for me to share this. To shed light on the fact that you may or may not know someone that needs you. They may be desperately waiting for someone to ask them “Is everything OK, do you need to talk?”
              The strength of the oak tree depends on the soil that the acorn lays in. Our boys and young men need to be taught to be comfortable and confident with their emotions. We need to make sure they understand that being sensitive and vulnerable and seeking help and guidance in times of uncertainty is part of their journey into manhood. The strongest tree in the forest is the one that bends and sways with the winds of the storm. The tree that stands rigid and stiff against the wind is snapped and torn from its roots.

               Also, it’s important to acknowledge that mental health is an ongoing pursuit just like your general physical health. Just as we watch what we eat, do our best to exercise and enjoy our vices in moderation, we need to pay attention to our thoughts and emotions. It is time that we make our mental health a part of the dinner table conversation, the man cave conversation and the conversation with our medical professionals. As men of color we need to be more comfortable with sharing our minds and our hearts with those that we love and trust. The truest treasure is that which is shared with those you love, not concealed and locked away in a vault constructed of our insecurities.

Tie A Knot

                

           I miss us. I miss the comfort and familiarity. The security and love. The support and guidance. The laughter and celebration. The tears and sympathy. I miss us. I miss our community. I miss knowing that my family stretched far beyond the four walls of my home. By no means am I minimizing the love and importance of my immediate family, but acknowledging my longing for when the branches and limbs and roots of the family tree felt closer. Geographically and emotionally. I had grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins in close proximity. If they weren’t in close proximity then they were usually substituted by the various family friends and friends of friends that became my interwoven tribe of love and support.

            When did it change? When did the ties that bind go from being braided ropes that kept us anchored to our rich history and community to thin threads that strain to hold fast against time, convenience, distance and our focus on our individual pursuits? Please let me be clear, this is not an indictment against you personally. Consider it a moment to catch your breath, look in the mirror and reflect on who you are and who we are.

I feel on some level we are all guilty of quietly letting our community, our tribe, our family shrink to the smallest most manageable nuclear units. We focused on things that made our situation better. Better school districts, better homes, better neighborhoods, better employment opportunities. We committed our energy and our attention to pursuing these things. Sincerely hoping to make our lives and the lives of those we loved better. But did we? How much of who we are was lost or sacrificed in pursuit of who we wanted to be?

Just think back to when you were a child. Don’t think about the social-economic landscape or the political atmosphere or the civil and human rights hardships. Think of how full your heart was because of how close you were to your friends and family. Today if we want our children to play with their cousins we have to perform the quantum mathematics of comparing schedules and setting a date in the distant future of when they can get together. For a child to spend the night at a relative's or friend’s house seems to require emergency contact forms and medical waivers instead of a simple phone call between the parents.  Going shopping with grandma or fishing with grandpa has been packaged into semi-annual holiday trips instead of just dropping by on the weekend.

I want my son to have the same treasure chest full of memories that I have. Memories of people and places and events that shaped me. Whenever I see my godmother she tells the story of how when we lived in the projects of Newark how I would come upstairs to her apartment. I would walk in and head straight to the refrigerator to see what she had to drink or to eat. I was comfortable and connected. (Yes I was also a little greedy). But her home was my home. There were no lines drawn or rules established that made me consider that I could or should act any better, or worse, than I would in my own home.
Think back to that time you met one of your distant cousins. So distant that even grandma had to pause and think before she could explain how you were related. But those details were unimportant anyway, they were family. If they were in the backyard eating your uncle's famous ribs off the grill, sitting on the couch watching the game, or laughing and talking in the kitchen; they were family because one of your patriarchs or matriarchs said they were. You treated that new family member the same as you treated the cousin you knew from diapers to diplomas.

Yes the world has changed. The internet and media has opened our eyes to so many more pitfalls, dangers and ominous possibilities. It would be irresponsible for us not to recognize these and do more to protect our loved ones from harm. I guess I’m just stuck reminiscing. Wishing that we could all pursue our own definitions of comfort, happiness, success and accomplishment but still having a firm grip on the people and places and experiences that gave us our first firm footholds in our climb of the mountain we call life.

So why did I write this? Was it a melancholy report on our current situation? No, that wasn’t my intention. My intention was to shed some light into a dark corner, to provoke some thought and conversation. I have a challenge. I hope you chose to accept it. Reconnect. Reconnect with your cousin that you only call on her birthday. Reconnect with your grandma who you only check on every other Sunday. Reconnect with your brothers and sisters and laugh at each other’s stories. Then share the warmth and joy and strength of those connections with your children. The ropes of our tribe need to be mended and strengthened. Tie a knot and hang on. It's too important to just let go.

Throwback Thursday Is Here...

I miss the R&B groups of the late 80s and 90s. They combined great music from producers that knew how to highlight and expose the talents of the artists with artist that blended their talents into timeless classics. Most of the groups didn’t have singers that could survive as an established soloist. But as part of a group, their sound blended perfectly.

Now everyone wants to be a solo act. I don’t know how or why the industry took such a dramatic shift and the R&B group faded away like a dinosaur. But imagine if some of these artists (a term I use loosely) got together and collaborated, without relying on a featured hip hop artist to carry the song for radio and club play. I love hip hop but at one point in the early 2000s I swore Ja Rule was on every song, then it was Lil’ Wayne and now it’s Drake or Nicki Minaj.

Think about it. How many soloist really have the talent to carry an album and release something with more than 2 decent songs in today’s music industry? I can only think of a few. I’d prefer to see Omarion, Chris Brown, Mario, Tory Lanez and Trey Songz perform as a super group than to have them release song after song that sound like remakes of their last radio release.

Just think of all the talent that we had to listen to in the late 80s and 90s when it came strictly to groups. I am probably biased but I consider it a really special time in R&B music. Besides the 60s and early 70s reign of Motown, I can’t think of a better time period of R&B music. Here’s the roster of “some” of the talent we had out there.

Boyz II Men	Color Me Badd	Xscape	Jodeci
New Edition	After 7	Silk	DeBarge
Guy	Ready For The World	H-Town	BBD
Troop	SWV	Blackstreet	Soul II Soul
Mint Condition	TLC	Shai	Tony Toni Tone
Force MDs	En Vogue	Zhane	Brownstone
Hi Five	Jade	Total	Changing Faces

So yes it’s Throwback Thursday and I’m sitting at my desk at work, digging in the digital crates on my mobile phone’s music app and enjoying the music I grew up with. Just wanted to share my thoughts with you. Anxious to hear your feedback. Peace!

The Power of Words

The Power of Words

                The other day I was driving and listening to Jimmy Evans. I have been trying to navigate through some pretty dark waters, waters that I am responsible for polluting, and I was guided to listen to him and his messages about love, marriage and positive and productive relationships. (Thanks Val)

One of his videos hit me right between the eyes, actually several did but one in particular resonated with me because I like to think of myself as a writer. He was talking about how what we say can have a profound effect on others. How the words we speak can build, give birth and nurture or tear down, stifle and destroy.

I have used my words poorly over the past few years. I love to write. It unlocks and taps into a part of me that I really believe is my gift from God. But it also allows me to escape, to disappear and to avoid life. I have used my words, spoken and written, to conjure realities that gave me a false sense of security, a false sense of connection and a false sense of self-worth. I see now that my words and the actions that accompanied them were creating and giving birth to a mask, to a false reality while it was also tearing down and destroying my connection to loved ones, to friends, to God and to myself.

I am on a new journey. I am dedicating my energy to being more genuine with my words and also making sure that my actions match those words. I want to be the best husband, father, friend, son, brother and man that I can be. But none of those things are realistic goals if I can’t first be the best Jermal I can be. I am not writing this to recruit cheerleaders, to search for sympathy or to initiate a dialogue among those that read it. I am simply writing it because my words will be the seeds of my actions. These words are words that I will measure myself against. These words are just the beginning…

First Birthday

Today is my birthday, February 24th, and while my family and friends have been their usually amazing selves by sending me birthday messages there is still a piece of my heart that is sad. Sad because this is my first birthday without my mother. I miss her but she is always with me and there have been so many times when I have felt her presence. I decided that the best way to deal with the sadness of missing her was to remember and appreciate all the positive memories she has contributed to on my birthdays.

My mom used to retell the story of the day she gave birth to me. I can still hear her voice as she smiles and laughs through the story. It was a dark and cold February night when we went to the hospital. My grandmother Anna and grandfather Willie were arguing over him driving too fast and being careful of the ice. My mother was scared to death. Not of the car ride but of the birth process. The day was finally here, I was coming out! She was young, 20 years old, and scared.

When my mother called me on my birthday, she usually didn’t say “Happy Birthday” to me. She would just sing.  She would sing “So Much In Love” by The Tymes.

“As we stroll along together                     

Holding hands, walking all alone

So in love are we two

That we don't know what to do

So in love (doo, so in love)

In a world of our own (doo, so in love)”

She would also sing her own song that she made. 

“He’s my sweetie, my sweet deety. He’s my sweetie sugar pie.

He’s my sweetie, my sweet deety. Love him ‘til the day I die.”

So no matter where I am or what I’m doing, my birthdays will always be special. Because I had an amazing mother who made me feel so incredibly special.

Papi Serrano

I was inspired to write this on the eve of my father in-law's birthday.

I never met your father; unfortunately he went to his resting place before you and I met. But I still feel like I know him.

I know his laugh and his sense of humor. I hear his laugh in you. Your laugh sets the room on fire with joy and your sense of humor is equal parts silly and lighthearted. I can almost hear your father telling jokes, and struggling to get through them because he can’t stop laughing at the punch line he’s about to tell.

I know his passion. I see it daily in the white hot passion that burns in your heart and through your eyes. You love completely; you surrender and give all of you to those you love. No conditions, except for one; that they love you as much as you love them. Your passion also fuels your fight. The fierceness of a caged panther lies in every word when you are betrayed or hurt. I can see your father. Short and unassuming stature, but when he is challenged or offended he grows to be a titan. His voice is the unchained fire of a volcano.

Your father was a proud man and smart man. Wisdom and knowledge reflect in his dark, sparkling eyes. His intellect was not shaped and fashioned in the classroom; it was forged in the fires of life experiences. You have his quick wit and his unique talent for learning and growing as you live your life. You solve problems when others simply surrender. You hate the word “can’t” and are driven to conquer obstacles.

I see your father’s walk. The quick and purposeful steps he took on his way to work and the smooth and gliding strides he took when he was home and with friends. I see his steps in your steps. When you dance, it is your father snapping his fingers that guides your feet. It is his love and pride in his culture that sways your hips.

I never met your father. But to say I don’t know him would be a lie. I do know him. Because I fell in love with his most beautiful gift to the world. I fell in love with his daughter, Lizette.

Mother's Day 2016

I woke up this morning apprehensive, melancholy and reflective. I miss my mother every day. Losing her has been the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced. But as the morning unfolded I started to hear her. I heard her say “Jermal, I love you son and I miss you. I will always be with you. Don’t let my passing weigh you down.” I started to realize that I was not alone. My wife has lost her mother, other family members and friends have lost their mothers. There are people all over the world trying to live through this immeasurable pain and honor their loved ones by living, loving and laughing as loud and as strong as we did when they were here with us. So instead of struggling through the misery of missing her, I will embrace the joys and blessings I had while she was here with me. That’s what she would tell me to do.

Today is Mother’s Day. I was blessed to have Bettie Quinn in my life; she was, is and always will be the wind that makes me soar. In the moments when I miss her the most, when my tears well and when my heart sinks; I will remember her smile, her laugh, the smell of her cooking, the warmth of her hug and the sound of her voice. Happy Mother’s Day! I love you!

A Playground's Lament

I used to be the crown jewel of the community. The epicenter of a neighborhood. Birthday parties and family picnics were held under the shade of my trees. Softball and football games and Easter egg hunts were played in my manicured fields. The laughter of children danced on every breeze and the rhythm of bouncing basketballs played perfect harmony with of measured steps of lovers taking a stroll. I was the hallowed ground of children. When you had a bad day at school or a tough day at home. You turned to me, your one spot where you felt safe, happy and free.

  But times I have changed. I still exist but my role has diminished. Community planners and civil engineers place me strategically in sprawling communities of copycat homes and apartments. I am a footnote in their designs. I am displayed as an afterthought to entice the young family with toddlers that this community is "kid friendly and warm." But who is to blame? Is there a ominous villain in the shadows with a secret plot against me? Or has time simply marched on and left me as little more than a cloudy memory of days long ago?

   I think that the thing that changed our communities and changed me was not a simple passage of time. It was the slow and steady erosion of the most critical element of any community. Trust. The trust is gone. If you were born in any year prior to 2000 you can fondly remember getting on your bike, your skateboard, your scooter or in some cases just walking to your friend's house and then playing for hours in the park. Children of the second millennium are usually driven by their parents to play dates that have been planned and have contingencies and conditions that dwarf the Geneva Convention.

   I miss my bike racks being filled with a rainbow of children's bikes. Waves of kids meeting to play hop scotch, jump rope or play catch. I miss being the site of the most epic snow ball fights in the neighborhood's history. I miss the basketball courts being filled with kids playing shirts versus skins. I miss their gleeful screams as they play tag, hide and seek or dodgeball. But more than anything else, I miss the love. I was their playground and they loved me.

   Does this new generation of children not have the motor skills to make the arduous trek to the park or lack a sense of direction to find the park? The fault is not with them, although parents criticize them for being lazy and unadventurous and antisocial. The fault lies in the parents. The parents fear for their child's safety. If a child is out of the sight of their parent or caretaker, then they are now a fresh sheep for the wolves of society. Society is not any more or less dangerous but the access to information and bombardment of media has turned parents into gatekeepers and watchdogs.

   Of course we must be the protectors of our children. But we must also remember that a bird that is trapped in a cage never learns how to fly. For fear of their children's well-being and safety, parents would rather their children play in the parking lots of their apartment complexes or the minimal grass patches of their townhouses. We must let our children run and fall and scrape their knees. We must teach our children to be smart, careful, and weary of strangers. But we must also teach them to be independent, kind and capable of making new friends.

   My swings only swing when the breeze moves them to sway, silently antagonizing me. My see-saws and slides are more often used by daredevil squirrels than rambunctious first graders. But I do still have my moments of joy. When newlyweds use my scenic beauty as the backdrop of their wedding memories, when a family's generations meet around my picnic tables to tell stories of their rich and dynamic pasts and praise the promise and possibilities for their futures. 

   This isn't my call for recreational Armageddon to usher in a new era of children that redefine my role as the neighborhood park. I don't expect new legislation and politicians to fly my banner as one of their campaign promises. Imagine that. An elected official promising to have a focus on infrastructure enhancement, on community enrichment and beautification and properly utilizing public land to best serve the public.

   So what do I want? What is my purpose for writing this? I want you to promise to do something that I always hear people talking about when they speak of celebrities and athletes and those that they consider have "made it." But this request isn't for the rich and famous or the poor and destitute. It's for everyone. I want you to remember where you came from. I want you to remember that you are a child of the playground. I want you to remember all the good memories that we shared. Sacrifice one day a week to put down your electronics. 

   Challenge your children to abandon their smart phones and tablets and game consoles and use their imaginations making up a new game or enjoy the pure adrenaline rush of seeing how high they can climb, how fast they can run or how far they can jump. Come play on my jungle gym and imagine you are swinging from vine to vine through an African jungle like Tarzan. Come ride my swings, close your eyes and pretend you're flying high like Superman or Wonder Woman. Come and take a spin on my merry go round. Dizzily enjoying the moment.

   So the next time you are racing from one cul de sac to the next, ushering your precious cargo to and fro, keep your eyes open for me. Whether you live in a bustling metropolis, a quiet suburb or a rural farm town. I'm your neighborhood playground. I hope to see you soon.

My Newark: Brick City is Beautiful.

The year was 1972. I was born and grew up in Newark until I was seven. When I was seven my parents bought a house in Plainfield. I love Plainfield, but this is about my first love, the first place to win my heart. Newark, New Jersey. I just wanted to share with you some of the reasons why I love Newark so much.

   The Newark that I grew up in was a shining jewel to me. The mecca and epicenter of all there was or ever could be. Yes there was crime and violence and poverty and all the other negative stigmas of urban America. But my vision was wonderfully jaded. Jaded by the love and support and warmth of a loving extended family and a community that truly embodied the cliche of "it takes a village..."

   So allow me to share with you some of the things that made my Newark the most wonderful place in the world.

1. Weequahic Park: An oasis in the middle of the city. Weequahic Park is where me and my family went for family barbecues. I remember playing catch, running, laughing and climbing trees. The magic of Weequahic wasn't the affect it had on the children, it was the affect it had on the adults. Living and raising a family in a big city like Newark can be stressful and overwhelming at times. But whenever I went to the park with any of the adults in my family I could actually see the weight lift off their shoulders. I could see them breathe deeper and smile fuller. When they sat down it was as if they were being recharged and renewed by each blade of grass.
2. Mulberry Street Market: I can still smell it. It's perfectly intoxicating smells wafting through the air. Plums, strawberries, oranges, sweet corn, collards, tomatoes and peaches. It seemed like every fruit and vegetable that God had created was there. I remember walking the aisles of the open air market with my grandmother and doing my best not to bump into any of the stands or bother her as she decided what she would buy from this cornucopia. I knew that if I was good she would give me the nod of approval as we walked past the cherries. I would pick two cherries from the table and eat them as we walked. Their sweetness was second to only one thing, the sweetness of my grandmother's smile when she looked down at me.
3. Community: Family and friends and neighbors were all woven into the same fabric of community. Your neighborhood that you grew up in didn't label you or limit you to where you could go or what you could be. It empowered you. I grew up knowing that no matter what was going on in my day that I didn't have to look to far to celebrate a victory or to find solace and comfort in the midst of a failure.
4. Shopping Downtown: Before there were malls with their maze of stores and boutiques, there were shopping districts in the heart of the city. Downtown. Children scrambled to tag along with the adults when they were going shopping. The possibilities were endless. A new shirt or pair of pants. A shiny new pair of shoes for school or some sneakers that you swore made you run faster and jump higher. You might get a hot pretzel from Woolworths or a hot dog from the street vendor's cart. Shopping downtown was a dizzying experience. So many people. Different skin colors, different languages, different hair styles and clothing. But the differences didn't clash and conflict, they blended and complimented one another.

My Newark. I was so fortunate to be born and raised there. I miss it. I will always love it.

These Trying Times

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/10/opinion/sunday/what-white-america-fails-to-see.html?emc=eta1&_r=0

It's a chilling commentary that in 2016 we are still being slaughtered ON VIDEO and that the epidemic and crisis of black people dying seems to be something that the larger society sees as the common cold, an unfortunate yet tolerable fact of life. I hope and pray that I and all of my friends and family are spared the brutality and death that seems to lurk around every corner. Life is too short. It's scary that I have no control over when it will be taken away.

I try to remain objective. I don't hate police, I don't hate white people. But to say I'm not fearful of a white cop or any police officer, makes me deaf, dumb and blind to the reality that it "seems" that there has been an unspoken pact made to destroy me. Whether they do or do not depends on the silent swing of the pendulum of fate. Video footage and eyewitness testimony still doesn't tell us enough of the full story. What is going on in the heads and hearts of the victims and those who pull the trigger?