Dear Mr. Sterling aka Owner of the Clippers

Dear Mr. Sterling or should I just refer to you as Donald?,

Out of respect for a real noble black man -Dr. Kenneth David Kaunda's birthday- I have chosen to write to you with decorum and kindness. See, he would want that, even at a time when quite honestly, you deserve otherwise (if it is you on the tape of course). See I'm actually going to give you the benefit of the doubt because unlike you, I don't make broad, sweeping, unjustified statements.. So as I write, we'll assume all my comments are hypothetical, as if you COULD have said what is being reported, okay?  I'm also channeling my inner Nelson Mandela, who if you don't know -after he became President- treated his captors with respect and benevolence even when he could have had them all secreted away somewhere and flogged or worse.

Thing is, in listening to all the commentary about the ugly racist comments made on this tape, I am still not hearing any vehement denials from you. One can only assume it was 'you', ranting and angry at your 'girlfriend' for posting pictures of herself with black guys on her Instagram account.

See I think we all realize that -in your case- this is a domestic dispute gone bad, real bad. One minute your rich old wrinkly behind is risking a cardiac with some young Mexican-Black, gold-digging heifer and the next you're all over the news, like a little love-sick puppy. What confuses me though is your reasoning and let me quote;

 "I support them and give them food, and clothes, and cars, and houses. Who gives it to them? Does someone else give it to them? Do I know that I have—Who makes the game? Do I make the game, or do they make the game? Is there 30 owners, that created the league?"

 Let me get this right, all of a sudden you're some benevolent benefactor?  What happened to the fact that it's a business. "You support them?" Last time I checked, the fact that these super-athletes sign contracts to work and put money on their and your table is not considered support. It's a mutually beneficial relationship in which you quite evidently have prospered, until now. Quiet frankly there's a long line of capitalist hawks behind you who would love the opportunity to own an NBA team, so this is a privilege that you have chosen to dishonor. Again, like I said, this only applies if that's you on the tape Donald.

"It's the world! You go to Israel, the blacks are just treated like dogs."

You would know wouldn't you Donald? Somehow, you find comfort in this and that's what worries me most, your casual comparison to the mistreatment of black people is casual, like saying "It's red!" Somewhere in that warped brain, hidden behind a face that only a gold-digging, botox face filled bimbo would love -no offense to your wife- you have the gall to differentiate and make comparisons for your racist views;

"The white Jews, there's white Jews and black Jews, do you understand?"

Yes Donald, we have the white dogs and the black dogs and  we give bones to one and trash to the other. I can imagine Moses when he was speaking to Pharaoh saying, "So I'm only here for the White Jews! Keep the rest!" What's sad is not only do you seem delusional but this girl must have done some serious damage to you, for you to be so pathetically asinine.  It's amazing what one 'female body part' can do to a man with millions upon millions of dollars in the bank account. Then again, you white guys with power always fall for the ol' okey doke, just ask Bill Clinton. So I am waiting with baited breath Donald, what exactly is the difference between these black and white Jews? They walked seven days instead of forty? They didn't create idols out of gold/ When Moses came down the mountain they were already across the Jordan? What? Whoever this little girl is, she must have rocked you geriatric world. The very same world were you have chosen to take a very mute stance based on your comment;

"It isn't a question—we don't evaluate what's right and wrong, we live in a society. We live in a culture. We have to live within that culture."

 Okay so let's live there for a moment Donald, in the culture your mind created where it's okay to sleep with a black girl and then go on a tirade. Yes Donald just in case your Alzheimer's has you confused, she's black according to your neanderthal ancestry. According to your ancestors any drop of black, means the whole thing is tainted, feel free to refer to any of your slavery manual which I'm sure you can resource with your money. Too bad for you I just finished watching, "Twelve Years a Slave," so I have quite a few visual and mental references. You seemed to be okay with parading her in front of the world and your family or was that just because she was female jewelry that your money could buy? She didn't look black but she is Mexican or Latina as you said. Which makes her what? Better?

Quite frankly, I'm not sure what's worse; the fact that an old crustacean like you would be allowed to touch a young woman or the fact that she let you. Then I read the transcripts of your last deposition and realized that you're just a horny old man. Word of advice? Tell the doctor to stop prescribing you Viagra, it's obscene for anyone like you to still have any ounce of libido. So do us all a favor and deflate gracefully, you're giving players a bad name because you do it so tastelessly.  You're lucky you're rich and from the sounds of it, that you made your money being a slumlord to the very people that you can't seem to stand being seen with your black girlfriend. The arrogance of money is that you can assume that you're immune from facing your prejudice until someone exposes you. Well, the jigs up Donald, we know!

So here's where we are, my best advice, get out of the basketball game and buy something else, like a chain of Taco Bells in Mexico. I think your girl's from there, no?And in the words of MY MAN Snoop Dogg, "You $%^&&* *&*^&(()* &**(((^^ $$#%^&&* racist %$$&** redneck %&**990%&&**(!  Of course, only if it's you on the tape Donald!

Bring Sense Back!

If you're like me, then you sometimes find yourself amazed at the impudence of ignorance. It doesn't really matter the occasion, location or time, it seems that one can be assured that ignorance will have a  'neon light' and be on full display. What's interesting is that it will always be loud, boisterous and confrontational. Whether you're minding your own business in a store, restaurant, at work or riding the bus. It's intruding, obtrusive and unapologetic. 

There's something to be said about the bravado of a fool. Something in the human characteristic that places the chemistry of stupidity higher on the scale than the neuron movement of sense. Maybe it was meant to be a safety mechanism, one that allowed at least one human to be eaten by prehistoric beasts so the rest could escape.

Don't get me wrong, ignorance can be innocent too. Unknowing, demure, scared and ashamed, but this is not the type that mesmerizes. No, we are drawn to an effusive ignorance that reeks of blatant disregard. The curse filled rantings of a marijuana laden rapper, who's song chorus always seems to rhyme with itch. The dalliances of some ill clad woman who has done absolutely nothing to achieve her fame except make a sex video. To the banter of politicians whose greatest achievement is they have managed to turn us into the same ignorant cacophony, as we join their congress. Which by the way, is another name for a group of baboons.  

I'm amazed and amused at how society seeks out these people. How news reporters will hone in on them and get that life long soundbite, "Nobody got time for that!" We've been immersed into this cesspool of mediocrity. It's in our offices, our schools, on the train, at the bus stop, at the grocer store. Ignorance is becoming harder and harder to escape. Our minds are programmed to look for it, to troll the news like zombies looking for duplicity in its ignorant wardrobe. 

The scent of sense bears no attraction. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. For it has no scandal, no noise, no sense of raucousness, it's mundane, unobtrusive. It's too polite, asking for permission and with perfect manners. "Excuse me, thank you, please." Who needs that? We are literally a click away from our brains being fried with nonsense, yet we're just as many clicks away from enlightenment. It's all available, sense and foolishness, ours for the taking. What we choose unfortunately is being decided by people in an ivory tower somewhere who are  deciding on what it is we will hear or see. They engineer, they steer. As our eyes gaze at the television screen, the computer, the iPhone, the iPad, they flash, "ignorance, ignorance, ignorance," it's imbedding deep in our psyche through images, music, words and billboards.

We're zombies to this ignorance, transfixed in the infernal dance of the digital age. We're surrounded by robotic people who hold their devices tight in their hands like another limb. People don't talk anymore, don't make eye contact. We're oblivious, ignorant to what's around us, bumping into each other and always listening out for that one always obnoxious voice in the crowd.That's what gets our attention, anything that we can film and upload to YouTube. Maybe we'll get a million hits. Like a crackhead we're addicted to the 'likes' on Facebook, the more hits the better.

Escape is hard to come by. How do you extricate yourself from this cycle of foolishness? Transfixed on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, WhatsApp, there's an app readily available to take us all away from reality. Many are useful, but we've become the Anhedonic set, addicted to being distracted, with our senses tuned only to raise our heads at sensationalism and ignorance. Time to dust myself off, and get on the walk back to sense. If you happen to meet her before I do, let her know I'm looking for her, urgently.

Prayer: "Lord make me an animal!"

Lord thank you so much for waking me up today. My prayer is that you take the disobedience of being a man out of me and make me an animal. I want the loyalty and faithfulness of a Dog. I need you to make me like a Cat, and give me calmness and the ability to be totally still to hear your voice. When faced with insurmountable obstacles, I want the courageousness of a Honey Badger.  As the forest of problems looms tall ahead of me, give me the strength of an elephant to push through.

Provide the quickness of the Hummingbird  and the keenness of an Eagle so I keep my eye on the prize. The agility of a Gazelle so I can escape those that would set to lay traps for me. Give me the stealthiness of a Leopard, so I can set my own. Endow me with the eternal relational love of a Swan and the paternal instincts of a Penguin. Let me watch over my children like a Sea Horse and allow me to teach them and guide them like a Cheetah.

Teach me how to live and share like a Lioness and to lead like a Buffalo. Give me the ability to sniff out trouble like a Rhino and the ability to flee danger over tough terrain like a Mountain Goat. Let me seek your word like a thirsty Baboon and soar when it fills me like an Albatross. When popular choice stands against my convictions, allow me to stand alone like a Polar Bear. Endow me with the tenacity of a Wildebeest as I cross the river filled with Crocodiles of doubt.

Let the voices of my detractors become like the sound of Hyenas angry at their inability to steal a kill. I want to gnaw on their heels like a Rat bent on getting to food. When surrounded, give me the relentlessness of a Warthog protecting its young. If overcome, I want the skin of a Porcupine, so that their attack leave them injured and remembering never to try again. Let my enemies smell like a Skunk so I can recognize them at a distance and steer clear.

Give me that arms of an Orangutan so I can hold my wife and children close. The voice of a Robin, so I can sing love songs and lullabies. Give me the sacrificial heart of an Octopus and the courage of a Meerkat in my will to die for them. Surround my family like the Bison protecting its young. Chase away evil and harm like a Rattlesnake's warning sound. Sound the alarm like a Howler Monkey when duplicity is in the midst.

Most of all Lord, just make me the best MAN I can be. 

Diversify

Recently I got into a very determined economic discussion with one of my MBA, soon to be PhD buddy's whose mind rotates on a swivel.  Our discussion -animated at times- revolved around the importance of having a diversified portfolio and never placing all your eggs in one basket. We were in perfect agreement understanding the fiscal and financial sense of spreading your income and revenue potential across multiple channels. This is not a trait that is taught in African schools nor are these lessons picked up in bars. These are the secrets long held by the consummate capitalists who have mined and refined their search for fiscal gold. 

In Agrarian Africa it could be akin to planting only one type of crop in your field. Your family will hate the singular diet and the soil abhors it, eventually sapping itself of nutrients and yielding nothing. So in retrospect, it makes good sense to diversify friends, food, finances, and interests. What is a solid financial lesson, has really been a tenant for a fulfilling life and one that ensures stability, but who starts off young thinking they will need a friend in all professions? Always a step ahead the financial commandos who have known that lemons equal lemonade, lemon juice, lemon zest, lemon extract and any other financial opportunity you can squeeze out of bitter fruit. 

In order to combat the pervasive leg drag that seems to be the inherited handicap of Africa, there is an astuteness lacking amongst our older leaders. This generation of  men and women who can remember a time of no telephones or televisions proudly fail to continuously assess our importance in the global economic spectrum. What has become evident is that the recognition is more related to immediate gratification, not long term production, manufacturing and industry consolidation.  The economic myopia on the part of our leaders underestimates the leverage that they have to dictate terms. What is clear is that there has to be a point where political nonchalance borders on criminal negligence.

We have been raped and continue to be raped as the very people who performed the crimes against us have now become our debtors. We walk into meeting with our hands open and our hats upturned. Unfortunately, the collective might of an Africa, rich in resources has been negated by decades of uneducated and misaligned leadership. We are still in the mindset of voting on our feelings and not facts. Of putting people in seats because of what they have put in our stomachs and being led by vitriol and fast mouths. Until such a time as this becomes a thing of the past, we will always be begging.

Destiny - Zambia Wins

Zambia has won the Africa cup! Those words sound magical, a fictional line in some science fiction plot. Yet there are no Harry Potter illusions here, no mythological beast that has been slain. Zambia beat three African soccer giants to lift the cup, Senegal, Ghana and Ivory Coast and the cup will no longer reside north of the equator.  The tide has changed. The constant stream of images being posted by Zambians of the Lusaka celebrations are making me nostalgic. I would give anything to be at home right now, side by side with my country men dancing and singing. Alas, it is not to be, and all we can do on this side of the Atlantic is bask in the glory that is emanating from nine thousand miles away. 

 The day of the final, I bundled up my teenage daughter and we trekked 32 miles into Silver Spring, Maryland to join about seventy Zambians at the Nectar Grill on Georgia avenue. We had to find a group of Zambians watching the game, somewhere, anywhere. At this restaurant/bar/night club, we found a mass of Zambian revelers dressed in whatever version of green and copper they could find. Images of the Zambian national flag abounded and  Nyanja and Bemba greetings and questions reminded you of a typical day on a Lusaka street. This was the atmosphere necessary for such and occasion, win or lose I wanted to be with my people to share in the joy or pain of the moment.

As we nestled in, I engaged in a conversation with the Nigerian husband of a childhood friend who noted just how calm Zambians are, and paid homage to Dr. Kaunda as soon as his face flashed on television. He spoke of how growing up in Nigeria, K.K. was the face of African peace. A Ugandan seated nearby joined the conversation, commenting on how -given the technical difficulties which made us miss almost 20 minutes of the game- the Zambians in attendance where as calm as ever. "If this had been West Africans, there would have been a riot in here!" he exclaimed. I told him that as far as I can remember it has always been our way, this passive strong resistance which prefers compromise over conflict.

We have a strong national identity buoyed on the shoulders of a nationalism indoctrinated by UNIP and Kaunda. We are a proud people, knowing and recognizing our heritage.  You will rarely find Zambians involved in some international internet scam trying to 'make your money disappear'. We watched the second half of the finals on a small Samsung smartphone, no loud grumbling, no chair throwing or fighting. Huddled together at one corner was a large group watching on a laptop.  Music started playing and  Zambians started to dance as the technicians tried to fix the problem. During this time, we missed Drogba's penalty and as the phone died and relocated to a freezing SUV outside to charge and watch catching part of the overtime.This experience was about more than the game, it was about camaraderie, national spirit, community. We needed to be with other Zambians, who had felt the same scorching sun on their backs, walked on the same dirt, knew what town and flats mean. I needed to meet Vincent and reminisce about Munali, when Katongo almost scored. It was important that even in America, I was in a Zambian room, if but for the moment.

We would eventually get to see the penalty kicks on the restaurant big screen. The air was palpable, throbbing with anticipation. Unfamiliar people holding onto each other, screaming at a wall. When Toure missed, we almost lost our minds. When Mayuka missed it was no different. As Gervinho walked up to the ball, I waved to the DJ to cut off the music. This was no time for dance-hall reggae, it was a moment of silence. Gervinho missed and in that moment, I knew in my heart it was ours. Sunzu scored and the place erupted! Tears of joy, screams, chants of "Iyeee Chipolopolo!" Deep in my heart, I felt the collective sigh of over eight million people. The dreams that have floated and dissipated on the shores of Gabon finally lifted and started making their way home. "It is finished!" I heard them say, "We are going home now!" Home, for that is where the cup was headed, to a place that has needed it for so long. A place where the healing of wounds inflicted by neglect were sutured by twenty three young Zambian players who were but babies when that plane went down that fateful day in 1993. Our dream is now a reality, we are the African champions, Zambia and Southern African soccer will never be the same. Most of all, the pride we have always felt, just got a whole lot stronger.

Zambia's Tragedy - 20 Years Later

The Zambian national soccer team is heading to the finals of the Africa Nations cup on Sunday. The roar of triumphant voices all over Zambia as the team beat Ghana in the semi-finals could be heard almost ten thousand miles away in America. Facebook streams, twitter tweets, texts, emails, the internet went crazy as we all soaked in the reality. Our boys are in the final! Representing our nation on the very soil where our lost heroes last touched earth. It seems to be a fitting scenario, a choreographed routine, as if the very hands of our lost players are somehow participating in this healing. In 1993 , trying to heal from the tragedy that is still fresh in our minds, I wrote; The Death of a Country . A story that eventually was quoted in the book, The Ball Is Round: A Global History of Soccer, by David Goldblatt.


In that article I stated; "Imagine loosing all the Red Sox players. No more Rocket, Pena, Vaughn, Fletcher, Greenwell, nothing. All gone. All at once. The budding Charlotte Hornets, pride of North Carolina. Larry Johnson, Alonzo Mourning primed, ready for the playoffs. Beating Boston, then gone. All in the blink of an eye. On April 27th, 1993, a military plane carrying 30 passengers crashed into the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Gabon. John Starks head-butting of Reggie Miller during the Knick-Pacer series received more media attention. The crash killed 18 of Zambia's top football (soccer) players as well as the hopes and dreams of 8 million people. The tragedy can be likened to the Peruvian plane crash that eventually became a movie. The difference is, no one survived. In Africa, death is viewed with reverance, so you can be sure there will be no movies. This was the team Zambians felt would; for the first time in its 29 year old history; take itself and the rest of the country to the world cup. The blend of international and local players was perfect. Kalusha Bwalya, Charles Musonda, Johnstone Bwalya, Kenneth Malitoli and Gibby Mbasela are the internationals that make-up the fulcrum of the team. I speak of them in the present tense because they, unlike their comrades, will play again. Local players like Derby Mankinka, Timothy Mwitwa, Samuel Chomba, Efford Chabala (once voted Africa's best goalkeeper) and Eston Mulenga all perished." (Click link for full story)


Many of us have been watching the streamed games on our computers. No major networks, not ESPN, ABC or NBC are carrying the Africa cup in America. We have not seen the customary sob story play itself out as an intro to competition. Some fervent journalist following the story of our team, recalling the tragedy, the hope and dreams of a nation, nothing. There is no ESPN cover story as we slay another West African soccer giant. There are no marines - having persevered some tragedy- taking the field before our games. No Bob Costas pre-game interview to wrench at our heart strings as he asks the deep penetrating questions. Just plain unadulterated competition and the silent breathing of people who can barely watch, as the minutes tick away. Over twenty years ago, off the coast of Gabon our dreams sunk into the Atlantic Ocean. We were left to reminisce and imagine just what could have been. That 1993 team defined a generation, and brought hope to the nation. We saw the World Cup in our sights being carried by a team we believed would walk American soil as the first Southern African nation to reach the cup. Alas, it never came to pass, we were robbed, our hearts ripped from our chests to float as bits and pieces of debris collected on a sandy beach in a nondescript West African country. What happened?


You see, this has been a long and painful truth, our unfinished business. We have never truly healed from what happened. In fact, playing in Gabon simply gives us an opportunity to look them in the eye for the first time in decades. We have held unsaid enmity, and they having never fully answered our questions, and they still don't get it. We are not content, we are not satisfied, we have unfinished business. So over the years we have developed conspiracy theories and the legend has grown. Was it a rocket propelled missile or did the Gabonese tamper with the aircraft? So as we sit here at the precipice of something we already consider an over-achievement, we are left reflecting, wondering what comes next? No one thought we would beat Senegal or Ghana, and we did. No one, including us, expected to get past the quarterfinals, yet here we are. There will be no sleeping Saturday night, no church Sunday morning. Whatever is on the agenda just got wiped off, win or lose, we will be watching to support our boys. I do not intend to hear a peep from my wife or kids. If the spirits of our lost lads are walking anywhere, let them come and take their rightful seats in the stadium, they deserve to witness this. They are represented by Kalusha Bwalya our legendary soccer god who has always reminded us of the potential of the 1993 team. As he utters small words for them, he speaks giant words for our nation. We are not afraid, we are not scared, in fact we have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Ivory Coast or as they are now known Cote D'Ivoire, should be afraid, very afraid because WE BELIEVE! We are here to finish what we started.

Challenge to "RE"

I am at that transitional stage in life, where I am re-evaluating my purpose. Maybe it’s the fact that my work has become a story of corruption, working tirelessly to line someone else’ coffers. There is something about maturing and wanting to have value. I think it hits all of us, these second stage jitters. We can’t hang out in clubs all night anymore, or chase girls under the guise that we are drunk. We don’t have any excuse to blow money on drinks, nor can we bounce right back from a hangover. Our bodies don’t react as quickly and things we could do very easily, now require stretching and preparation. At this stage we are expected to be ‘doing’ things with our life, supposed to have accumulations of some sort. Yet what starts to happen slowly, like a creeper making its way up a wall, is the lingering feeling of regret, something left undone. It’s an innate human condition, the need to give back or do something that will leave a legacy. That’s the thing that nags, continues to yip at your heels like a puppy in the yard. It doesn’t quite impede your walk, but once in a while the tug at the cuff of your pants is just enough to make you look down. So working in a job that does not feed the nagging feeling is beginning to become cumbersome. It’s not like my resume of deeds is short, nor can I ignore the accomplishments and strides made over the years. However, it is hollowed by the next memo, the next conference call, all of which serve only to prove that, “We the willing, led by the unknowing are willing to do the impossible for the ungrateful, and we have done so much for so little that we are now prepared to do anything for nothing.” – Nurse’ credo. We recently had a family moment where we sat and watched CNN Heroes, people who are out there, changing the world around them, little by little. There was a Ugandan guy that collects the discarded soap from hotels and recycles it for distribution in his homeland. I was touched by not only his inventiveness, but the fact that such a simple gesture goes miles in the scope of changing someone’s life. Who would have thought cleanliness, which can be a national crisis in many a country could be attained by so simple a mechanism. So in 2012, the year I have coined “RE,” I am looking to re-invigorate my own desire to change the world. I want to re-establish the artist in me, and re-affirm my cultural identity. I want to require those around me to respect my boundaries and re-examine their motives. I want to re-connect with meaningful friends and recognize their value. I seek to resign myself to my passion and resolve to be dogged in its pursuit. As a requirement of my labor the by-product of my remuneration will be love. I will re-state my proclamations to reinforce my determination. I won’t be redundant in my riposte; rather they will reverberate with renown. I will not relinquish my power to be relegated to obscurity. I will stand stoic and resolute. I will recommit to God's plan for my life and respond with vigor. I challenge you to RE!

True meaning of Christmas

My daughter was born in a Boston snowstorm, a few days before Christmas. As inches and inches of snow fell, we had been pushing for close to fifteen hours and she still would not budge. That was over 13 years ago and I can remember every minute, every latent contraction, every hard hand squeeze that woke me out of an exhausted slumber. It is the most vivid memory I have of any experience. Somewhat surreal now, it felt like slow motion back then. So for me, Christmas takes on a whole different tone as we celebrate several birthdays back to back. This year, a had a nephew graduate from college, daughter's birthday and the impending birthday of my biggest star, Jesus. Yet that's not what we keep seeing on television. The retailers have us believing that Christmas is about gift giving. At the office a sheet goes around asking people to sign up for Secret Santa and the amount is $25.00. This is for you to draw a name out of a bag so you can buy a gift for someone you probably do not appreciate. What's most interesting is that in this current economy, folks are still willing to buy into the largesse of retail rhetoric and spend money on things that will be discarded in two weeks. I got signed up for two Secret Santa's and that is already $50.00. None of the people I drew from the pot have $25.00 relationships with me. Consumerism is so easy to stoke, the constant reminders of what we need, what we must have and how they will make great gifts. We are being programmed and are willing accomplices in programming our children. The biggest gift we give our offspring is the imprinted memories of spending money to bring smiles on Christmas morning by tearing through wrapping paper. Tiny tots like little robots screaming and shouting about the very toy they will forget about tomorrow. I have to admit, I love getting stuff, I still have that little kid in me, but I am a big kid now. I love electronic toys but have realized that they become obsolete as soon as I walk out the store. The financially astute will tell you that you should budget for Christmas, put something away each month to ensure that you can line the pockets of Macy's, Kohl's, Best Buy, Target or Walmart. Don't forget the good cheer and spreading of good will. Apparently goodwill is most experienced when you spend your money on things that won't last. Not being a Grinch or anything, but growing up seems to make you focus on the things that are most important. Relationships, friendships, family. So this year I am giving gifts of my time, I don't have much of that left. In fact, in my world, it's probably the most precious thing I can give anyone. This is not a prideful stance nor is it cocky, it's the truth. My time is the most important gift I have. My daughter asks for nothing else but my time and so does my wife. I am realizing that there's really nothing more precious as your days ebb. That how you spend every waking moment is a clear indication of what you hold important.So some time in church will be critical, some food and merriment with family and of course quality time with my girls. I long ago recognized Jesus as the reason for the season. I have added to this understanding, when I am long dead and gone, folks won't remember the tie or sweater I gave them. They won't reminisce about the Sade CD or toolbox I bout Christmas of '97. hat They won't recall what the card said three years ago or whether I ever wore that scarf they gifted me. No, what they will remember are the times we spent together, good or bad. The things that were said and the environment and conditions they were said under. So for now I seek to create the environment and conditions for a great Christmas and none of those involves standing in long lines at so called 70% sales that seem to go on all year buying gifts that will end up being returned or placed on the -"How could they buy that?"- for me pile.

Allergic to Peanuts

It was Thanksgiving recently, and in America we all took in the chance to thank God for small mercies. My diligent work on a decadent German Chocolate cake -I have to admit-surprised even me. As we sat around the dinner table, the topic of food allergies came up. As it turns out, my niece -who has a severe allergy to peanuts- was determined to taste the cake, which has pecans in it. So as the topic of slamming an injection in her chest went on, we diverted to the prevalence of peanut allergies amongst kids. In my daughter's school, parents have been advised not to send their children to school with any peanut products. We are raising children who have severe allergies to peanuts. Where did this come from? Why now? It's becoming normal to see food labels that indicate - made with machinery used to process food with nuts. What is alarming is that there seems to be very little root information as to a cause. So for my own curiosity I did a little research and found some things that were interesting. WebMD reports: "One theory for the rise, the hygiene hypothesis, holds that “we’ve become very good at preventing natural infections, and the immune system is not chewing on things it would normally be chewing on,” Sicherer tells WebMD. “We’re not living on farms anymore, we have lots of antibiotics, but seeing an increase means that something has changed in the environment.” The theory suggests that “clean living” and more medication use leaves immune systems in a condition that is more prone to attack harmless proteins, such as those in foods, pollens, and animal dander. The increase also could be related, he says, to the way peanuts are processed. “We roast peanuts, and potentially, roasting it makes a more allergenic food out of it,” he says. “Some people theorize that the oil in peanut butter might make it more allergenic. Roasting peanuts changes the sugar and makes the protein more stable to digestion and easier for the immune system to attack." Things that we have introduced or removed from our food ecosystems are now becoming dangerous to us. Life as it would appear, is a continuously evolving event. Organisms, cells, bacteria, mutate, adapt and change. Our bodies are in a constantly changing state as they were built to adapt to changes in the environment. These changes can be positive or negative and allergies are an example of a positive reaction turning negative. What is ultimately clear is that we need to start being more conscious of what we put in our bodies and the possible long term effects of improper diet. Films such as, 'Food Inc' and 'Forks over Knives' provide invaluable information about why we need to become vigilant about our diet. Sadly, our very own government is not as adamant in this fight as big commerce rides on the shoulders of all the additives and rubbish that we find in food today. So unfortunately, Epipens will become as much a part of our culture as diapers.

Made of Gold

So today while picking up my medicine from my neighborhood pharmacist, he tells me that my name means "Made of Gold" in Hindi. Never heard that one before and it caused me to pause. "Made of Gold," boy have I not felt anywhere near to that in years. Always special, just never "Made of Gold". The Sesame street song come to mind, "Who are the people in your neighborhood?" Well my pharmacist's a person in my neighborhood, and he made me feel good, feel special.

Now, I know what my name means in Lunda and I'm not sure if what he says is true (I will be checking), however he had no other reason to say it except we are almost on first name basis. Sad to say I have needed prescription medication for so long that I developed a relationship with the Pharmacist, but the fact that his words got me on a day like today is a blessing. I am learning that there is critical value in positive engagement.

Today I purposed myself to have lunch with a friend that I have treated like an acquaintance for years. We have always spoken about getting together and a few days ago I asked him to break bread with me, and so we sat in Pei Wei and made friendly conversation. It made me realize that my walk has been a lonely one, void of true connection and remembrance of the special things about me. I have been told by many just how they appreciate me and yet I still suffer from the pangs of loneliness that have been fueled by a life of unappreciated achievement.

Yet when the Indian Pharmacist told me "Made of Gold," my mind connected. Yes, I am. I need to remember that.

Walk don't Run

Sometimes we find ourselves in the places where our journey is limited by space, narrow paths, traffic and natural obstacles. Trying to navigate our way through these times while at full tilt is not only dangerous, but a sure way to get injured. There are those of us, driven by adrenaline, endorphin addicted, who see no fun in the slow process required for safe passage. No, we would rather charge forth, testing our mettle, our thinking ability, our reflexes against the very sharp edged obstacles in our way. The journey is not thrilling if not for the constant ducking and turning.

Yet, what good, is running if you never walk? The knowledge that being safe and not having hurt yourself in your navigation, must always outweigh the urge to run, the desire to hasten through. For that love for the unnecessary bumps, bruises and cuts that leave lingering marks is a dysfunction. It can't be normal, to want to hurt oneself on the journey. The scars remain, calloused and deeply etched, having changed perhaps the very nature of our gait.

In my own life, as I meander through, I have done a lot of running. Sometimes blindly through prickly thorns, ending up with ripped clothes, bloody cuts and painful memories. So somewhere in this journey, I have gained the resolve to walk and not run.

Technology Freak

So my boss walks in the other day and says, "I bought you a Blackberry Playbook," and gives me this little device that's prancing around as a miniature IPAD. So standing there I can't say I was not pleased and yet something in the back of my mind says, "What the heck are you up to?" I mean this is corporate America and quite frankly, there's nothing for nothing. Now the little boy in me is doing loops because I have been scouting IPADs and have been inclined to dismiss that inner voice screaming, "You need this toy!" Of course I have to ignore him, because he's the same fool that has had me have one last drink, buy one more thing, or say one more rude word to the guy three times my size.

I accept the gift and soon realize that its primary function is to be an extension of my Blackberry phone, see now I can do all the functions of my phone on the Playbook, thus relegating my phone to modem status. However, I spend all night and part of my next work-day discovering this. So much for a productive day, well, my boss gave it to me and in my estimation, he's getting his money's worth. So as I scroll, slide and tap on this thing, I realize that my desk is a mass of cables. I have my laptop open and the USB cable for the Playbook connected to it on one port, another cable connected to the other port with my Blackberry charging, as I try to synchronize the media files to my laptop so I can transfer them to the Playbook. There's a cable going to the printer which I can't connect to because I'm using the two ports on the laptop for my Blackberry gadgets and I have to buy another peripheral device so I can daisy chain these things together. I might need Fire wire.

So as I take off my newly bought T1 Bluetooth headset to see if I can synchronize it with my Playbook, realize that it didn't come with a cable that will fit the port on the Playbook and trying to Bluetooth it isn't cutting it. Never mind that the configuration says it's discoverable, I can't get the dang thing to connect and so therefore I have to rely on the Playbook speakers which means I have to fumble around for headphones. The speakers are not too shabby, but what good is this low sound when I'm sure the IPAD has better sound? Anyway, I am quick to connect it to the school network via a request to our resident technician, now the Playbook is usable in all areas of our building, I am in heaven.

I am still not sure why he's bought this toy for me, and I guess I shouldn't ask. My bag is rather full right now, I have two headsets, about five USB cables, a wireless mouse, wireless overhead projector remote control, IPOD, Playbook and all the necessary power cables. The way I see it, I'm just an average guy.I mean don't all guys have all this stuff? How do they survive otherwise? Even though Blackberry have made the device and seem to be lagging on applications, this little thing will do for now. It's really not very much use to me except as a distraction in places where I don't want to engage anyone, like the office. So till I figure out exactly what this bribe is about, I need a bigger bag.

Listen to internet radio with Soneka on Blog Talk Radio

Rap Response to Zambian Rappers

I can officially say that I have had my fill of wanna-be Zambian rappers with their falsified American accents working so hard to be what they shouldn't. Though I admire their talents, I believe that there is a misguided movement to disrespect our cultural values and inherit what is clearly not even admirable in America. Knowing that sometime in order to reach people you have to use their medium, I have written my response to this musical foolishness as a rap:

Here you again, spouting that stuff
Guys from Chawama, Kanyama acting tough,
like you are kin with Osama.
Trippin of a blunt, acting like a .......
Dag....did I almost say that?
Gotta know this man's supreme,
living true not like you kids spitting dreams.
You flossin' like you be bossin',
your names should be in neon lights right under fakin'.
Tryna be American? How can you, when you squawking like
a doped up Pelican.

Making vidoes where you look like criminals,when the closest
you've been to being a gangsta is when you rode that bus to Mansa.
Claiming to be a Zambian, droppin the LSK in your rhyming,
but we raised you to be classy, not to spew lines that are trashy.
I hear your fake accents, tryna mimic the lines from the US.
Your stuff sounds useless, so weak that all you can do is cuss.
Abana balechinchila lelo inshiku, Yo' mama didn't come from no ghetto.
Note to self, make sure these fake Zambians get the memo.
See we just want you to be original, stop copying stuff you can't follow,
munga dimwe nyama ya mumusebo.

Here's a taste of logic, that makes your inswa eating butts look apologetic.
See I'm not a skeptic, I'm affected, so silence isn't an option, because your actions are spastic.
See I can do this with no effort, spew lyrics like a prophet.
Na bana Mulenga nabaishiba that you're up against my static, about to
be scorched by words that are hypnotic.
You've pissed of someone that is just classic, you're in my house, so get ready for
the fantastic.
I'll reduce your raps to helium, change your voice like back at Jacaranda with Ms. Panambelum.

See I won't stand by, can't stand by, till all you pee-wee rappers say bye, bye.
Seeing as you've chosen to be vulgar, I insist you continue in the vernacular.
Ati nembwa iwutukila amafi, your raps are so whack and raunchy, step back, you got my ears all itchy.
Girls in your videos butt shaking? How you get a Zambian girl to act like a donkey?
Not exactly the call of a rocket scientist, that's actually the move of a prostitute.
You passed the test, you lack finesse, step back, and take a rest.

Let me break it down for you in new lingo, put a small hurting on your verbal ego. The profundity of your erudition so far exceeds my ability to comprehend that it is obligatory for you to elucidate. And with that, I'm done, feel free to enunciate.

What happened to love songs?

So the other day, a friend of mine posted on Face Book, his feelings about a new song by Keith Sweat and Joe, called Test drive. According to him,it's the ultimate ballad. Being familiar with the lyrics for this song, I spent the next few days wondering if for some reason, I had missed the memo on, "How you sweet talk women in the new millennium."

This tune has a very catchy beat and an engaging hook, but the lyrics are awe inspiring, with deep loving and reflective verses like; "Out of all the cars, in the yard. You're the one a player wants. Got a big bank girl, I can buy the parts," Test Drive goes where other love songs fail. I mean songs by Luther Vandross with lines like; "Love has truly, been good to me, not even one sad day, or minute have I had since you came my way," are eclipsed by Test Drive's reflective; "I know you thinkin, I'm talkin about a car, but baby I'm not I'm talking about us."

Evidently there is something us Gen Xer's are missing. The way to a woman's heart in the Gen Y diaspora does not meander through her brain and down towards her heart. It's not captured by the ears and masticated for filtration to be deciphered in code. No, you've got to reach right down and grab her panties. So, saying, "Love has a mind of it's own, it comes at the strangest times, somehow it takes control, so try and try but it won't let me go, no matter what I do or where I go your love's got a hold on me," (Glenn Jones) is inadequate today. No, with today's girls you've got to go for the jugular; "You make me wanna test drive -It's hot up in here I'm a take off your top- You make me wanna test drive - Got my feet on the gas and we won't ever stop- You make me wanna test drive - Just put the roof back and let your panties drop- Down, down, touch the ground." That's the stuff that gets them wild.

You see what's most frustrating is that a lot of today's young crooners have these magnificent voices, Tyrese, Tank, Joe, Avant, Ginuwine; and yet their choice of material continues to perpetuate the unsophisticated palate of Ghetto romance. In Tyrese's immortal words, "You know we be tearing it up, breaking @#$% that Ghetto love. So, how you gonna act like that?" I mean how could Teddy Pendergrass even think of singing, "Think I better let it go, looks like another love TKO?" When girls today are scrambling for songs that talk about; "I'm what you need, you need a lift girl, I'll be the seat. Come on and sit on it, ride on it, but don't you move from it."

I feel like I'm in a Barry White time warp. Caught up in his line, "Tell me a secret, I just don't wanna know about any secret but I wanna know about that special secret." I'm still glowing from knowing that, "Love won't let me wait, because the time is right, to spend the night, in a wonderland. So move a little close to me, you owe it to yourself." That's what I remember trying to conjugate as I navigated my way around a woman's head. Where did those words go?

Now, we are bombarded with; I keep it comin so my wood-grain telling me to go North, go East, Go West, Go South, down. Ridin in your Cadillac,keep your feet by the brake if you ain't ready yet." Lord, you took Luther away for some reason and just when we thought Brian McKnight might help us with, "My shattered dreams and broken heart are mending on the shelf. I saw you standing close, holding hands with someone else," money took his creative spirit and made him sing rubbish. Please help us, because somewhere, even my brothers that I grew up with, those who should remember what a true love song should be about, are now touting Test Drive.

Dating in the new millenium!

So the other day, driving to work, I'm listening to Steve Harvey like I usually do (don't judge me!). He's always good for a serious laugh before one walks into the jaws of the mundane. There's a segment they do that's similar to 'The Dating Game'. A man or woman has three possible dating choices. The decision is based on basic information provided during a questioning period and after the prospect has viewed a profile. You get the picture.

Well today I listened as a man with the help of the presenters questioned three women. Turns out this fellow is about 50 years old and a widower, looking for a love connection. As he navigated the road of initial courtship on national radio, asking these women things like; "What do you like to do for fun? Can you cook? What are you looking for in a man?" I couldn't help but think that none of his questions were sparking the kind of information that men are interested in. He was asking the typical things that give you a general view of someone and really didn't seem to have any eliminating capabilities. In my mind, this means that he'll quite basically look at the profiles and go with the woman he believes best physically represents what he is looking for.

So as he continued his downward plod, I started forming my own series of questions in the back of my mind. His line of questioning was leaving me unfulfilled and empty and thus I felt compelled to step in on his behalf. There are just some things that most self-respecting men would need to know prior to a date with any woman, let alone a 40 plus year old.

Not having been in the dating game a while, I started putting together some poignant questions. My list may appear somewhat superficial and not be exhaustive but you will have to excuse me, I am a man. I believe that some, if not all of the following should be addressed;

1. Are those your real eyelashes? If not, do you intend to grow any and if so,
when?
2. Are you using any control top garments and upon removal, will I have any shocked
reaction?
3. Do you have any fake teeth? This includes bridges, crowns, or any other
reconstructive dental surgery.
4. Are you wearing any shape enhancing devices that squeeze and change your natural
shape? Once released
5. Is that your hair? If not, how many other people can you be in a month and will
you be surprising me often?
6. When you take off your hair, will I prefer that you didn't?
7. Do your kids live with you and if so are they rug-rats or delinquents? How old
are they and if any is older than 18, why are they not in college or out of the
house?
8. If you claim you are a Christian woman, why are you on Steve Harvey show looking
for love?
9. If you are such a catch, how come your last husband left you and your kids?
10.Are your eyes really green or will that change like your hair?
11.In your response to a perfect Saturday date you said something about waking up to
a late breakfast. How quickly do you get to third base?

As you can see, this line of questioning will very quickly eliminate quite a few women. Like I said this list is not exhaustive and can definitely take a turn here and there. However, on a radio show, these questions provide critical guidance and direction for the man with an eye to maximizing his potential to find the perfect mate. We need some men who can keep it real! I'm just saying!

Ghana's World Cup

Ghana's eventual loss today was devastating. All of Africa was tied into this, our freedom moment. Uruguay was never a colonizer but somehow, just by their origin, they represented more than just football opposition. Deep down inside we were tying them to the colonizers and oppressors who have tread on our soils. Their South American connection felt repetitive of past World Cups and this, this was Africa's moment.

As Asamoah Gyan stepped up to take the penalty today in the waning minutes of the overtime game against Uruguay today, hundreds of millions of people were holding their breath. If you're like my wife and I, then you barely sat down for a minute of the whole game, stealing occasional glances at the television, while seemingly trying to do innocuous tasks around the house. For the millions of us rooting for Ghana, the only remaining African country in the 2010 World Cup, it more than intense. Luis Suarez, whose handball created this opportunity for Africa to unite in one shining moment, was making his way back to the locker room weeping desperate tears. After Gyan sent the shot hard against the crossbar and over the goal, the camera showed Suarez in exasperated relief, realizing that his very life had been saved. My own laments come to my ears as I questioned God's loyalty to our cause.

There was just this prevailing feeling that this was the year that an African country would break the jinx. This confirmation that we would finally lose the moniker of 'potential' bridesmaid and actually become part of the bridal party. The Black Stars were showing the world that African football has finally arrived at the highest level on the world stage. It took me about six hours to calm down today, eventually needing to go to a garden store to buy some flowers and do some subsequent planting. Therapy, I needed therapy.

Ghana has nothing to hang its head down about, nothing to be ashamed about. Mightier teams have fallen, and earlier in this tournament. Italy, England, France, and Brazil all have made their exit. Ghana put on valiant effort and unlike Luis Suarez whose handball made him an unlikely hero because of the outcome, reminding us again that Africa continues to knock on the door of greatness. This was just not a game, it was our continued strive to forget colonialism, Apartheid, neo-colonialism, elitism and racism. All these seemingly unconnected things are the subliminal, unsaid things that these games represent to us. Uruguay may not have been a colonizer, but their origins allow us to use them as a symbol of all we have fought against.

I want to shout, "Our civil rights were violated, this is racism!" I can't because, this is football and FIFA is doing all it can to send the message that this game transcends race, color, creed, economics and nations. This is the beautiful game - that one game that is truly a world sport. What transpired today was just what Asamoah Gyan said, "It's hard luck. You know, we had opportunity to win this game," Gyan said, "but unfortunately, that is football for you."- (Associated Press http://soccernet.espn.go.com/report?id=264116&cc=5901&ver=us)

Today, we witnessed why this game is so great, why even after losing a job almost a month ago, I have been carried through what should have been a difficult period with nothing but memories of the opportunities to watch each and every game. With my first day of new employment coming next week, Ghana's exit could not have come at a better time, somehow Uruguay, Netherlands, and whoever wins tomorrow, don't raise my gander. I'm really not interested anymore and will watch only because football is my religion. I will not worship at the altar because my favorite African preachers have left and the choir isn't singing any of my favorite songs.

As for Asamoah Gyan, my hats off, much respect. Stepping up to that penalty kick, he carried the weight of all of Africa. His shoulders should have been sagging as he stepped up to that ball. We were all riding on his shoulders, offering advice on how he should place that kick, how hard he should kick it. His miss was our miss and as Ghana's fortunes go, so went Africa. We are reminded however, in Asamoah's statement about the resilience of Africans, we never dwell on the pain, but recognize that our success is in the fact that we're still standing here today. Ghana played beautiful soccer and Africa rejoiced, Ghana lost and so did Africa, but that was only today. Tomorrow will come.

Mr. Mugabe -Syphillis Untreated Can Cause Brain Damage

Please read the heading above. You got it? Now read it again. You see, how else can you explain the actions of our renowned African continental idiot, President Robert Mugabe. He has decided to send two of every animal in the Hwange National Park to Kim Jong II of North Korea as a gift. That's right, two of every animal.

This blithering rocket scientist who has single-handedly managed to destroy the livelihood of millions of Zimbabweans, is now a zoo-keeper? His tenacious stance of unmitigated foolishness is to be admired. After all, where else can a disease wracked brain still emit puffs of such spontaneous buffoonery and be called "His Excellency"? This guy is literally becoming a legend. Somehow he has managed to hold some sort of hypnotic sway on the military, because in any self respecting African country, he'd be gone by now.

What escapes me is, how did the doctors fail to see the tell-tale lesions that the spirochete bacteria leaves? Couldn't they have treated this sooner? Floundering around for words to explain this despot has become our lot in life. I've had to explain the difference between Zambia and Zimbabwe so many times, it hurts. Americans are geographically challenged anyway, so every time they hear his name, I get, "Isn't that your President?" Uuuuuuuuugh, it's so irritating! Now this? I'm wrapping myself in Saran wrap and as we speak. Maybe I'll perish before this actually happens. Doesn't make sense? Well neither does any of this.

This ridiculous display of smoldering stupidity reeks with the pungency of a country that is resigned to its fate. Zimbabwe has fallen into the self resigned abyss of futility. Populace too down-trodden to revolt, and leaders too drunk with power to admit their descent to neanderthal. Mugabe has very few leaders that support him anymore. What remains is this little pint-sized despot partner of his from North Korea. Given this, I can understand his need to show grand homage to his cheerleader and benefactor. But two of each animal? Come on Robert! Get real!

There are times when a revolution screams for a few good men. When the need for change does not require the interference of another country. These are times when the indigenous population, armed with some Penicillin, needs to catch a 'sick' man and heal him quickly. The systemic, redundancy of perverted fallacies that have become the diatribe of a disillusioned syphilitic must cease, one way or another. That last sentence, really felt good. He needs to send two of something to North Korea, I could suggest some things but I don't think they would be appropriate.

Apartheid comes to America

The regurgitated stench of discrimination and its putrid and vile sibling, racism, has reared its ugly head in the state of Arizona. In the twenty first century, as a black man sits in the White House, we are seeing the clear signs of fortified self-righteousness, infused with a shot of malignant ignorance. Masked as a protectionist/isolationist movement, Arizona - with its myopic and politically inept Governor, Jan Brewer - has established, again, why America's claim to greatness is questioned around the world. One small step for Arizona, one giant step for racism. What next? Tattoos identifying immigrants?

What's scary is that this bill passed through a legislative process that actually requires many hours of debate by educated and informed people. The real fear is not the bill itself, but that there can be such clear hatred and abject idiocy presented to the world in confidence. Many years ago on the Southern tip of Africa, Dutch descendants arrived and in time established one of the most powerful countries in Africa's history. They would soon resort to draconian methods to maintain their power over the indigenous population.

"With the enactment of apartheid laws in 1948, racial discrimination was institutionalized. Race laws touched every aspect of social life, including a prohibition of marriage between non-whites and whites, and the sanctioning of ``white-only'' jobs. In 1950, the Population Registration Act required that all South Africans be racially classified into one of three categories: white, black (African), or colored (of mixed decent). The coloured category included major subgroups of Indians and Asians. Classification into these categories was based on appearance, social acceptance, and descent. For example, a white person was defined as ``in appearance obviously a white person or generally accepted as a white person.'' A person could not be considered white if one of his or her parents were non-white. The determination that a person was ``obviously white'' would take into account ``his habits, education, and speech and deportment and demeanor.'' A black person would be of or accepted as a member of an African tribe or race, and a colored person is one that is not black or white. The Department of Home Affairs (a government bureau) was responsible for the classification of the citizenry. Non-compliance with the race laws were dealt with harshly. All blacks were required to carry ``pass books'' containing fingerprints, photo and information on access to non-black areas." - http://www-cs-students.stanford.edu/~cale/cs201/apartheid.hist.html

The Arizona bill gives local policemen the right to detain people that they suspect are illegal aliens and proceed to verify their legal right to be in the United States with the relevant federal bodies. CNN reports that; when asked what criteria will be used to establish reasonable suspicion of someone's legal status, Brewer (Governor) said, "I don't know. I do not know what an illegal immigrant looks like." Part of the law states, "A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER, WITHOUT A WARRANT, MAY ARREST A PERSON IF THE OFFICER HAS PROBABLE CAUSE TO BELIEVE THAT THE PERSON HAS COMMITTED ANY PUBLIC OFFENSE THAT MAKES THE PERSON REMOVABLE FROM THE UNITED STATES." In essence, police now have authority to harass anyone in Arizona, that doesn't fit their mold. Speak with an accent,and you'll probably get detained. "A little too brown there my brother, yes, you too. Hey, you're Asian! You're definitely suspicious."

There is nothing more repugnant than racism when it is disguised by legalism's intelligent language and backed by force. This has been the very reason for freedom and resistance movements from time immemorial. That inner drive that causes men, who seek to feed their families, to leave their homes in search of food, has caused many to venture far beyond their lands looking for opportunity. Walls, waters, hills, deserts have not stopped them. Nothing would have been discovered in this world, no new territories explored if not for that very innate God-inspired drive that mankind was given. Apartheid did not stop millions of African men from jumping on a train (Stimela) and heading down into the dungeons of the gold and diamond mines in South Africa. They knew they were risking their dignity and their self respect, but they would rather feed their children than watch them starve. Willing to risk their very lives, they went anyway.

Historically, it has been clear that when Caucasians chose to do this, they were called explorers and pioneers. When people of other decent follow these same paths, they are aliens. The Arizona bill will require that aliens carry their registration cards at all times, as stated by CNN; "The bill requires immigrants to carry their alien registration documents at all times and requires police to question people if there is reason to suspect that they're in the United States illegally. It also targets those who hire illegal immigrant day laborers or knowingly transport them." It is clear that myopia is a prevalent disease amongst Arizona politicians but by putting the decision in the hands of policemen who sometimes have difficulty making out the difference between citizens and criminals, we again go back to the, "Where is your passbook?" question that was the moniker of Boer policemen.

There is an irony here as aliens, make laws against other aliens. The generational claim that has been staked here is somewhat convoluted as historically, much of the land once belonged to the very people now being targeted. The natives have been placed on reservations and the descendants of colonizers now stake claim. In the movie the Matrix, agent Smith delivers a poignant monologue about the similarities between humans and a virus. There is an illegal alien problem in Arizona, but it is far from being the Southern neighbors with their brown skin, working in jobs that even released convicts will not accept. The illegal aliens are not the day laborers mowing lawns and doing construction jobs without health insurance.

The real illegal aliens who need to be shipped out and checked for their papers are the politicians who have clearly lost their connection to humanity and human values.
The ones who take isolated incidents and conjure them into a picture that fosters fear and apathy amongst the populace. There has never been any danger from south of the border. I believe fifteen of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers were from Saudi Arabia and not Mexico. I can guarantee you that Saudi Arabia has probably not seen any reduction in its visa quotas. You see, they have oil, a lot of it and America needs it, a lot of it. The illegal aliens who need to be stopped while driving to work are riding around in government vehicles with Arizona tags, on their way to legislative meetings. Those are the ones who need to be arrested when on public or private property for MLWS, making laws while stupid. These very same aliens need to be e-verified through the racism program that sometimes uses water-boarding to confirm responses.

When one visits the Statue of liberty, there is a poem written on an inner pedestal entitled the New Colossus. In his sonnet the author Lazarus states;

"Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Lady Liberty has always represented what this country stands for, a place where anyone can be anything. A place where its okay to come empty, poor, down-trodden, weak and persecuted. The land of milk and honey where dreams come true. That's what America has always represented. What can't be okay is for us to sit by as we watch Apartheid and borderline Nazism take a public face and erase dreams. How can we sit and dialogue with quiet refrain as Jim Crow laws are refashioned and dressed up. What once was a land where Mother Freedom beckoned to those adrift and disenfranchised, has become the land that is willing to sit by as ethnic hatred wells up and finally, becomes law. No it's time for the illegal aliens to go, starting with Governor Brewer, "Your papers Miss!"

Unmasked

No longer afraid of things that go 'bump' in the dark
Not hiding under the covers as dusk becomes night
I don't feel insecure when alone in a crowd
Nor singled out when I disagree out loud
I'm walking in my anointing, free and unmasked

Not looking for my name to be written in the marquee
Quite content with setting the stage
For someone else to come be the star of the parade
I'm okay with not having my name on the list
No bouncers or black ropes being pulled at my behest
Walking in my anointing, free and unmasked

I can look you in the eye, when I speak these days
See once I was afraid, wouldn't dare to meet your gaze
I've been all twisted, torn up, and left for dead
Can't quite remember how it started
but I know that it was all in the games we played
Look at me now though, free and unmasked

I don't know if you'll ever know how much I've bled
The rivers, valleys, mountains and deserts, I've tread
The death, pain and suffering left in my wake
Like waves in an ocean, ripples that won't ebb
Look at me now though, free and unmasked

I wonder if the wind tells stories to the birds
If butterflies go somewhere special when they are afraid
Is there somewhere out there trees sing before bed?
Where the moon howls at dogs and dogs smile even when sad?
I dream of a childhood void of pain and dread
Of bustling youth, filled with promise and salvation instead
But then, I wouldn't be here, nor would I be able to claim
"Look at me now, FREE & UNMASKED"