"Profiling Political Thuggism"..Lady Gray

Hmmmm.....Lady Gray here.  Well, I have tried to spread knowledge and the mentality of those on the hill.  Nothing that the social masses hasn't known for some time, just things they often put on the back burners though to simmer and forget about until the pot is ready to boileth over. Let the shit hit the fan!  I've discussed this phrase over the years with some of the men incarcerated, a phrase of darkness often used with judicial proportions and ramifications. I never worry about shit hitting the fan myself, it really doesn't spread very far, of course that depends on the size of the fan and wind velocity.  What I worry about more is shit on the street...everyone walks in it and it travels far, much harder to clean up....from a social and political view, ha ask the boys on the hill about that one. Top dogs within street orgz are no different than the men we have on ladders in the political realms of the government structure....in other words if the "thug" shoe fits then wear it. Always remember that a man who rules with fear and without compassion will have a short tenure and destructive legacy.  They often sit and lay with cronies of the same mentality on their porches.  The problem is they use puppies to do their bidding, underlings who have them under their thumbs and rely on them for survival.  But when puppies get scared they start to whine and yelp, if they do it long and loud enough sooner or later someones going to hear them. In regards to dissension....this isn't an issue about races, not if one uses logic and wisdom, it's about the elements of survival. It's about the impoverished, the disenfranchised, the down trodden and the disheartened.  It's about the will within an individual to write his own legacy over time, to change, to excel, to move life in a positive and productive direction to leave something standing for tomorrow. We were once the number one industrial nation in the world, we're now ranked number five...our monetary system was once one of the strongest in the world, now we have all we can do just to dog paddle and keep our heads above our brothers to the south and I'm not talking about the Bushies in TX either.  This is about the masses struggling now to merely exist, remembering what it was like to live and having the wisdom to know the difference between the two.  The problem is our numbers are swelling and now we want to be counted and heard by the chosen few who live. In regards to dissension and aggressive positivity through demonstration, I want everyone to remember the PLO, IRA, etc. knowledge of one's plight is often over looked by the social masses when there is violence, they often only see portraits of destruction and not the pain or strife that painted them.  Thus my staunch beliefs in strength in numbers and collective wisdom and knowledge to excel life in positive growth and development. I only ask people to remember that a dog or thug who rules in fear, often casts a shadow that he himself can no longer outrun or live with. When that happens you have a scared and dangerous animal on your hands, one whose often lonely and becomes isolated....you can always tell he's an element in the social structure of life that's ready to go down because you can see him biting and chewing on his own ass........ Two negatives don't make a positive, and when a dog gets too many fleas he can't enjoy life because he's too busy scratching!!!! I leave as I came with a great deal of love and respect for life. Lady Gray/bossladyjmc

Life in Detroit's Tenth Precinct..1969

Life in Detroit’s tenth precinct

I was awakened by the sound of sirens and ambulances passing by my bedroom window just before noon on this warm sunny July afternoon in 1969. This was nothing unusual, except the fact that I anticipated the rushing sounds to diminish as the caravan pushed further away, unfortunately, it didn’t. Rising, I looked out my bedroom window and saw several neighbors rushing up Linwood Avenue on Detroit’s Northwest side. Without brushing my teeth or washing up, I grabbed my pants, tee-shirt and gym shoes, jumped out my bedroom window and ran towards the crowd that had slowly amassed on the corner of Linwood and Whitney Avenue. Breezing through the crowd, I saw several Detroit Police Officers standing around a 1965 red Cadillac with handkerchiefs over their faces. Several other Police Officers about twenty-five feet away were ordering people in the area to disburse. The red Cadillac was hitched to the back of a Police tow truck. From the center of the crowd, people were yelling:

“F..k you pig, you disburse.”

As I eased closer to the scene, I caught scent of one of the most foulest odors you could ever imagine smelling. The people next to me had already got a scent of the pungent odor because many of them had their shirts and blouses wrapped around their faces. Caught off guard by this smell, it slowly seeped through to my nostrils until it reached my stomach, when it did, I began to throw up the remains of the hamburger and French fries I had eaten hours earlier. Falling to the ground, I rolled over holding my stomach for the next impact of the violent eruptions the smell had caused. For reasons beyond my understanding, it never came. As I slowly backed up, several bystanders still covering their mouth’s were laughing at me and pointing to the food on the ground that I had just regurgitated. I then heard a loud chilling scream from the front of the crowd. Standing only 5”1” at the time and unable to get a clear picture of what was happening, I pushed my way towards several cars parked less than 20 yards away and stood on top of an old Buick. 

Finally having a birds eye view of the entire area, I saw several women trying to restrain Mrs. Meadows whom stayed just three houses from where my parents lived. Bucking and kicking like a wild horse, Mrs. Meadows broke loose from the three women, pushed past two police officers and grabbed the sheet from the gurney that two ambulance attendants were escorting exposing several pieces of a human corpse. At the top front end of the gurney was the head of a young black man. A man whom we later discovered, was to be the head of Mrs. Meadows youngest son Will.

Grabbing the head of her dead son off the gurney, I watched in horror as she took flight through the crowd screaming, “murderers….murderers” while waving her sons head in front of several Detroit Police Officers. Out of panic and fear, people standing around scattered away as she stood in the middle of the street screaming and waving her dead son’s head high above her own. I was devastated at the sight of seeing this human head unattached from its body. Will’s long black hair appeared to be knotted up with scabs of his own blood. Both of his eyes seemed to have been punctured out, leaving two black holes in the front of his skull and the stringy dark brown flesh hanging from his neck looked like black thin slices of raw liver. Directly to my right, I noticed several women falling to the ground on their hands and knees praying and moaning in unison. For several seconds, violence took over, and you could feel her chilling screams crawling all over your body leaving you momentarily breathless. I didn’t know whether to run or stop. Some unseen force would not allow my eyes to escape the sight before me.

Two Police Officers attempted to approach her with their guns drawn ordering her to get on the ground. Mrs. Meadows appeared to be in somewhat of a trance, oblivious to the two armed white men standing in front of her with their guns pointing directly at her head. Spinning around in circles with the head of her dead son firmly in her hand, she continued to scream and scream while waving her son’s head in the air. Moments later, several more squad cars of Police arrived. In the third squad car that pulled up, out stepped the most notorious, brutal and racist Police Officer in our neighborhood, Sgt. Rincek.

As more and more people began to gather, the Police attempted to place a barrier between Mrs. Meadows and the crowd y positioning their squad cars between here and the ensuing crowd. Although there was a commanding officer on the scene, Sgt. Rincek immediately took control by ordering three officers to take Mrs. Meadows down. In a flash, three officers rushed towards her, slammed her down to the ground, smashed her head into the pavement and handcuffed her. One of the ambulance attendants wrapped the severed head of her son in a sheet and took off in his ambulance. All of a sudden, somewhere from the back of the crowd, a bystander hurled an empty beer bottle into the street striking one of the officers on the back of the neck. When the officer fell, one of his partners grabbed him and began pulling him over to one of the empty squad cars positioned just ten yards from where I was standing on top of this old Buick. I could see the red blood oozing from a gash on his neck. Gathering that he had been cut, the officer, in a fit of rage pulled out his revolver and began shooting wildly into the air yelling, “clear the fucking streets right now!” Hearing the shots and not knowing exactly where the bullets were flying, people in the crowd began running in all different directions, some falling, while others attempting to evade a possible gun shot wound stepping on them and over them. Those whom were near several other buildings in the area, hid behind them, others ducked behind parked cars and took shelter under them. Laying in the middle of Linwood Avenue was Mrs. Meadows, still handcuffed and bleeding from the head.

Having now partially cleared the area, Sgt. Rincek ordered the three officers to place her in a squad car. Rather than pick her up and carry this 52 year old woman, they dragged her by her arms on the rocky pavement which tore most of her dress off her back. Despite being dragged, she continued to scream until one of them pulled out a six inch flashlight and smashed it dead center into her head silencing her. From a distance, people began yelling,” leave her alone, leave her alone.” Then I heard the crackling of bottles everywhere, then rocks and anything else they could find available to hurdle at the officers. Sensing that the crowd was growing enormously large, Sgt. Rincek ordered his officers to clear the area immediately.

 Like scampering cats, they all ran to their squad cars rolling up the windows to escape the fury and anger of the crowd. The first officers escaped virtually unharmed, but the last three remaining vehicles were bashed with bricks, bottles and stones. One of the police officers caught a brick head on through his vehicle’s windshield, causing him to crash into a parked car just a quarter of a mile away from where Mrs. Meadows was beaten and dragged away. Running to the crash site in groves, the crowd bombarded the squad car with bricks, rocks and bottles until every window in the vehicle looked as if it had been in a six car pile up. Seconds later, one of the other squad cars that escaped in the first caravan returned. Hanging outside the passenger window like a gunman riding a horse firing at a posse in hot pursuit of him, Sgt. Rincek was firing his pistol into the crowd. Running away in all directions, the people in the crowd disappeared into the alleys and run ways in the area. Sgt. Rincek retrieved the two injured officers whom fell prey to the mercy of the violent crowd.

Peering through a small hedge of bushes across the street from the crash, I noticed both officers were bleeding profusely as Sgt. Rincek ordered them to grab their gear and get inside his squad car while the other officer stood guard watching the area with a 12 gauge shotgun. Abandoning their squad car and heading north up Linwood Avenue, everyone knew where they were headed…The infamous Detroit Police Tenth Precinct.

Still pumped with adrenaline and seeking revenge for the treatment of Mrs. Meadows with nothing else to do, the crowd demolished the squad car. Local thieves stripped the battery, radio, seats, siren, radiator and whatever was salvageable from the squad car in less than fifteen minutes. Later that afternoon, all that was left of the squad car was the burnt frame of a 1967 Plymouth Fury.

Out of the raging hail of bullets fired by Sgt. Rincek, only one of them found its mark. Old man Jake was hit in the thigh by one of the bullets and leaning up against the walls of an abandon building holding his leg asking the people running by to take him to Rex’s Pool Room just up the street on Gladstone Street. Three Samaritans picked up Old Jake and carried him to his desired destination. Rex’s Pool Room was more than just your ordinary pool room. After the pool room closed at 10:00 p.m., it turned into an after hours joint where all the neighborhood hustlers and players gambled. Prostitutes hung out and picked up most of their customers in the alley out back. Most of the prostitutes customers were factory workers and middle class white men whom often times ventured through the area seeking to satisfy their sexual cravings. Rex was allowed to operate his illegal establishment by paying hefty pay offs to Sgt. Rincek and his band of enforcers whom made sure that Rex was never ripped off or harassed by any other officers from the Tenth Precinct. Everyone knew that Rex was well connected and everybody knew that if they caused any trouble that disrupted his business, they would surely encounter the wrath of Sgt. Rincek and his immortals as they were colorfully named by many in our neighborhood.

About ten minutes or so later, I came across one of my running buddies Tyrone, whom was there from the start. Tyrone explained to me that about an hour or so before I had arrived, people were complaining about a Red Cadillac that was stinking up the area and called the Police. When the Police arrived, they noticed that the smell was coming from the trunk of the Cadillac and when they pried the trunk open, they found Will, Mrs. Meadows’ son chopped up in pieces inside a plastic bag. Tyrone also enlightened me to recall the night before when we were hanging out by the Linwood Hotel drinking Ripple Wine, that the Cadillac was not there. Some time during the night, someone had driven the Cadillac there and dropped it off. A local prostitute named Mary saw Will’s head pulled out of the plastic bag and sent a message to Will’s mother that her son was dead. By the time Mrs. Meadows arrived, attendants from the morgue had already placed his butchered body onto a gurney to be taken to the City Morgue.

On the corner of Whitney and Linwood, people were still gathering and discussing the fate of Mrs. Meadows. Mrs. Meadows was a sweet and loving lady. Her husband died ten years earlier from complications in World War II, leaving her to raise three sons and one daughter alone. Mrs. Meadows was also the toast of the neighborhood to everyone. Every summer since 1963 me and some of my buddies in the neighborhood would raid the lush fruit trees in Laselle Gardens just east of Linwood Avenue. In the gardens, many wealthy people grew apple, cherry, pears, peach and plum trees in their backyards. Some also had lush grape and mar berry vines. We often used old pillow cases from the Rio Grand Motel to carry out our cache of fruits from daylight raids of these trees. We would deliver all the fruits we didn’t eat or take home to Mrs. Meadows. In return, all of our neighbors would supply her with jars and she would make the sweetest grape, peach, apple and cherry jelly, jams, pies, cakes and biscuits you could ever imagine tasting. Most of the neighborhood soup joints and restaurants would buy jars of her jelly, jams and pies and sell them. No one in the neighborhood would have to pay a dime. Everyone loved, respected and adored her. Will was her youngest son, Clarence and Bobby were enlisted in the Army and presently serving in Vietnam and her only daughter Clarice was married at the age of eighteen and had dropped out of school and stayed three blocks away with her husband and two children.

Her son Will was at least ten years older than I was and he stayed in a lot of madness. Unbeknownst to her, or what we perceived to be unknown to her, Will used heroin, sold heroin, robbed other drug dealers and had a fierce reputation as an enforcer for a small time drug ring that operated up on Twelfth Street. Many people knew of his haunts and character, but no one had the heart to tell his mother. Will would come around the neighborhood from time to time driving all sorts of different new cars. He kept a pocket full of money, a gun and a knife. Several days before he was murdered, we were playing basketball on the small court just three blocks from where he was found. Will drove up, pulled out a wad of money and told us that he would pay us five dollars for every shot we made in the basket from the foul line. There were three of us there and we fought each other trying to be the first one to take the shot at his offer. Seeing the greed among us, he pushed us apart, threw three five dollar bills on the ground and said:

“One at a time, whom ever makes the shot gets to keep five dollars, if you miss, you lose.”

Tyrone went first and missed the shot. Will picked up one of the five dollar bills. Box Head shot next and also missed the shot. It was my turn next. I grabbed the ball, focused deeply on the rim, closed my eyes and shot the ball. The ball spun around the rim and fell in the basket. Will picked up the five dollar bill and handed it to me. Looking around, I could not see, but I could feel the anger my two buddies felt when he handed me the money. Will patted me on the back, smiled, jumped into his Thunderbird and took off. Breaking the tension, I raised the five dollar bill high in the air and told my buddies that fried chicken and beer was on me tonight. This seemed to relieve them.

                                                      CHAPTER 2

As the crowd was clearing out, I heard another scream coming from a distance. Tyrone and I turned around and say Mrs. Meadows daughter Clarice choking and screaming at another elderly lady asker her what happened to her mother. Just as they had restrained her mother, several older women restrained Clarice until she was calm enough to be told what had actually happened. Clarice was a beautiful young woman and full of life. Her skin was golden brown matching her succulent brown eyes. Her small frame was delicately proportioned to fit her elegant body. Most of the young men her own age adored her and showered her with gifts in Junior High School and High School up until the time she became pregnant at age fifteen by an older man whom her mother forced to marry her when she reached her eighteenth birthday. Behind the small crowd, I heard the crying of a young child, the child was Clarice’s three year old daughter running up the street half clothed crying out for her mother. One of our neighbors picked up the young child and carried her inside the small circle the women had formed around Clarice.

The sight was becoming so emotional that every house on the block and the surrounding blocks, people were sitting on their porches and discussing what had happened. People were crying and praying in the streets. I was taken back by the support and prayers that were being delivered, however, there was a greater unsuspecting pain ahead of us all that no one ever could have imagined.

Around two o’ clock that afternoon, our neighbors began assembling together up on Linwood Avenue. Easing our way through the mass, we overheard many of them getting together to drive up on Elmhurst and Livernois Avenue where the 10^th Precinct was located to inquire about fate of Mrs. Meadows. There were over twenty cars, trucks and vans loaded down with people from ages 8 to 80, willing to embark upon this journey. Walking from car to car, Tyrone, Box Head and I were looking for any space where we could fit in. At the last moment as all the engines began to start, Benford pulled up in his old tow truck and we hopped in the back and sat down beside the pulley on the back of the truck. Leading the humanitarian caravan was Brother Salamm. Salamm was a neighborhood activist whom had served ten years in prison. Upon his release, Salamm returned to the same neighborhood where he once was a pimp and drug dealer and preached against drugs, violence, prostitution and corruption. Many of the people whom knew him before he went to prison respected him and honored him, but many of his old comrades and those whom knew of his prior reputation, laughed at him, scorned him and called him a fraud. Salamm never once allowed them to discourage his new found love for peace and spiritual awareness, and everyday you could see him in the midst of a crowd of children coming home from school my age and younger, explaining to them the values of education and religion. He often pointed to the prostitutes, hustlers, and thieves walking the streets as examples of Moses’ lost flock. Many parents embraced his gallant efforts and many more often times summoned him over to their homes to lecture their sons and daughters whenever they were caught with drugs, weapons or alcohol. No one else in the neighborhood showed as much interest in the youth as he did, or as consistent, be it winter, spring, summer or fall, he was always there. Many people in our neighborhood would argue over whom would cook him a big Sunday dinner. In an effort to appease everyone, he organized a schedule for those whom wanted to cook for him. This didn’t settle all of the disputes, but it brought about a sense of harmony to all.

Tooting his horn five times and turning on his lights, Salamm gave the signal that their journey was in session. At first glance, it looked as if a funeral procession was in progress. Salamm led our caravan at barely ten miles per hour down Joy Road Avenue. Sitting on the back of this truck, people we were passing at stop signs and red lights began asking us what was going on. People in our caravan began yelling out the windows that we were heading to the 10^th Precinct to see about an old woman the police had beaten and taken there. Throughout the entire route we had taken, it was the exclusive jurisdiction of the notorious 10^th Precinct and many people were aware of the brutality, harassment, torture and fear many of the officers there had inflicted upon them, their families, friends and neighbors alike. Seeing this small procession of vehicles systematically winding its way, many people began to follow us, some in cars, some on bikes and some on foot. By the time we reached Elmhurst Avenue, the caravan had increased from 20 to 45 cars, trucks, vans and people on foot. When we finally reached the front of the 10^th Precinct, Salamm stood on top of his car and yelled to everyone to remain calm and collective. Jumping from the back of Benford’s tow truck, we ran to the front where Salamm was standing on the top of his car. Seeing the large congregation outside, several officers, armed with shot guns stood in front of the Precinct. Salamm yelled to them to speak with whomever was in charge. One of the armed officers took off running inside and returned with a gray haired commander whom we had never seen before. Salamm jumped off the hood of his car and met the commander on the front lawn of the Precinct. With his back to us, we could not hear what Salamm was saying to him. Everyone appeared to be silent, absent a few among us whispering to each other. What seemed like an eternity, Salamm shook the commander’s hand, turned to us and yelled:

“Mrs. Meadows is okay, they are going to get her.”

Everyone began cheering and hugging each other. To them Salamm had just performed a miracle.

Mrs. Meadows was escorted out by two officers. Her head had been bandaged, and she was wrapped in a blanket. Feeling the rush from the joyous crowd, she mustered a smile and waved to them as Salamm walked her to his car. Behind her smile, I could see the long drawn pain and agony deep inside her soul. Not knowing what it feels like to lose a son, I could not even begin to imagine what she may have been feeling, but what I did know, is that her face did not express the compassionate facial features we all loved and depended upon each day to bring us a smile.

By: Tony Phish

Life in the

The Road to OZ..Lady Gray

‘The Road To OZ’

For decades, individuals have debated the validity or fallacy of ‘The Road To OZ’.  I have decided to pay homage to this portrait in life & those artists behind the painting of.  I have had many come to me in question of whether or not the ‘portrait’ truly exists.  Many have been led to believe that it is simply an ‘illusion’ or ‘dream’ within one man’s intellect or mental framework.  A mirage on one man’s journey in life that he simply made reference to.  

For those of us who are 40 years of age or older, it is easier to see the total portrait & conceive its message.  There was a time within life & American society at large, when life was shared by the elderly within our realms & passed down to the youth.  We were akin to our roots, history, heritage & family traditions.  We were all neutrons in the nucleus of our communities, we all counted & we all had a purpose, reason & cause to strive for our betterment.  At the same time, we all had a ‘position’ in life’s pyramid & ladder that was strictly adhered to.  Thus leaving many individuals suppressed & oppressed when it came to individual ‘Growth & Development’.  

For those of us knowledgeable about the history of our Nation, we must remember, that many times ‘dreams’ & ‘visions’ had to be disguised or blanketed from those who preyed upon our educational & economical weaknesses.  During the age of Industrialization in America, many times as not, those within impoverishment & disenfranchisement, although technically competent & inventive, were not respected or considered.  Their concepts & inventions were stolen and buried or capitalized on by the elite.  

The ‘Road To OZ’ is symbolic of every individuals journey within life.  The Road is paved with bricks. The bricks are representative of knowledge & wisdom.  Knowledge is ‘golden’, wisdom is ‘deadly’.  These are collected by each individual’s desire to achieve growth & development within his character.  As one travels on his journey, his bricks(souvenirs) become more numerous.  

The ‘legs’ of our journey on the ‘Road To Oz’ are representative of the stages in life.  We have been fortunate enough to reap the wisdom of those who have traveled before us.  Whether or not we choose to learn from their experiences, is another story.  Each & every brick holds value to our survival, enabling us to write a legacy & leave something standing for tomorrow.

Today within the materialistic society we live in...we associate the Road To Oz with gold.  Therefore many feel that it is unconceivable that it exists at all.  I say to you, what price do you put on ‘knowledge & wisdom’?  Is that not what the ‘whole’ of the people seek?  If knowledge & wisdom were not priceless...why would so many within life’s capstone try to suppress it?  Why should only a chosen few benefit from its existence?  Why is knowledge feared by those within life’s capstone when it is possessed by those within life’s base?  Does knowledge not weaken the ‘false’ & ‘negative’ portraits painted by others who deter our advancement?  Thus the present ‘dumbing down effect’ within our educational realms & the push for ‘Mental Apartheid’.

The ‘Road To OZ’ is not an illusion...it is the journey of one man’s struggle to leave something standing when he has reached his destination.  Just like Dorothy, there are risks & sacrifices along the way.  But did Dorothy not reach Kansas?  Did the Scarecrow not receive his brain?  Did the Lion not receive his heart?  Was evil not conquered?  

I leave you as I came, with a great deal of love & respect for life,

Lady Gray

I Believe...

There was a time in this country when we all could spend idle time dreaming, planning and designing the destiny of our lives and the legacy we would leave behind. When families gathered around tables for evening meals to discuss the days events, their plans for tomorrow and for what was to come. When dreams were spun and shared by all, each family was a neutron in the nucleus of the community in which they lived.

Our doors were unlocked, our windows had a clear view without bars, keys were left in our cars in the drive, and no matter where you lived in this country, you were someone in the community and you counted. Although we lived in hard times through different eras in life, we over came and conquered immorality and negativity. Our parents had time for us, many mothers stayed home to tend and nourish their offspring while dad bought home the bacon. When families gathered on and for every occasion from good report cards, Birthdays, Holidays, Sundays, to Weddings and Funerals. Children played sports in our streets and parks unattended with little fear. Families could be seen on Sundays walking to church and strolling through our neighborhoods and parks. When communities had numerous parades, picnics, street dances and block parties. Yes, I remember when …..we all counted.

Politicians went door to door, stood outside grocery stores, in city halls, and stood on the tail gates of pick-up trucks at county and country fairs to make their speeches and bring us hope. When they shook all of our hands, kissed babies and asked us what they could do for us. I remember when if they had a mind to sling mud and call the kettle black, they did so by getting their own hands and feet dirty. Yes, I remember when every neutron in the nucleus of a community counted and the politicians couldn’t go to Washington without our strength, power and vote…..

I really don’t know when things started to change, but they did. In almost half a century here on this earth, I have seen the neutrons split and the nucleus of our communities weaken. Families went from being bonded and welded into powerful neutrons, to only gathering for funerals and weddings. Keys were taken out of our cars, doors locked, bars put on windows, children could no longer enjoy their streets and neighborhoods without fear, and everyone started to distance themselves from other neutrons on their streets, buildings and neighborhoods. Both parents soon had to work to make ends meet, to meet the bureaucratic demands, materialistic growth and society’s expectancy of what everyone’s life should be like. The negativity within our social realms began to expand and expound within the mentality of the government, entertainment and media. I remember when everyone had their blinders on to the comings and goings of our politicians, when they had large luxury toys parked outside their homes, their wallets were fat and all was well…..

As I look around me today in the closing of the year 2010, I see not only the deterioration of neighborhoods, communities and our country, but the destruction of the pedestal so many before us sacrificed so much for to erect, Unity, Justice and Freedom For All.

Our country of Industrialization is collapsing around us, wallets are getting thinner, not only both parents must now struggle to survive, but our children are being forced to grow up well before their years to help us make it through today so that we may see tomorrow. Negativity thrives all around us, hundreds of thousands around us becoming impoverished so that we will soon only have two classes within society, the very poor and the chosen few. Whole cities struggling, going bankrupt and becoming dysfunctional. Politicians who no longer shake hands, kiss babies or ask us what they can do for us, but they give speeches out of the sides of their mouths, telling us what they’re going to do for us. From shore to shore, our fences are in need of repair, the weeds in our back yard are growing out of control and those who have become political actors are now going abroad to spread their mentality, no longer finding the theater even in their own backyard desirable.

But like civilizations and cultures through the passage of time, the will and spirit to survive, overcome and flourish becomes a driving force, making each one of us stand strong, our thoughts and voices reverberating our dreams and desires to live…we unite and awaken our knowledge, wisdom and spirit to overcome the evil doers, the power mongers, the suppressers and those whom would oppress us from proceeding on our journeys in life in peace and harmony.

The pen is mightier than the sword…for the sword is only lethal as long as the individual who wields it has strength to do so. The pen can forge nations, dreams, and last a lifetime within the chapters written in history books. I believe in dreams and miracles, which bring hope, spirit and desire to the masses. I want every American to take off their blinders, take a long hard look around them, stop struggling to survive long enough to absorb the knowledge and wisdom around you so that living will no longer be a lost vision in the setting suns. I believe in miracles and strength in numbers…raise your voices in a chorus of harmony, seize your right to share a piece of the American Apple Pie.

I believe in dreams, chivalry and Americanism….please share with us your dreams and visions for the year 20011.….The Year of Knowledge, Growth and Development….MIRACLES DO HAPPEN!!!

LADY GRAY

Incarcerated Fathers & Their Daughters....By: The Empty Drum

Incarcerated Fathers

And Their Daughters

“Fighting Fatherlessness From Prison”

It was four years to the day since I had any contact with my daughter, Nikki. She was born months after I was sent to prison. Throughout the first six years of her life, Nikki and I spent nearly every weekend together in the prison visiting room. Nikki’s mother never loved me, nor I her, but money is important to single mothers and in her mind taking my daughter to spend time with me each weekend ensured that she would continue receiving enough to get by. I cherished those visits. Nikki did too. I was devastated when the Bureau of Prisons, for no apparent reason, decided to transfer me across the country and 2,500 miles from my home in New Jersey.

The visits ceased. The trip to Colorado simply wasn’t practical even when funds were available. It took me some time to deal with my loss, salve another emotional wound, and find a place to put the scar. At the new prison, convicts were dropping like flies and survival began to preoccupy my thoughts.

After several months, I stopped thinking about Nikki altogether. I could not meet the exigencies of penitentiary life while simultaneously dealing with the psycho baggage of losing a daughter, whom I only loosely had to begin with. This loss of my daughter chalked up as another reason to personalize my fight against the manner in which the U.S. deals with its social problems. I marched on.

This past New Year’s Day, however, I had arranged a telephone call with the now 10-year-old Nikki. We discussed school, her mother and sisters, and the man whom she refuses to call ?Daddy? and how he does not in her mind compare to myself. I listened more than I spoke and finally asked Nikki if she was happy with my gifts. Nikki replied that she was and began to reminisce about our last visit together four years ago and the present I had given her that day, which she still has.

Nikki began to cry and, when pressed, in the shaking voice of a repentant sinner, asked me why I no longer wanted her to visit. I nearly vomited and couldn’t answer for there was no truthful basis to her question. Apparently, when questioned about our lack of visitation, Nikki’s mother took an easy out telling Nikki that I did not want to see her. Avoiding the fact that her mother had outright lied to her, lest Nikki be left with no parent to trust, I explained that things were much more complicated, that I am very far from home, and that if we were to have visits where I am now incarcerated they would take place through a telephone and security glass. Nikki replied that she didn’t care. In truth, neither did I.

I did my best to assure Nikki of how special she is to me and how much I love and missed her. Then I lied to her. I told her that I’ve thought of her every day, which it turns out was only a partial lie as I have thought about her every day since. Changing the subject, she told me of a boy from school who had hit her, to which I nearly responded that he must like her but did not for fear that she may begin to misinterpret hurt for like. We said good-bye and promised to write. For a certified therapist, I did not handle the situation well.

Afterward, I replayed our conversation in my head - our lives over and over in my head - and realized that for all of the attention I had given to how having my daughter stripped from my life affected me. I never fully considered its permanent impact on Nikki.

I can admit that as a man I would never on my own have come to understand the various ways in which my absence may be devastating my daughter and her emotional growth and future. Were I to draw from my psychology schooling, still I would have failed to connect the proper dots in appropriate ways. After endless further research, I continue to be astonished over my ignorance. We are abusing our children with our absence, and boys and girls do respond to this abuse differently.

The male and female egos, with exceptions, generally operate fundamentally different. The average male ego, when confronted with loss or rejection, be it actual or perceived, does not naturally resort to self-evaluation. Rather, the rejected male attempts to identify that which is wrong with the rejecting individual instead of himself (an external reason for rejection) and, if that fails, takes the position that the rejecting individual is in any event unworthy of him. Thus, the male ego externalizes rejection through deflection and displacement.

The female ego, however, internalizes rejection. When confronted with rejection, actual or perceived, she often searches for flaws in herself, and will often find them, usually imagined as a basis upon which to rationalize and validate the rejection.# To the child and even adults lacking firm emotional intelligence, the absence of a father, whatever the reason, is often perceived as abandonment and rejection. A majority of the daughters of incarcerated fathers are asking themselves what is so wrong with them that they have been rejected by their fathers. Worse yet is that many have created answers. There are two statements, the truth of which I am comfortably certain:

1) Fatherlessness can and often does permanently damage daughters of absent fathers, and 2) From behind prison walls, incarcerated fathers can take steps to alleviate and possibly reverse at least some of that damage.

For the fatherless child, trying to sort out and deal with the psychological and emotional aspects of being rejected by one’s own father is an impossible task. How a fatherless daughter decides to understand and contextualize that absence, however, may result in life-long psychological traits and characteristics attending a variety of possibilities

Myriad factors relate to how a child deals with fatherlessness, including the presence or absence and permanence or transience of a surrogate father, familial structure and support, what she is told about the father and his absence especially from her mother, the presence or absence of siblings, the age and/or emotional intelligence of the child at the time the father becomes absent, the duration and quality of the relationship between child and father prior to his absence, and post-absence contacts. Surely this list is not exhaustive, but intended to assist in understanding that a variety of complex factors determine how the seed of fatherlessness will result in covert emotional trauma and grow into overt actions. Often, the fatherless daughter continues to contextualize and recontextualize the absence and perceived rejection subconsciously and throughout her lifetime. It appears that dealing with the issues consciously is the only means of warding off and recovering from the damage of fatherlessness.

One of the most basic and easily identifiable results of fatherlessness is the search for a father substitute, be it longing for a father-daughter relationship or specifics such as paternal love, approval, acceptance or protection. It does not appear relevant whether or not the absent father rationally could or would provide these things if he were present. The loss to the daughter is equally as real whether actual or merely perceived.

This search may lead to a variety of destructive behaviors, including eating disorders, drug and alcohol abuse, sexual promiscuity and the obsessive desire to have a child of one’s own from an early age. Fatherless daughters have a significantly increased rate of involvement in abusive relationships and of staying involved for fear of losing the seemingly accepting abusive mate/father substitute and reliving Daddy’s abandonments and rejection over again.

Moreover, fatherless daughters are prone to becoming not only victims of but masochists for abusive male dominance and sexual oppression. The pimp-prostitute dynamic is one of classic example. Many will physically abuse their own children, especially daughters. Few develop in the opposite direction, forsaking, hating and abusing men (often a son). Given these relationships with men, most will go on to have children who will also become fatherless, thereby perpetuating the cycle. And father-daughter and mother-son relationships during childhood development directly correlates to cross-gender relationships and social skills in adulthood.

The psychological turmoil of fatherlessness may also manifest itself in a variety of other ways, most notably the obsessive drive to please everyone at one’s own expense (often to complain afterward in martyr fashion), chronic fatigue syndrome, perfectionism, andaddictive personality disorder.

The majority of psychological and emotional responses to fatherlessness in women are of a depression variety. Self-hatred and feelings of worthlessness lead to higher drug abuse and suicide rates in fatherless daughters. With loss and often perceived abandonment and rejection comes shock, anger and bitterness, feelings of betrayal and unfair treatment, insecurity and the quest of the child to determine what is so wrong with her that she has been abandoned by her father or what it was that she (or her mother) has done to make him leave. Daughters with masculine egos tend to fair better in the short-run as they are more likely to aggressively displace or deflect those feelings, blaming others or even and usually more appropriately the absent father. In the long-run, however, the effects are equally destructive to these children.

Obviously, a full treatment of child development in the face of fatherlessness cannot be given here. Fathers are encouraged to do their own research. What I hope to offer incarcerated fathers is enough information to give them the most general sense of the potential havoc and destruction being visited upon their daughters and the motivation to take preventive and reparable action.

Too many incarcerated men have showed their prowess at manipulating and taking advantage of psychologically and emotionally traumatized women. I do not, of course, suggest that imprisoned fathers manipulate their daughters. What I do suggest is that those fathers draw from that experience in a wholesome manner for the task of understanding and to ensure that their daughters do not develop into such a woman.

The first and obvious task for the prepared father is to contact his daughter and to consistently maintain that contact. Worse than making no contact whatsoever is making contact that is not maintained. Stepping into or returning to a daughter’s life only to again abandon her merely exacerbates the potential for damage.

Whether contacting a daughter for the first time or reconnecting after a significant absence, it is appropriate and in some cases necessary to first seek permission from a present parent or guardian. I suggest a simple explanation from the father of how he plans to maintain contact (visits, phone, mail, etc.) and the motivation for his wishing to do so (daughter’s psychological/emotional welfare). Where the daughter is in some form of mental health program, it is extremely appropriate to contact the treating mental health professional for guidance, feedback, and advice.

A daughter who perceives herself as abandoned or rejected or who has suffered severe emotional trauma over her father’s absence may be skeptical and reject her father’s attempts at contact. In such cases, I suggest that the committed father nonetheless continue to write consistently and no less than once a month. A simple but powerful: ?I understand that you may not now want to respond, but you are very special and important to me. I will be here and available when you’re ready. In the meantime, I hope you won’t mind if I share some things with you ?? It may take months, or even years, but once the daughter feels secure in that she will not yet again be abandoned and hurt, she is likely to respond.

Once contact is established, fathers must tread carefully. Is the child six or 16? Fathers must communicate in an age-appropriate manner. On the other hand, fathers must take care to not speak down to their children but to communicate with them as young adults. The fact that one is the biological father does not confer an inherent right to be a parent when connecting after absence.

Upon initial contact, a daughter may express anger, bitterness and even hatred toward her father and others. The father may have excuses and reasons and further excuses to counter all such sentiments. Fathers should not argue. Her feelings are justified, even if misdirected. Remember, it’s all about her. Fathers must avoid using their daughters as tools to deal with their own issues and refrain from burdening their daughters with them.

It may be prudent, depending upon the circumstances, that a father not broach the subject of his absence and her feelings about it until some time after a recognizable relationship develops. Common sense and instincts should dictate here. I recommend a waiting for that point at which the daughter expresses a relaxed attitude in communicating. As for the daughter refusing to reciprocate, I recommend tactfully engaging the subject mindful of the suggestions herein

Accept responsibility and ask forgiveness. The father’s absence may not be his fault. He may have had no control over it and done his best to avoid it. These arguments may be valid. However, daughters do not need to hear their fathers? excuses for the absence. What they do need to hear is that it is not their fault. Acknowledge and validate her feelings. Accepting responsibility and gaining a daughter’s forgiveness is the first and greatest hurdle. The idea is for the daughter to know and believe that the absence is in no way her fault and that while she neither had nor has any control over it, she does have complete control over how she chooses to respond and deal with it. Remembering that children are individuals and respond differently, fathers should pay careful attention to their daughters? rejections and responses and adjust their approaches (and expectations) accordingly

Maintaining contact is equally if not more important than making contact in the first instance. For most prisoners, the fact of incarceration means the inability to be physically available. Nonetheless, incarcerated fathers can be emotionally available and paternal models. Avoid commitments and keep those promises that are necessarily made. Because prisoners have no control over the certainties of their own lives, they should avoid making any promises they may be unable to keep. Lockdowns, riots, transfers, obscure prison rules, etc., may mean breaking that promise to visit next weekend or to call at nine o’clock. To a daughter, these may sound like excuses and rehash any rejection and abandonment issues.

Many feminists downplay the role of fathers in child development while many males believe that the relationships between father and daughter is of less import than that between father and son. The research is overwhelming that both views are sorely misplaced. For example, most women will seek in a partner those qualities perceived in their fathers or father model. Modeling therefore plays a crucial role. Fathers set not only a parental example but also the standard against which the future partners in a daughter’s life are likely to be judged. Set that standard high.

Incarcerated fathers must perform a careful balancing act. They cannot be fathers in the physically paternal protective or corrective sense. They cannot set rules for their daughters or demand that they follow them. They cannot demand that their daughters engage in or refrain from some conduct. Whatever the relationship that develops, it must be understood in the context of the realities that confine it. A daughter who comes to lovingly respect her father as such will be responsive to his approval and guidance. That love, respect, and recognition is the goal.

A father’s words, mannerisms, and behavior will determine the level and type of respect his daughter has for him. He should be alert for opportunities to encourage her and to provide her with a sense of self-confidence. Daughters are beautiful, strong, smart, worthy of self-respect and of demanding respect from others, in addition to qualities peculiar to each child. They should hear it and hear it often. In actions and words, fathers must reinforce their daughters? best beliefs in themselves, their relationships and their worlds

Incarcerated fathers particularly must refrain from degrading those parents that are physically present in their daughters lives. There is likely to be in most cases a great deal of history and bad blood between an absent father and the present parents, particularly the mother. Repairing those relationships and befriending the present parent(s) has an additional advantage in that they may keep the absent father alert to problems the child is experiencing and offer other relevant information and advice. It is also best for children, especially younger children, to learn that separation and disagreement do not necessarily equal dysfunction. Moreover, how a father relates to others, particularly women, has a powerful impact on daughters and their expectations of men.

The father-daughter relationship is not easy to maintain, especially from prison, but is worth maintaining. There will be pitfalls, curves, and ups-and-downs. Each will at time misinterpret the other, disagree, and confront emotional conflicts. Those men with mommy-daddy issues of their own need to work them out on their own and not impress them upon their children. Before reconnecting with a daughter, fathers must ensure that they are themselves prepared.

A parent’s absence is a form of abuse, an unfair and unjustified deprivation visited upon the child. Our daughters need us and although incarcerated, we must make ourselves available in every way that we can and in the best ways that we can.

BY: THE EMPTY DRUM

“The Empty Drum” is a certified therapist presently serving time in a Federal Penal Facility. It is his desire to share these thoughts

'An American 'BEAN' War'

I come to all Americans with the nth amount of due respect & love for life. As the year 2010 winds down to a close I would like to share with some thoughts & make an appeal to your person. The year in American Politics has been chaotic & devastating for its citizenry & the image of the American Dream. We have watched helplessly & hopelessly as our country’s political realms have imploded within & our country’s infrastructure with it.

We’ve seen displays of ignorance & verbal assaults upon the citizenry by politicians who have removed themselves from the interest of those they represent. No class, race, economical status, religious or sexual orientation, political party beliefs or the constitution has been untouched. Politicians & the media have brow beaten the masses for the last decade with little fear of judgment or repercussions.

I’m disheartened by those within the media & political realms who thrive off & are rewarded for their vile spew. If you took one of these ‘elite’ ladder thugs of life & put them out on their proverbial azz on the street, they wouldn’t survive 72 hrs in the real American Struggle. With corporate power houses supporting their efforts & actions of self-serving ‘elitist’ agendas, they have no conscience & only answer to CEO’s.

I am making an appeal to all of those who are now suffering at the hands of our politicians & the corporations they have chosen to represent. To those who still believe in ‘OUR’ portrait of the American Dream. To the homeless, unemployed, those within impoverishment & the middle class, to those within life’s pyramid who still have a conscience & believe in humanity to join me in ‘An AMERICAN Bean War’.

When Poverty grips a nation or people’s, it does not discriminate, its victims do. Poverty knows no lines, boundaries or country borders. It doesn’t pay any heed to Race, Creed, Sex, Age or Mentality. If Mr. Beck thinks that there is no suffering within America, then he should be declared an ‘illegal alien’. Any commentator or politician who cannot see the condition of American citizens needs to take up offices at Disney World or Marvel Comics & take any future bimbos with them like Sarah Palin.

Ever since the ‘Great War’, capitalists & elitists have attached the word WAR to any cause they could financially benefit from & get the attention of the masses for support. We’ve had many WARS in this country that American citizens as a whole have not benefitted from. The War on Poverty, The War on Inflation, War on Drugs, etc..today everything has become a battle or WAR.

The greatest changed in the history of this country came through not a WAR,, but a peaceful movement. The Civil Rights Movement. It has been one of the few great changes in this country that elitists & capitalists couldn’t capitalize from. Taking all of this knowledge & wisdom into account I too have just used the word ‘WAR’ to get citizens to rally around a ‘peaceful’ message that we can send to politicians & the media realms. I’m tired of the media & politicians speaking for the impoverished & those still left within the middle class, who don’t know BEANS’ about our lives & struggle.

I would like to see all politicians on a State & Federal level who don’t know ‘BEANS’ about those they have chosen to represent sent the following ‘peaceful’ & ‘nutritious’ message. Everyone who is struggle & in fear of impoverishment themselves, should send a package of ‘BEANS’ to their political representatives. You may send them to politicians who do not have your interests or survival at heart. A package of dry beans: Navy, Pinto, Red, Kidney, Black, Black-eye peas, etc. with a note attached. The notes should send some of the following messages, “You don’t know BEANS about the American Struggle”, “You don’t know BEANS about me”, “You don’t know BEANS about being unemployed”, “You don’t know BEANS about being homeless”, “We will not work for BEANS”, “Our healthcare provider does not accept BEANS”, “We cannot make house payments & rent with BEANS’, “We cannot feed our children BEANS every day”, etc. etc.

Food & baked goods are sent thru the mail daily..if you don’t feel comfortable sending them to DC, send them to their offices in your own State & Districts. On the bag of BEANS please tape the receipt for the cost of BEANS, so few of them know the price of anything in the grocery stores. If you want to be very creative & generous also send the recipe for your favorite BEAN dish.

I wanted to run this by everyone presently in the American Struggle & see what your feelings are on this matter. Personally, I don’t like the word WAR, I also thought of The Bean Brigade, but like elitists, capitalists & politicians I pulled out their trump card with getting your attention by attaching the word WAR.

I thank all of you for your friendship, comments & moral support this year....

With Love & Respect,

Lady Gray