Over the weekend, I was invited to a naming ceremony for an adorable one-year-old whose dad I work with, and it made me think of culture, and tradition.

So, the dad is Ghanaian, and the mom is Belizean, and half the reason I wanted to go was because I’d never been to a child-naming ceremony before. I had done a couple of baptisms, but was curious as to what the pageantry of the baby-naming was like.

The child was a year old, and already had a name, but this made it official. From what I could ascertain, in Ghana, the first name you are given is dependent on what day you were born. You rock with that until your first birthday, when your parents throw a party and announce what your whole name is.

What was really interesting to me was the line of demarcation between the religious and the spiritual. Most of the ceremony was Christian in nature, with Bible verses and the use of water as a cleansing agent. But after that was done, some elders pulled the parents away to invoke the calling of ancestors to protect and guide the child. Both emphasized the welcoming of a new life into a family; reminders to be mindful of those who have gone before and those here to help and support. There were introductions of godparents. Acknowledgements of friends who had made the trip to witness the ceremony.

Got me to think about Christianity in Africa and the pull away from spiritual traditions. Thinking about all the love there for this little boy who was zooming around the room, followed closely by a bevy of aunts. Thinking about what makes family, and the hope that things will get better for the children coming up now.

And thinking about how we had to leave after the ceremony, and I didn’t get any jollof rice. Dammit.

One thing about me is that I overthink some things. Someone doesn’t email me back is because they hate me and never want to speak to me again. A stomach ache is because my intestines want to leave my body. Rude people in the store is grounds for a road rage incident. That kind of thing.

So, some time ago, I was asked to participate in my old high school’s Career Day, and I jumped at the chance. They were offering it remotely, so people who couldn’t get to show up on campus could still do it. A friend of mine (and fellow alum) who lives inEngland did it last year, and I figured I could too.

So, here’s the thing about my old high school. Those of you reading who know me either a) know this already (because you were there too) or b) have heard me talk about this before. But, in short, I went to an experimental high school aimed at getting more minorities and women into math and science. We were the best and brightest, and no expense was spared in getting us to school. We were on a university campus, and used some of their facilities and took some of their classes. Our gradutaing class was 105 or so, so I knew everyone in my class.

Thing is, I made a lot of great friends there, and while high school wasn’t the most awesome time of my life, it wasn’t the pit of agony and despair as it could have been. So, 30 years removed from when I first arrived, I went back (virtually) to talk to current students.

None of the facilities are the same. No one in administration currently as there when we were. I have no connection to this place other than…well, the people I went to school with and an idea that the school still occupies the same physical space as we had.

But, I’ve been occupied with a sense that I need to give back. I haven’t called CA home since ’97, and I’ve toyed with the idea of a scholarship of some kind. Until that comes to fruition, thought hat could I do? How about…talk to the kids?

So the presentation was on a Friday, and I was off Thursday to get some stuff done at home, but I ended up spending all day trying to get a presentation together. What would I say? What advice would I have listened to when I was 16 or 17? What am I wearing?

I cared a lot. I somehow waited to fit some positive affirmation, some sage advice, and some sense of connection into 45 minutes. I was probably doomed from the start with that, but I couldn’t help it. I was a walking bundle of nerves on Friday, with presentation time being noon Central time.

In short, I rocked it. I did my seven slide presentation, and answered a pretty decent number of questions. “How tall are you? What was high school like back in the 90s? What’s your average day at work look like? Did you play sports? Do you ever come back to California?

I may have rambled at some parts, but I think Was okay. And after it was over, I’m really glad that. feel I was able to drop one or two gems on them. Things I would have loved to hear, loved to have known. The thought that you are not locked into anything at 17; you can change your major, go to the Chess Club, play intramural sports, laugh at inappropriate jokes at 2am. The thought that what you do for a living may not be something you majored in, or even went to school for.

Look at me, trying to be a mentor for the kids.

This is a story about peace.

One thing my sister impressed on me was the notion that, while the world is confusing and tumultuous outside, your home needs to be an oasis. Somewhere that you are proud of. Somewhere you can escape. Somewhere that you’re okay with everything in it. Where every decoration, every piece of art and furniture and fixture is something you like. “I love everything in here,” my sister told me. “The carpet, the hangings on the wall, the colors in my bathroom, all of it.”

In every space I’ve inhabited, I’ve tried to keep this peace. Why bring in problems into my living space? Why have things that aren’t functional, or that you hate looking at? On the interpersonal side, why have negative people over? Why invite that aunt you don’t like, just because you feel you “have to”? The expectations and social norms being what they are isn’t an excuse to just go along; this is your castle, even if it’s a studio apartment in the hood or a condo with spectacular views.

I was talking to my mother recently, and while my mother has never verbalized it, she is a strong proponent of peace in her house. Plastic on the living room furniture, a cabinet of china and glass. And when she retired and moved South and built her dream home, she did it the way she wanted to; nothing is too small, or cramped; it’s just right. We brought a ton of furniture from the house where I grew up, but also got quite a bit from local places. Got our first few bits of Black art. Everything in its place.

A few months ago, the mother of one of my uncles-by-marriage died, and they started cleaning out the house recently. He asked my mother if she wanted one of the chairs. Sturdily built, real wood, by all accounts a comfy chair. Mom’s polite “no, thank you” was airborne before he finished the question.

My uncle’s mom, by all accounts, didn’t like my mother. She didn’t like any of our family, least of all her daughter-in-law, my aunt. And while my mom’s politeness won the day, I asked her why she was so quick with the answer.

“What kind of fool do I look like, putting that woman’s stuff in my house?” she asked. “That woman didn’t like me, didn’t like any of us. Why would I bring her spirit in this house when she was never invited to it in life? I don’t want nothing of hers in my house. Not in my house.”

Even when we’ve moved on to the astral plane, our spirits live on in our possessions. Be the type of spirit people welcome.

There is a sci-fi show on (I was told this, so I cannot recall the name) where an all-powerful being, in an attempt to quell a uprising, kills off everyone the architect of said revolution has ever met, loved, touched. The reasoning is that they would be killing that person’s legacy and the memories other people have of them, and, after all is said and done, it would be like that person never existed. They were young, and the number of people that got “erased” was less than 2,000.

My wife went to a funeral yesterday for a guy she used to work with. Years in public education. Beloved by many. Died too early. His obit of accomplishments and such was two full 8.5×11 pages, single spaced and 12 point font. I never met him, but by all accounts, he was a real stand up dude.

He had a legacy, and it is not hyperbole to thing that the number of people in his life who he touched, affected, loved were in the five figures. People who notice that he’s gone and miss him. That is a mark of legacy, and leaving a great one.

What are you doing to leave a legacy? One in which you’re growing and building and will be missed when you finally go?

This story is about radio.

Growing up in LA, I was blessed with four unique sports voices which made me want to work in radio. I wondered how they made the voices so clear, how the transition to commercial went, how the microphones were placed; I needed to know all of that.

Bob Miller did Kings broadcasts, and with Gretzky’s arrival, really got thrust in the limelight. But he was steady and got excited at the right times and explained as he went.

Bill King did the Raiders, and we listened to him on Sundays when the Silver and Black were out wreaking havoc on the rest of the AFC West. Seattle, Denver, Kansas City, San Diego. He was excitable, and his catchphrase (“HOLY TOLEDO!”) made you make a note to try to find a television recap later, before the age of SportsCenter and everyone having ESPN. Hell, before everyone had cable to watch ESPN.

Chick Hearn was the voice of the Lakers, and his catchphrases and energy during Lakers’ broadcasts was just magical. He prattled on and on, but was never boring or seemed to want to talk to hear himself talk. I’d have my radio under the covers with me, past my 8pm bedtime, listening to Laker games while they were out East,

Then there was Vin Scully.

Vin narrated a lot of LA sports history, being with the Dodgers during an era of dominance and personalities and “We Love L.A.” by Randy Newman. Vin’s setup was unique in that he spent a considerable amount of time in the booth being quiet. The sound at Dodger Stadium was so pronounced, that sometimes he just let the crowd reaction fill the air. When he was excited, he talked just a little bit louder, but never yelled at you; he was the old dude next to you at the game who knew a little bit about everything and was talking to you about the game.

He stepped out of the booth a few years ago, the year before the Dodgers won another World Series, and he died yesterday, a Hall of Fame broadcaster and the narrator to many Los Angelenos’ baseball lives. And because of him and these voices I listened to, I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up.

But we know that didn’t work out. Or, maybe it kinda did.

Are the clouds changing shape, or is it just the perspective?

Oddly enough, I was in a rare bit of calm at work, an impromptu break, if you will. I hadn’t seen the sun since I walked in, and the way work is set up, there are very few clocks around. Something about lack of productivity for people watching the clock, but it boils down to reminding us that we’re their wage servants.

I hit play on the attached video they had sent along with the question, and the sky is blue, and these clouds – wispy but dense, amorphous and shapeshifting – seem to change their appearance every second, but then I realize the videographer, good friend of mine, is actually moving. The edge of her house is my clue; it moves as she moves, and the clouds change as well. Are they moving? Are they so low that my friend can move a few feet and the shapes change so drastically?

The question this poses, in this time and place, strikes me as hilarious. Here I am, in this warehouse-slash office from hell slash purgatory, and my friend wants my opinion on an outdoors I haven’t seen in..hours? Hell, could be days, far as I know. I wonder what the weather is, is it warm? I know it’s sunny. Are they outside enjoying themselves? I remember the last time we hung out – laughs and drinks and more laughs, and wonder if I’ll have enough energy this weekend to do that myself. Or, will my luck, or lack thereof, deal me bad weather? A rain shower sending me scurrying indoors. Plans made on Friday night scrapped on Saturday morning because of unforeseen circumstances.

I sigh, then look up from my phone. A number of my colleagues stare at me; how do I even look, staring at my phone, first laughing, now sighing? I look at them all, then look down again to type.

I vote for changing shape.

Over the past week, I’ve entertained two separate groups of friends who’ve come into town. I’ve known these people in excess of 20 years, and I was very happy to host them and talk with them and all of that. But I understood a thing.

I’ve had issues with friends and friendship in the early part of my life. Desperate to be liked, I extended myself in ways that wasn’t who I was, or made me feel a kind of way later. I anguished over a cross word or an ignored phone call; wondering what I had done and willing to go to any lengths to right things. I wanted to be liked in the worst way.

I made friends as I went, and as the natural ebb and flow of life went, I gained friends and lost them. I tried to cultivate those I made and keep the ones I had. As my notion of self improved, though, the issue of friendship was still the source of depression and worry.

What the past week showed me, though, was not that some friendships, some relationships, naturally flicker out, either over time or suddenly. I’m just now coming to terms with the two-sidedness of them.

Sure, I should have KNOWN that. It takes two to tango, of course. But I couldn’t understand what else I’d have to do to make the relationship work. I thought it was all on me; as long as I was the best me, or whatever they thought the best me was, that the friendship would continue. Needless to say, quite a few people took advantage of that, and even though I was wronged, I couldn’t help to think I had done something wrong.

Anyway, I saw two groups of people in the last week that had a unique characteristic: they actually liked me. I didn’t have to perform. I didn’t have to bend over backwards. I was happy to see them, but they were actually happy to see ME. You know how good that feels? You know how it feels to have finally figured out the code?

I wish teenage me could have learned that lesson those years ago. Young adult me would have made different choices. Older me would have let some people go earlier before they had me doubting my worth.

At my work, we were hiring, and someone made it to the second interview. They were really excited about her; she was technical, seemed to get along with everyone. She was in Hong Kong, and was looking for a job back in the US, since she was a US citizen.

Imagine our surprise when, as we offered the job formally, she refused. “I’m afraid of crime, so I don’t want to live in Chicago.”

So, I’m going to ignore the obvious stupidity, and I won’t even extol the virtues of the city I’ve called home for the past 20-something years, but what I will do is remark on the particular brand of hope and joy Chicagoans have, specifically about weather.

Where I grew up, and 80 degree day was rote and matter of fact. Here, after a pretty long winter, it is a cause of unbridled joy and celebration. And I ruminated on that today as I sat outside all day, soaking up warm sun.

This will not be the last time I write about this, just like ancient Egyptians would have written about the odd cool breeze; welcome anomalies to the everyday.

So, I bought my sister a copy of the Walter Mosley book, with an upcoming miniseries starring Samuel L Jackson. The book is amazing, and I wanted to share that with someone who may not be up on it. The below is the note I’m enclosing with the book when I send it. We’re going through a like situation right now, which I’ll explain…at some point.

So, I’m enclosing a book that, well, there’s a lot going on with it. Let me try to explain without writing a college essay. I’ve already saved you form dealing with pages of my handwriting, so I should get some props for that, at least.

First, Walter Mosley.

Dude has been writing for years, and is probably most noted in Hollywood for Devil In A Blue Dress, which was a great movie with Denzel and Don Cheadle. He’s written a number of characters, and seems at home when writing about LA in the 50s-70s. He mentions a ton of familiar places, and his characters are people you’ve known for years, full of Southern wisdom in urban LA. I’ve enjoyed his work for years, and has inspired me to write more myself; we all have stories, right?

Secondly, this book in particular.

When I first read it, the subject hit nowhere close to home as it does now. He wrote this in 2011, and that was before, well, all this. Grandma Jonnie had been dead 10 years, the last person I was familiar with with Alzheimers. The memory of her not remembering who Mom was had subsided. And Grandpa Ennis, well, it was treated with so much silence that it never really registered.

But in the writing, I find probably the clearest language in what a dementia patient is going through. Putting into words the confusion, the anxiety and anger when previous accessible memories just aren’t able to be remembered. The writing is more visceral, more illuminating to understand, even from a fictional standpoint, what’s going on.

He puts a wrinkle in it, though. Sam L Jackson is doing a miniseries on this now, actually, airing on streaming TV. How far are you willing to go to remember, to straighten up your business with one last burst of clarity? Would you make a deal with modern medicine? With the Devil himself? And what would you actually do if you had a clear mind…for a week? Or would you prefer to live out your years in this mental fog? Also, and a nod to our current situation, how to deal with family.

It’s a great story that I want to share with you. Maybe you’ll like it, maybe you won’t, but this is a peek into the stuff I read and like and aspire to write myself at some point. 

I am third of my name, although just second in a row. My biological father insisted upon it, and my mother acquiesced, thankfully rescuing me from having a name like Frank or David.

My name has been mispronounced repeatedly, and in an effort to make it easier and not have people butcher my name, I shortened it when I got to college. There is a line of demarcation amongst my friends, and you can tell when they met me by what they call me. My family calls me something completely different.

Anyway, this situation popped up at my place of employment which both got me thinking about my name and how protective I am of it.

Our email system works on the firstname.lastname system, so if you are Bob Smith, your email address would be bob.smith@whereiwork.com. Simple, right? But our directory system works off last names, so when you get an email from Bob Smith, the email header says

“Smith, Bob <bob.smith@whereiwork.com>”

I explain all this to get to the point that people keep calling me by my last name, even though it seems apparent to me that’s not correct. My email signature gives my full name, as well as my shortened one, so there should be no issue. 

But, at least once every couple of weeks, someone calls me by my surname like it’s my first name. Usually I joke about it after they realize their mistake – “Oh, I’ll let him know that you’re looking for him” – but other times, I have to start taking things personally.

One of my colleagues got so incensed at people getting his name wrong, he asked that people call him Mr <last name>. I respected that, and in this industry, a definite act of defiance, especially since many people, hip to the power dynamic at play, won’t call anyone they deem “below them” with any respect whatsoever.

But this all got me thinking about what my name means to me, and how I feel about people butchering it. My government name has been mispronounced for 40+ years, and it still rankles me to hear more syllables and consonants than are actually in my name to start with. 

And “it’s just a name” – I count more than a few people in my life who have changed their names to go along with realized identities, and their new names mean a lot to them. What kind of asshole do you have to be to deny calling someone by the name they want to be called, whether that name is from birth or made legal just minutes ago? We assume married women take their husbands’ surnames, and when they don’t, the tides have turned as to how “scandalous” that was, but why the hesitation to extend that to first names?