My mother is an excellent cook, and when I grew up and out the house, I would always make sure to get back to wherever home was to partake and figure out how to bring food back with me. Thanks to Southwest, I could leave Mississippi at 8am with a duffel bag full of frozen food – sausages, greens, black eyed peas – and have that in my freezer in Chicago before noon.

But one thing my mother never did was teach me how to cook. I was amiable, but my childhood was spent outside the kitchen, except to consume vast quantities of food. She was old school, with the big Sunday dinner and the big pots of cabbage and greens to serve as sides through the week. But she never showed me how to do the alchemy she was so good at.

As I got into my 30s and 40s, Mom started to openly regret not teaching me how to cook. Over the years, I’ve cobbled together a decent cooking acumen so I won’t starve, and taken classes to learn more, but there were still those dishes Mom made that I had no idea how to make, even though I’ve eaten them thousands of times.

One such dish was her gumbo. Gumbo would take all day, and was made in a pot big enough to bathe a small child. She put andouille sausage, two sizes of shrimp, boiled chicken, and imitation crab meat in hers, and made sure to fix herself a small pot of okra for her, since Dad and I detested okra. When Mom made gumbo, it was an invitation for the entire family to come to our house, and I got to play host, which I learned I really enjoyed.

At any rate, recently, I’d gotten the urge to try to make my own gumbo. Because Momis Mom, she was unable to give me exacts. No “one cup of this, two tablespoons of that” here. “A scoop of this, and a pinch of that”, which, as you can imagine, aren’t measurements n the side of your Pyrex dish.

We tried last year, and..it was almost a disaster.

The key to a good gumbo is the roux, which is basically flour and fat mixed together. If you screw up the roux, or burn it, you have to toss everything and start over; there’s no coming back from that. And after a false start and an emergency call to my sister, we got it together and it came out pretty okay.

But fam, we did it again today, and I couldn’t WAIT to tell my mother about it. That we had two kinds of sausage. That our roux was good and not too thick and not too thin. That everything was done. And we put some butter and garlic on some French rolls and put em in the broiler for a minute until they were toasted and could be used to sop up the roux that somehow escaped our greedy mouths.

Mom was very happy to hear it, but she reminded me of a saying that has followed me since childhood.

“You know why your gumbo was good?”

“Why, Mom?”

“You put love in the pot.”

I hope y”all put love in your pots, too.

Very few things make me..contented, or as..right, as having peace in my home, or just peace around me. My wife is asleep right now, hopefully dreaming good dreams. The people I love most in this world are all probably asleep right now, except perhaps my sister, who is a known insomniac.

But my peace is why I’m still awake. My brain won’t shut off, going through what-ifs and the events of the past few days. I am worried, angry, tired. I am surrounded by people who feel the same way I do, some in very different ways. Some have adopted a dark humor, others are grim and write screeds on their social media that amount to “I told you so, but you don’t listen to me.”

I want peace to reign in my house, where I can text my peoples and they have a joke for me, or an invitation, or recommendation for a new food spot or music or a good book. Not contingency plans for the worst of times. I want news of joy, not recaps of what is and what that means for what could be.

My mother is a big fan of saying, “What’s good don’t last always, what’s bad don’t last always.” But I remind her that the Jews stayed in the wilderness for a few generations before Moses got them out the paint, and while they EVENTUALLY made it out, the woods were all a few generations knew. I’m not convinced I’ll see us getting out of this wilderness.

I’m worried, angry, and sleepless on the Southside.

The year was 1994, and I decided to be an audio engineer.

Well, I figured I could do some creative work – my yearbook pic caption says I wanted to do “Graphic Design”, but I figured that, if that didn’t work out, then I’d do audio.

I don’t remember what got me on this track, I really don’t. But I do remember, as I toured colleges, that I’d ask to look at their radio stations. I wasn’t interested in the film studio; where do you mix the audio at?

So, I went to school to learn how audio worked. I spent days in mixing studios and in front of SoundEdit 16 (RIP) mixing sounds. I scored people’s films, I did group projects and took the audio part. I loved every bit of it.

Then, junior year of college. We were talking about the role of sound in film. I’ve already written about my Miles Davis experience in this space, and at some point I’ll get into Blazing Saddles, but we watched a French film called Diva in class, and I…I was stunned.

This was a movie about…sound. About recording. About high fidelity recordings and music piracy. And I drank it in.

Fast forward to grown me. I have this movie on VHS, DVD, and Blu-Ray. I watched it again tonight, and there were some things I didn’t remember and some things I noticed this time. I don’t think it’s especially rated as a classic to anyone, but it’s in my Top 10 Movies.

And I think of what could have been. If not for a system which encourages peonage, or taking out huge loans, or possibly being a 30 year old “intern” making $1K a month…that could have worked out for me.

But, here, but for the grace of God, go I.

This is fresh in my mind, so I’ma write on it. It’s a story of the American Dream…kinda? And how no one tells you that your hard work may be exploited by someone else wanting to get rich.

This story actually starts in 1966, when I was but a twinkle in, well, ANYONE’S eye. My mother hadn’t been in Los Angeles but a few years, and my stepdad had a dream of…something.

See, the story goes that some people got the idea that they could build another Los Angeles in the desert between LA and Vegas. With the proper infrastructure, they could attract millions of people, and they offered people the opportunity to buy lots to get in on this new growth opportunity.

Dad took that opportunity.

Mom and Dad got married in 1980, and Dad had apparently made allusions to “some land I got in the desert”. Mom says she would ask if he wanted to go out there, but he never wanted to. She got the feeling he ws ashamed, somehow.

Anyway, Dad continued to pay property taxes and kept telling my mom that he’d handle it.Mom didn’t press him; taxes looked to be about $100 a year, and we were doing okay. But every now and again, she’d mention it, and Dad would get mad.

I had no idea this existed until after college. I remember calling home, and Dad being really aggravated, and Mom explaining that someone had offered him money for the property, but he felt the price was too low and he was being taken advantage of. I found out then where it was, but didn’t want to ask anything else because Dad was PISSED.

So, after Dad died, Mom is going through his papers, and finds out more details. In 1966, Dad bought a plot of land in the desert for $3390, and had agreed to pay at least $30 a month. I’m sure it got paid off in 50 years, and he had paid property taxes religiously. But shortly after he died, Mom got a tax bill and had refused to pay it. Shortly after, we got a letter in the mail offering us CASH MONEY FOR YOUR DESERT PROPERTY, which made me look a little closer. Mom decided she didn’t feel like looking into it anymore, so we didn’t.

Lately, I’ve been trying to get more stuff in order so Mom doesn’t have to worry about it, so I took this project on; get rid of this land. Mom sent me the papers she could find, and I started looking things up.

Whoooo boy. First I found this article, which details a timeline of the whole operation.

Then, someone had done some investigative work, and found out some more REALLY interesting facts.

So, it’s with this knowledge that I proceed to figure out where to go and what to do. This is going to be a mess.

I have no idea what Dad was thinking, 50 years after he bought this plot of useless land. Maybe he was enamored of the sales pitch. Maybe he bought into a mini-Los Angeles. Maybe he decided he was going to see this through, and that he didn’t want to be a quitter. Mom doesn’t know, either.

The mysteries…

Some people complain of the must, the humidity, the stickiness of a Mississippi afternoon in the summer. To me, it’s a balm. A balm against the air conditioned offices I left behind at my job in Chicago. A cry against all of the fans I’ve waved with MLK on them into my face on Sundays. Not that I have an issue with being cool; it somehow seems sacrilege to run for the nearest enclosed space with an AC system going while I’m down here.

I’ve flown in to bury some memories, bury some regrets, and bury my father. Going down Interstate 55 on my way to the backcountry my people have called home for four generations, and with the windows open. The guy at the rental counter at Jackson International touted the power of the car’s AC system and didn’t believe me when I laughed at him. He squinted at me, and after a moment’s pause, asked, “You been down here before?”

I looked at him with a mix of “bless your heart” and “”who the fuck you think I am?” Since landing, I’d slid easily into the patter of Southern vocality, thanking the flight crew with a “God bless y’all” as I de-planed and striking up a conversation with an older white guy about the Saints while we waited for our gate-checked bags to come from the undercarriage of the plane.

But the Second City was still in me when I replied, “I’ma be aight, my man.”

He smiled, and looked back down to his computer. “You must be visiting kinfolk, then.”

Curious, I asked why he didn’t think I was there on business. I had on the polo shirt and baggy shorts uniform of the middle aged urbanite, so I didn’t think I looked too sportsy or too hood.And who’s to say a said urbanite of above average height can’t be doing business? And legal business, at that?

He looked up as my receipt started printing. “Folk here on business, first thing they want to know is how good the AC is. Folk driving into the country know they got a good chair, good food, and good laughs waiting for em, so they just want to get there.”

I smiled, and smile faded when I thought about the funeral and the hard conversations in the coming days. “You right about all that.”

A good friend of mine is coming up on a sad anniversary; the last time they saw their father. Some time after they visited, Dad caught COVID and passed soon afterwards.

They asked me how I deal, with my own mourning issues, but also with the realization of one’s mortality, especially with said mourning and my own recent medical issues.

I believe in a central concept, that I’ve figured keeps me from regrets, even if it does make me just a bit weird to my people.

It was during my Sunday call, the recap of church services and Mom detailing what she was making for dinner to make me homesick. Me on speakerphone so they both could hear. And before hanging up, And the last thing I said to my dad on this mortal coil was “Love you, dad.”

I believe in giving people their flowers while they’re still here. It’s simple, but think on it.

Chadwick Boseman died to the surprise of many, including myself. Later, we found out that he kept his cancer quiet, and, from all accounts, suffered quietly while, quite frankly, acting his ass off in acclaimed roles. That loss, that sense that a ton of people had, was that they didn’t give him his flowers. They didn’t tell him that he inspired them, or they really loved his roles, or that he looked good in that shirt.

People with empathy, with humanity, want to hear that they’re making a difference. That they re seen, and heard, and valued. And true humanity, in my view, is telling others that they are loved, or heard, or valued. Give and take, you know? Compliment and support, and work on you where you can do things that get you the same from people who recognize your humanity and fullness as a human being.

After Dad died, I developed a habit of calling my mother every day, and we always end the call with a “I love you.” Point being that I have no idea if she’ll wake up tomorrow, or that I won’t be shot in my home by an agent of the “law” in the next few hours. But I’d rest easier knowing that I told the people I care about that I loved them, or that I appreciated their work, or I think they’re great creatives, or great minds, or just great people.

Sure, that’s a weird sentiment to express to someone on 2pm on a Thursday, but I have a feeling that they will surely appreciate it at some point. You will come to mind, and they will smile. And in these days, being able to make someone smile from distance may be a superpower in and of itself.

So give your people their flowers while they can smell them. Because, as my folk say, tomorrow ain’t promised. And you “making it weird” now by getting a bit too effusive on how great your friend is, or how smart your colleague is, or how good this bowl of cereal is that your niece poured, is a gift that will endure.

Before I went in for my “minor surgery”, I idly wondered if I’d dream.
If I’d take the deep breaths they wanted me to take, and then dream.

The thing was, it really bothered me that I didn’t dream. I had no
concept of time, no idea how long I’d been out. No dreams, no happy
root beer floats or trippy light shows.

And that made me keenly aware of my mortality.

No “bright lights”. No voices. Sure, those are all Hollywood, Unsolved Mysteries-style expectations, but I expected…something. Or, did I expect because the other thought was scary and not at all calming?

Because when they put me under, I was done.

I suppose there is a takeaway here, that when you do go, it’s quick and over in a second and then the curtains fall on your play. But to have the curtains fall…and then go up again makes it feel like you have a second act, or the show has to go on.

And there you are, picking up where you left off, and maybe it’s a new beginning, or just a Friday afternoon.

So, a story time.

I had minor surgery about a week ago, and I was referred to the surgeon by my primary care physician, who’s a young dude who I’m good with.

I go and get an ultrasound done beforehand, and had them send them to the surgeon’s office.

So, in my first meeting with Surgeon-Man, he’s never seen the ultrasound. He tells me “I do these kinds of things all the time, so I can just knock this out.” He tells me it’s a 30 minute surgery and it’s outpatient and you’ll be home that day. To say that he was kinda cavalier is..about how I’d describe it.

Fast forward to the day after the surgery. He’s told my wife about when I can take a shower, and how long til the pain goes away.

But..things aren’t the way they are supposed to play. I develop a fever, peaking at 101. I have a draining sapping pain that never goes away.

I schedule a followup in a panic. Instead of a seven day checkup, I ask for one in three days. He listens to my concerns, looks at a clearly infected wound site, shrugs, and says “I GUESS that’s infected” and prescribes me an antibiotic.

Fast forward. Here’s what racism does; it plants in my head that it’s completely possible that my treatment and aftercare COULD have been part and parcel of me being a Black man and saying that I was in pain and him discounting that. I have no idea if that’s true, or if he does his white patients like this.

But that’s the price, right? “Does this happen to anyone else? Would it? Could it?”

I wanted to listen, over and over again.

I was a sophomore in college, and a film major. I had spent the last year doing sound for friends and for class assignments. I had stayed in an audio editing suite for more than 24 hours. I wanted to be a sound engineer when I grew up, and I was finally getting a chance to explore that. I didn’t know that the job market was shit for sound engineers; I doubt I would have cared.

Anyway, I don’t remember the context, but the TA for the class had played a few seconds of this mournful, lonesome trumpet in class, and afterwards I rushed her to ask what that was. Who? What? How? She laughed and gave me the name.

It was a French soundtrack, so I knew Dr Wax wouldn’t have it, so I stopped by Chicago Compact Disc (RIP). The older brother behind the counter greeted me in his empty store, and I heard the absolute smoothest composition playing. I told him that I was loving what he was playing, but did he happen to have…? He pointed me to the back of the store, under IMPORTS.

It was there. It was also $30. And to someone on work study money, that was a LOT.

But I also had to have the album that was playing. I’d never heard anything like that before, and it was completely new to me. And that CD was $20.

Needless to say, I bought them both, and then survived on chicken cutlets from my cafeteria meal plan for the next good while.

I shoehorned Miles’ trumpet into a short film I made, which the professor recognized right off. I didn’t use Dexter for anything, but it is one of the first things I play for people who want to know jazz.

So, here’s to Miles Davis’ Ascenseur pour L’echafaud and Dexter Gordon’s Go. A lifetime of good music, only remembered; it has to start somewhere.

This has been bubbling in my head for a while, and with Sean Connery’s death last week, it’s brought to mind again.

By the end of this week, we’ll either be a smoldering husk of democracy or a fasting ball of proto-fascism, driven by one political party. It is what it is.

This scene from The Untouchables kept popping into mind. Walk with me.

The past few years, we’ve seen laws broken to no consequence. The Hatch Act. Rules about campaign finance, and business interests. At every turn, one party shrugs, and the other yells (but not too loud, as to be civil) how wrong it is…and nothing happens.

Now, we’ve been warned as to to what can happen on Tuesday and afterwards. Voter disenfranchisement. Intimidation at the polls. Disinformation all over social media. A fifth estate interested in the “humanity” of people who wish others harm. A gotdamn pandemic.

And the question I’ve had through all of this, as I see a dearth of leadership from a lot of state offices and the White House, is “what are we prepared to do?”

Now, I have ideas of what we SHOULD do, but what are we prepared to do? We’d like an end to white supremacy, and end to police brutality, a need to hold certain people accountable for things that they do. But what are we prepared to do? How uncomfy can we be? With months of semi-lockdown, an increasing positivity rate, and people yearning for “normalcy”, what do we have in us to do? Four years of being bombarded by flouting of justice and rule of law ; how tired are we?

What ARE we prepared to do?