(An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man)

(An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man)… I have grown accustom to reading or hearing in the news where young blacks, male and female are gunned down in the street or even in their homes by other blacks.  This cancer is spreading  from city to city across the land.  These crimes, no longer rate high in terms of media sensationalism because they are considered all too common and they serve the greater good.   But, let a policeman defend himself in the performance of his duty and he becomes the scrounge of society. 

A thought process is being injected into the mindset of the police that just might cause them to hesitate.  In a direct confrontation this can be deadly.  This was played out and proved on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan.  When the press question the action of the military under fire, the body count rose.  The internet media have manipulated a cast of people that are blinded by their hate.  It is a common magician's trick, we are being distracted.  We are manipulated, we are not in control, we are being guided towards an apocalyptic climax of epic proportions.

As my dear departed grandmother would often say, I have been called everything but a child of God.   Because of my opinion may differ, I have been called every conceivable name that can be attributed to a black man.  Yet, I am still ashamed that we as a people have allowed the thug elements of our society to define a movement that is supposed to bring a sense of liberation to the mass.  A movement that is supposed to bring restore  justice is defined by the mentality of thugs.  I will use the word thugs because on several occasions I or my family have been the victim of this thug mentality that permeate many of our black communities.

In the parking lot of a superstore, a young mother was beaten and robbed of fifteen dollars and a pair of tennis shoes.  Protestors moved about the parking lot with ‘T’ shirts that said, ‘I Can’t Breath’.  The police observing the protesters from a distance, choose not to engage.   Nobody seems to have heard the screams of the young mother.   

In silent repose we mourn the victims of senseless crimes while we sit quietly awaiting the next volley of gunfire to erupt signaling another  black mother has lost a child.  This  is OK, because blacks are just killing blacks?   We glorify those who chose a lifestyle of confrontation and resistance and on their backs, we pin angel wings, while overlooking that mother who sit and cry, trying to understand why her child was beaten or killed for a pair of tennis shoes.  Black on black crime its OK because we have a right to protect our turf.  The hero’s are those who resist the police and loose.

Now, before I make my point, to prove your superiority and to appease your ignorance of me, call me any name you want to. Go ahead, get it out of your system.  Do it, do it, don’t it makes you feel superior?   If we continue the road we are traveling, and we will, there is going to be a race war and the so-called black man is not going to win it.  If the diseases emerging from third world countries don’t take us out of the equation,  check your stats, FEMA, Homeland Security, world population reduction.  We are easily manipulated and are a divided people.  A house divided against itself cannot stand.  A man of color has been elected as president of this great nation, the attorney general is also a man of color, but this country and countries around the world is more divided than ever. Oh heck, lets blame it on the white man.

The so-called black populist, the black leaders will be the catalyst that divide and bring about the destruction of America as we know it today.  Manipulated by a sinister faction embedded within this country, they will be able to bring America to its knees, a feat which no other nation has been able to accomplish.  America will cast aside its constitution, and will become as that new and ungodly nation depicted in the Book of Revelation, a beast rising up out of the sea of confusion.  Martial Law will be imposed and its streets will be washed in the blood of its adversaries.  

The stock market, an entity that does not create or produce goods, it merely sucks the money out of the economy and redistribute it.  It allows the rich to get richer.  While many of us were marching and pimping the rights of thugs, the president signed laws that greatly favored wall street.  There is an old adage that says, “What goes up must come down.”  If, and when this crash comes, cities all over America will be uninhabitable.  Many American's will be forced to relocate based on their means and resources for survival.  Imagine a country where the integrity of the police departments has been impugned and gangs are allowed to roam the street.  Imagine an America where there is no welfare checks and food stamp cards.  Imagine a world where the death of poor blacks and whites is nothing but  ‘collateral damage.’   Many will have problems buying food to feed their families. 

We as a people have created negative images of ourself.  While many of us feast at the table of a government that we have deemed corrupt, we have failed to take advantage of the opportunities it provided.  As a people, we have failed to teach our young the value of respect for law and order, and the fear of God has long been cast aside. 

The battle that we are facing is not a battle between the races, it is a battle between two religions.    

I suffer from a type of “Stockholm-esque syndrome resulting from mental and emotional stress of living under an oppressive system while being encouraged to pretend it's not there”

Today I am suffering from an acute case of manipulation and homophobia.   According to one lady I suffer from a type of “Stockholm-esque syndrome resulting from mental and emotional stress of living under an oppressive system while being encouraged to pretend it's not there”.  On top of all of that I suffer from a “slave mentality syndrome.”  

Sitting in an upscale restaurant I was forced to watch two men trying to choke each other with their tongues as bits of green salad and dressing dripped from their mouth. To me it was just as repulsive as the female in spandex, twerking at the salad bar.   The profanity laced conversation that echoes throughout the once upscale dining room added to the discomfort could be seen on many of the patrons' faces  The options were clear, we who were offended could stay or we could leave.  The smiling faces of the performers told us our that their rights trumped our rights.

In 2009 President Obama signed into law, The Federal Hate Crime bill under the pretense that this bill would help to eliminate hate.  From the date of the signing a continuous effort has been made to suppress all forms of hate.  The intellectually challenged were  somehow led to believe that a law could eradicate hate, an emotion of the heart.   Those who had a better understanding of  human nature and the effects of creating laws to control the emotional aspects of humanity knew that this was a lesson in futility.  An act that was designed simply to appease those who looked to the Federal Government to solve their problem.  The opposite of hate is love, a dichotomy, one does not exist without the other. Day, night, good and evil, they each compliment each other and one does not exist without the other.  Any attempt to suppress hate does not create an  abundance of love, instead an alien form of hatred called racism is created that can infect all regardless of race.

What is racism? A belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human racial groups determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to dominate others or that a particular racial group is inferior to the others. 

Racism a created word, whose definition and application is not definitive because it is based upon perceptions which is different from individual to individual and it is often flawed.   Perception, in order to accurate must rely upon the skills of a mind reader. A common perception among those who experience racism is “they think they are more than me.”  This open the door to those who think they are skilled in reading other people’s mind, and they are using that skill in a way that affect all of us.  There is no denying it,  if we strip away the labels there is hate. It exists and will continue to exist until the world order is changed.  

An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man

Over the last few weeks I was called all sorts of names, simply because I did not agree with what was taking place around me Day after day I am inundated with people expressing their views and if I disagree my slave mentality is showing.   Got a whole deck today, lets play the race card.

I once had a thriving computer business.  I had a line of credit with my local bank and anytime I needed to purchase a lot of computers to fulfill a contract, I would take the contract to the bank and they would issue the funds.  This worked fine as long as I was dealing with white business and organizations.   After listening to a black businessman expound to me the merits of black businesses sticking together, I agreed to install twelve computers in his emerging business.  The bank advanced the money, and when it was time to pay the note I was left holding the bag, with a promise that God was going to work things out.

An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man

(A Tribute To My Mother)... When my father was sick and hospitalized, I moved back into the family home so that my mother  would not be alone.  On selected days of the week I drove her to the hospital and on the other days I went alone to visit.  There were those who said my reasoning was trying to get close to my mother so I could get control of her money.  I, like my father and mother and several of my brothers have never flaunted status,  wealth,  not even  the size of stock holdings as a means of demeaning people.  

Tempted and tried, we’re oft made to wonder

Why it should be thus all, the day long;

While there are others living about us,

Never molested, though in the wrong.

When he was first hospitalized many religious zealots appeared in the hospital corridor and prayed the prayer of Faith.   I often went to the hospital expecting to see him walking around and talking.  When his condition worsens and was transferred to a nursing home the visits soon ceased.   It was decided that God was not going to perform a miracle.  There was no ministerial staff to comfort my mother, who had dedicated her life to the church, nor was there a list of volunteers waiting to sit with her.   She bore her grief and many nights during his long sickness, I would hear her cry out.   Many times I interrupted the serving of breakfast to wipe tears from her eyes.  

Often when death has taken our loved ones,
Leaving our home so lone and so drear,
Then do we wonder why others prosper,
Living so wicked year after year.

During the long days of his sickness, I become known as the young man who sit by his father beside in the nursing home and sang,  "Farther  along we will know all about it" As a child growing up in the church I often sang with my father.  I knew and accepted that the time of his departure was at hand, and as a gesture of respect, I promised my father that I would sing at his home going. 

Farther along we’ll know more about it,

Farther along we’ll understand why;

Cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine,

We’ll understand it all by and by.

On the day of his memorial services, men of high honor and dubious distinctions took to the podium to lavish praise and honor, but none of these distractions brought comfort to my mother's bleeding heart.  My mom waited for that moment at the close of the service when I would sing my farewell song to my father, her plans were to assist me as much as she could as we had practiced at home.   At the last minute from the  podium the program was changed.  "I never sung for my father. "

I will always remember the last time I saw my mother cry. It was when she buried one of her younger sons.  We cried together, then we both grew stronger together, and promised to never cry again.  This promise became so deeply ingrained in my physic, that for an entire year after her death I have not shed a tear.  Sometime in the lonely hours of the night I long to shed a tear, but her voice is there, “you are strong”, she says, “don’t cry for me.”

We miss him dearly but we must all answer the call of God.  In closing, from the words of his mother during their last conversation at her house on Sunday, Nov. 16, 2008, before his passing on November 21, 2008, “The Lord’s will be done, son.  The Lord’s will be done.”  Therefore, Father, nevertheless, not our will but thy will be done.” St. Matthew 26:39

1. Often when death has taken our loved ones,
   Leaving our home so lone and so drear,
   Then do we wonder why others prosper,
   Living so wicked year after year.
2. The fragility of relationships terrifies me, and often make me think of the ordeal of life.  How we endure the labor of  years of sacrifice, so that those left behind will have the best that life has to offer, only to discover in the end that it had all been for so little.  Life itself, can be a very perplexing endeavor.  In order to enjoy life, it is necessary that we seek the memories of the past to aid us in appreciating the future.  But what happens when the past becomes muddled, and our future becomes insecure.  We become trapped in an abyss, and our only hope is that we will not  forget to struggle as the darkness overtakes us.  And yet, as the road home turns dark, somehow we know through hope in our immortal deity, it will become clear again after Final Frame.
3. IYears have passed but it seems as if it was yesterday, the day I returned to the old homeplace.  I turned left at the mailboxes, and entering the rocked driveway leading to my mother’s house, I saw her standing alone in the yard.  She looks much older than she did last month or even last week.   I know she was aging rapidly.  She seems to have lost some of her reason or will to live.  After being married for over sixty years, and raising a family, suddenly being alone seems like a tragedy.  
4. I parked my car under the big Elm trees that shaded the front of the house. These trees are older than I am.  The big oaks out by the road are older than I am also; I think they are older than my dad was too.  There are many grand oak trees on the home place.  These are trees that have withstood the test of time.  These trees have touched and offered comfort to our ancestors. 
5. 
6. My mother never expected to live in this house alone. She picked out the spot and Augusta had built the house to suit her.  After years of happiness life played it hand, soon after burying her oldest son, she then buried her husband. In her older years she expected her middle son to take care of her.  He died at a very young age. 
7. I stumbled from my bed, and in a stupor I pulled back the curtains, and looked out of the window.  The raindrops clinging to the leafless tree branches, invoked a state of depression and deja vu, that made me rush to the kitchen to get my first cup of coffee.   With cup of coffee in hand, I sat down at my computer and stared at the screen.  The warmth of coffee and the memories of life flooded my being.  That day in ancient history was to be the representation of something special.  The next day I would be called upon to say goodbye to a friend. 

There have been many times in my life I have been called upon, to say something profound, to speak poetically, but that day was different, my mind went blank, I could not think.  Six hours later my coffee was cold, and I was still staring at the computer screen.  The question still remained.  How do I say goodbye to a friend?  The messaage was clear, "God has spoken, let the church say amen."

1. Soon we will see our dear, loving Savior,
   Hear the last trumpet sound through the sky;
   Then we will meet those gone on before us,
   Then we shall know and understand why.

The silence was overwhelming, I could not tolerate it, and I could not concentrate.  I could not write. My mind refused to engage.   I tried to project my inner self into the future, because the past and the present seem more than I could endure.  For it is not God’s will that we should suffer, but to exist in a mortal state, we must conform to the laws that govern our existence.  We are victims of our acts and we must suffer the consequences.  To our earthly minds the final frame is a distortion of reality.  It is hard to accept, and we are not satisfied with what we see.  We always expect and desire more. 

When we all sit in silent repose, the veil is drawn and the memories flow.  There are questions that still remain, but the answers can only exist for a fleeting moment within the final frame.   Years have passed since I wrote those words and as a final tribute to the past, I began again to write the closing as the credits roll.  The untimely demise of Larry, the passing of Lucious and others is an indicator that I am mortal and my name shall also find it place within the final frame.

When the book, "Earl Gillespie, Generation, The Root, The Tree and The Branches", was first published the final frame was revived, but the credit had not begun to roll.  On December 11, 2013 Mary Alice Rice Gillespie, the last one standing of the illustrious Gillespie clan passed from this land.  She lived to be 95 years old and in her own words she said, “I am just tired”. 

Farther along we’ll know more about it,

Farther along we’ll understand why;

Cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine,

We’ll understand it all by and by.

As a final tribute to her life and her legacy, her granddaughter Shemeka Gillespie,and myself led the church in a glorious rendition of:

let the church (pause) say amen God has spoken

God has spoken God has spoken let the church let the church say amen

make this your response amen

to whatever he says amen...

An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man

(An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man)  Enough is enough, then again who is to decide?  Maybe I should keep my thoughts to myself, but then there are so many others who maybe should have kept their thoughts to themselves also.    For the past few weeks I have been following two news stories, one of a young man who on the surface seems as if he is being tortured for a testimony he gave in church, and the other of the events taking place in Furgerson, MO.   Both of these event sort of leave a bad smell in the air, the kind you get when you are trapped in a crowded elevator.  Let's look at the church group first.

At the close of the COGIC International Convention in Saint Louis, MO, after receiving prayer, the young man testified that he was no longer gay.  A firestorm erupted fueled by those in and out of the church.  There are many who are silently asking why?   A video clip was posted on the internet that went viral and it became fodder for a late night talk show host.  Not only was this young man attacked viciously in the media, but the Bishop that offered the prayer of deliverance was scrutinized indiscreetly and 'thrown under the bus' by his peers.

There is a consensus in and out of the realms of Christianity that he was faking it, because being gay is something that cannot be fixed by prayer.  Imagine church folks saying that, the same church folks that prayed for my cancer. Casting aside our knowledge of man's ability to manipulate DNA,  whatever, the result of the polluted (chemically and mentality altered) strain is, God created it.  The deformed babies, the two headed animals and fish are all a part of God's experiment gone wrong. This line of thinking allows us to justify our sins, it gets us off the hook because we can always place the blame on God.

The church leaders were caught off guard by the Bishop's earlier message where he preached against "sissies in the church" and scramble to distance itself from the Bishop and the event that took place later.  COGIC churches along with many other churches are known to conduct a prayer of deliverance at the close of their service.  The call is made for the sick and the afflicted to stand before the Alter.  After the prayer, testimonies are given.   If a person suffering from a terminal cancer stood up for prayer and testified of being healed, even though they went in for chemotherapy the next day nothing would have been said.  But for a gay man to say he had been delivered from being gay, now that can't be because the many churches and science have agreed that God created male, female and others.

The government unknowingly created a program that mutated the DNA of the American family.  Federally funded and governed US welfare began in the 1930's during the Great Depression. The US government responded to the overwhelming number of families and individuals in need of aid by creating a welfare program that would give assistance to those who had little or no income.  Single parents were given the greatest consideration.  Many Americans were unhappy with the welfare system, claiming that certain individuals were abusing the welfare program by not applying for jobs, having more children just to get more aid, and staying unmarried so as to qualify for greater benefits. Thus began the advent of the government sanction of single parent families.

A single mother struggling to raise a family without a father figure to assist her faces one of the greatest challenges of her life.  Young boys and girls growing up in a single parent home also face greater challenges.  Of time their sexual identity is misshaped or impaired and their predatory instincts are heightened.  Young men on the prowl in search of another baby’s momma or young girls are filled with so much hate for men they are unable to relate, because they were taught by their mother that all men are dogs become a way of life.   

A mutation occurs when a DNA gene is damaged or changed in such a way as to alter the genetic message carried by that gene.   This damage is often caused by a chemical process, it can even involve the environment.  Current evidence suggests evolution is guided by the environment as much as genes, but most people still think genes are in the driver's seat.  With the help of the government we have created a generation of young people that do not respect the laws of society, nor do they have any respect for the laws of God.

A simple magician trick is to provide a distraction to prevent you from seeing the trick.  Are we being distracted by the events in Furgerson and other parts of the country?  Where the rallying cry for justice is based upon the action of a person who chose not to respect law, order or justice.  Is this what being black is all about?  Shaped lies and twisted truth, fancy labels? Sticking it to the man because our ancestors worked in the sun.  Where playing the race card is just as easy as playing the dozen.  If something is said we don’t like stick a label on them, call them names, find someone that agrees with our thinking and shout them down. 

We think nothing is happening when we look up and view the Chemtrails crisscrossing the sky.  We are not concerned when the cancer rate is exploding all around us.  New diseases are emerging from third world countries with no cures.  The world is groaning, there are wars and rumors of wars and our country is divided, the sounds we are hearing just might be this country being flushed down the tube, or maybe it is the angels preparing to sound their trumpets.  It all depend on what you believe, but a country so divided against itself cannot stand.  

(An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man)

(An Irrelevant Rant of An Ambiguous Old Man)  The late 50’s was known as the age of awareness for many of us lowly Mississippi Coloreds.  It was the year  I found out that some of us had bad hair, and some of us had good hair.  It was also the year we found out why we went barefooted during the summer. It wasn’t because we couldn’t afford shoes, it because we loved the feel of mud and warm cow manure  squishing up between our  toes.  During that same time we found out about places such as Chicago and New York.

      Please note, the use of the word Coloreds is used in this story without any disparity or disrespect intended. If I have offended anyone I am sorry.  Now, since I am in an apologizing mood, let me apologize for the use of words such as Mr. Charlie, Mr. Jim Crow, Uncle Tom, Red-bones, high yellows ninny coloreds and the darkies, I may as well apologize for the cripple who rolled around downtown Starkville and spit on the sidewalks.  I must not forget to apologize for graduating from high school ahead of my older brother.  One day I am going to make a list of all of the things I must apologize for. Ooh to heck with this, these are nothing but labels and others conception of me.  Labels have no power of their own.  We give labels, powered by what we perceive them to mean, If I said your mother wore cowboy boots, and you drew your gun and shot me.  The legal establishment would want to know why.  You will say I insulted your mother.  I will say I don’t know your mother; I never met your mother.  You are left to explain how can my word mean anything, how can they be insulting when they are based upon my lies and conjectures.  If I call you stupid, does that make you stupid?  You are stupid if you think you are stupid because I called you stupid.

     Back in the old days when our ancestors worked outside, the sun toughens their skin and they weren’t offended by the use of mere words and they weren’t offended by bad hair. Now that we have been elevated to Afro-Americans by the NAACP and we have become civilized, our skin has grown thinner, and we get offended by mere words. We spend millions of dollars trying to teach our hair lessons and buying other folks hair, and still end up with bad hair.  Another group spends millions of dollars trying to darken their skin and still end up being white.  We want laws enacted to make people love us so that we could marry anybody we want to and the right to sit at anybody’s table.  Well, there are still people I wouldn’t want my daughter to marry and definitely would not want a bugger popper sitting at my table. 

      When it comes to names, we are a strange breed.  We just can’t make up our mind to what we want to be called.  When I was in grade school, I was a Nigger by the time I got to high school I was colored. When I joined the Air Force I was Black. By the time my tour of duty had ended, I was described as an Afro-American.  Then I began to fade in and out, one minute I was Black and the next I was Afro-American. One day it was OK to be Mr. Gillespie, the next I was suppose sign my name as “Mr. X”.  How can a person be an African and an American at the same time?  Here is a dichotomy that is being overlooked and need to be evaluated. I have chosen not to be a hyphenated one.  I am not an African, never been there and I wouldn’t want to live there. I am an American, I was born here, I fought for this country and I am a part of this country. You can call me bugger or you can call me dog, just don’t mess with my family and I don’t try to hang your stinking monkey on my back.

     There are three major groups that make up my bloodline.    My Great Grandmother was an African, and I am proud of her.  My Great Grandmother was a Choctaw Indian, and I am proud of her. My Great-Great Grandfather was Irish; he was a land owner, a slaveholder and a medical doctor.  I am proud of him and his accomplishment.  I challenge the great minds to define me.  I will not allow myself to be defined by the outcome of any one of these struggles.  I am the product of many different struggles. Visualize this if you can, a 16 ounce jar is placed on a table and filled with 8 ounces of water.  You are asked to describe the jar and its content.  A small and limited mind would say, “There is a jar that is half full of water sitting on a table.”   One who struggles to be profound and follows a different path would say, “There is a half empty jar of water being supported by a table.”  To the elevated mine, one who needs no labels to define its contents would simply say, “There is a jar with water in it.”   Why must I be defined by a color content or quantity?  Why must I be Black?  Why do you define your sister of father to me as a step when I don’t know them?  Have you ever seen a half-sister?

    After the Civil War, Mr. Charlie was in for a rude awaking. He was about to meet the product of his own creation and he didn’t have the foggiest idea as to how to deal with it.  The colored and the Indians were a group of people that consisted of many shades of skin pigmentation.  There were the high yellows which had good hair and were trying to pass. On the bottom rung of the ladder, there were the darkies that had bad hair.  Nobody wanted to be a darkie with bad hair, but Jessie Jackson made people ashamed to admit it. Jessie Jackson made us stand in the rain while our hair went from straight to kinky; to up the clench fist and shout, “I am somebody.”  Did we need Jessie Jackson to tell us that?  Then there was the Mullato’s who own the ladders of upward mobility.  They were the uppity colored, (for the sake of calcification and readability I wish I could drop the “N-Bomb” here but my proofers would delete it.  So every time I use the word “colored’ think of the N-Bomb.) The Mullato’s were considered high bred colored, who had good hair and they looked down on the poor darkies that had bad hair.  By now you are probably wondering what hair got to do with anything.  The answer is nothing, it’s a label. Most of the Mullato’s passed for white. Some of the Mullato’s are still trying to prove they don't have white folk’s blood in them. Now if you wanted to bring a Mulato down a notch just tell them they were Mr. Charlie's Chillums.  The coloreds wanted Mr. Charlie’s hair, they wanted his color, they wanted his money, but nobody wanted to be poor Mr. Charlie's Chillums. The middle position was held by those whom Grandmother described to her color struck grandchildren as being just plain ninny color.  Usually the ninny color children were a Red-bone with bad hair.

   

 Humanity, not just the coloreds is screwed up.  Think of the money made on tanning products and bleaching cream.  Do you want to say, huh.

     Remember those times when nobody wanted to call a dog, then Randy Jackson went on national television and told everybody that it was alright. People then started calling the peoples' dogs.  A famous tennis shoe company paid a colored man a huge sum of money to convince every working colored, poor welfare mothers included, that love for your child was spending two hundred dollars for a four dollar pair of tennis shoes. These two unrelated acts taught Mr. Charlie one of his greatest lessons about the colored.

      Being colored allowed us to make all sorts of wild claims, such as a young boy in grade school not wanting to be called colored, told the Teacher that he had an Indian in him.  Then there is the story of two little boys running down the road, one black and one white, shouting run, run the (for this to sound right you have to drop the N-bomb here) colored are coming. Now it becomes easy to see how the thin skinned Afro-American’s and the NAACP has messed up my life. I cannot write this parody without trying to explain myself.  There were the high yellows and the just plain ninny colors that learned to mispronounce certain word when they talked.  ‘Hey Mon’ became a transitional phrase, if you said it right, you could be a visitor from some exotic island.  I tried it when I was in the Air Force and immediately I was somebody. I was a Jamaican with a stinking monkey on my back.

  

       I guess I was one of the fortunate son’s of the South, because I never met Mr. Charlie or Jim Crow.  When I was growing up I heard that Mr. Charlie was a bad man.  And that after the Civil War was over Mr. Charlie had brought in Jim Crow to take care of his uppity coloreds. The first thing Mr. Jim Crow did was to explain that you could not be white if you had colored blood in you.  There were a lot of uppity coloreds who was trying to pass and he had to put a stop to that. He came up with lots of rules and regulation.  First, he concluded that there were only two classes of people, you were either White or you was Colored. Mr. Jim Crow came up with beautiful phrases such as, “Separate but equal,” “segregation” and “poll taxes.” Coon hunting became a southern pastime.  All over the South, signs went up.  Two water fountains, one said, ’White’ and the other said, ’Colored.’  Two restrooms, one said ‘White’ and the other said ‘Colored’.  Two graveyards, one ‘White’ and one ‘Colored’. Mr. Jim Crow did lots of explaining.  He even explained why the coloreds had big butts.  It made sense when he explained how the coloreds rolled their tails up and stuffed them in their undergarments. With Mr. Jim Crow in charge and running things everybody knew their place. The Mullato's knew their place. If they wanted to maintain their status they had to hang with Mr. Charlie.

     The funny thing about Mr. Charlie was, he talked about separating the coloreds from the whites, but he loved to hang out with the coloreds.   You could find Mr. Charlie hanging out in the colored section of town most any night.  Sometime Mr. Charlie and Mr. Jim Crow would show up at the colored folk’s church.

     Mr. Jim Crow never spent a day in school, he was what most people defined as poor white trash, but he could write laws and knew how to hide them on the books.  Even today after more than one hundred years have passed, Mr. Jim Crow keeps popping up.  Before the old Jim Crow could get everything explained, simplified and legalized old Jim Crow just fell over and died.  Mr. Charlie could not accept that Jim Crow was dead, so he hid the body and pretended he was still alive. The Choctaw Indians knew Mr. Jim Crow was dead, because they saw where Mr. Charlie buried the body.  They dug it up and buried the body in their sacred burial ground in a place called, Tunica, Ms.  The problem with all of this was the uppity Coloreds folks kept trying to kill old Jim Crow, but old Jim was already dead.  But how can you be dead when people are still trying to kill you?  They say the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he didn’t exist.  The Choctaw began to wonder if Mr. Jim Crow was dead even though they had the body, because so much was happening in the name of Mr. Jim Crow.

  Mr. Jim Crow had become entrenched in the institutions of the south.  He was more powerful, more dead than he was alive. He had become immortal because he could not be killed.  You cannot kill something that’s already dead.  It worked out fine for Mr. Charlie, because the Colored was misdirected and spent a lot of time and money was spent trying to kill a dead horse.  They enlisted the help of the NAACP and their rich Uncle Sam from Washington.  Soon Uncle Sam was tearing up the countryside looking for Mr. Jim Crow. The Choctaw Indians were sitting back on the reservation getting high watching Mr. Charlie, Uncle Sam, the NAACP and the Coloreds fight it out; all the while they were trying to figure out a way to beat Mr. Charlie and Uncle Sam at their own game.  The Choctaw knew if they could beat Mr. Charlie and Uncle Sam the Coloreds would be beaten also.  In a self-induced stupor the great Choctaw Indian Chiefs were dancing around the grave of Mr. Jim Crow. They heard the immortal words. “Man is left to gamble.”  The message was carried from coast to coast, “Indian brother unite, if man is left to gamble, he needs a place to gamble.  Let us build casinos' and take Mr. Charles’s money.”

    

       Anyway, let’s get back on topic.  Mr. Charlie was pretty much upset over Uncle Sam and the NAACP comes to town trying to stamp out Mr. Jim Crow.   Uncle Sam was holding secret meetings with the coloreds, and Mr. Charlie was not invited.  So Mr. Charlie came up with a plan, he sent for his old ninny colored friend Uncle Tom, who had bad hair. He was well educated and knew his way around the colored.  Uncle Tom could attend the meeting and report back to Mr. Charlie what was going on.  With Uncle Tom attending the meeting it was like Mr. Charlie had a front row seat.  This worked fine until Rosie; the Red-bone was pulling a double shift With Mr. Charlie’s son at Mr. Charlie’s house, and saw Uncle Tom sneaking in the back door.  She followed Uncle Tom and caught him and Mr. Charlie in bed together. The word spread around town about Uncle Tom.  Uncle Tom was labelled a snitch and ran out of town on a rail. Uncle Sam gave up its search for Mr. Jim Crow after assuring everyone that Mr. Jim Crow was dead and as long as they supported him with their vote he would take good care of them.

     Uncle Sam formed an exclusive club for all of those who had walked behind the mule.  Uncle Sam even used a picture of a mule as the symbol to represent the group.  Once each year they would get together and have a Democratic party.  The Colored were to make sure that Uncle Sam had enough votes to throw the party, and Uncle Sam wrote big checks to take care of his colored folks.  Uncle Sam made laws to open gates for the coloreds.  Before the gates could be closed the gays, lesbians, Red bones, Jews, Indians, Gentiles, people with bad hair, dogs and cats, all came marching in screaming, we want our rights. Soon all animals began clamoring for their rights. They demanded lawyers be appointed to represent them in court. Uncle Sam became known as the “Civil Right Giver.” and he published books on how to get rich while sitting on your butt.

   Since Uncle Sam was giving the coloreds welfare checks, that destroyed the DNA of the colored family, Mr. Charlie figured he could make money off the coloreds by selling their big cars.  He created the Big Motor Company and started selling Cadillac cars and trucks.  Uncle Tom bought a cabin at the edge of the swamp in the Bijou country. He spent the rest of his life writing children's stories. Rosie, the Red-bone married Mr. Charlie’s son and they open up a shoe company that specialized in selling over priced sneaker to the colored folks.  The Choctaw chiefs continued to solidify their plans to control Uncle Sam’s money. They opened up a string of Casinos and today they are busy raking in money and getting the coloreds evicted from their homes.  The Coloreds soon found out that Uncle Sam had lied to them, now instead of having to deal with Mr. Jim Crow; they now had to deal with a stinking monkey on their back. Every time a colored was born, the pimps, player, preachers and pragmatics all entered into a conspiracy to take charge of the poor child’s mind and shape it and process it. To enforce their will a stinking monkey was assigned to each Child.

I think it was the stinking monkey that really sent the NAACP, Jessie, Al and the ‘poor’ colored folks over the edge.  Some say it had something to do with bad hair and some say it had something to do with good hair. The reality of the situation was one morning the coloreds, Jessie, Al and the NAACP got together to kill the stinking monkey. First, they buried the ‘N-Word’, then the rap stars dug it up.  They changed the spelling and the poor coloreds spent millions of dollars to glorify it.  Then, they demanded that Mr. Charlie Kill his stinking monkey so that little colored boys and girls could live without a monkey on their back.  Mr. Charlie explained to them that he never had any stinking monkeys. I think It was at that moment they realized that the monkey on the poor colored’s back wasn’t white.  The stinking monkey was black.  The NAACP became an irreverent organization, and most colored folks decided to become just plain folks.

     In the famous words of Rosie, the Red-bone, “Colored folks just got to learn to live with each other.  They have got to learn to trust.  Forget about words. Stick and stones might break your bones, but talk will never kill you.  Get that stupid monkey off your back, and pull your pants up.  

     You know I have seen a lot of pretty girls with bad hair, and I have seen lots of ugly girls with good hair, but I have never seen a pretty girl looking ugly because she had bad hair, and I have never seen an ugly girl looking pretty because she had good hair.

     If you are wondering what all of this is about, or better yet what hair got to do with anything.  It's all about nothing and nothing never mean anything.