1-20-09

Prior to the election our our new President I was not an especially political citizen. I pride myself in an ability to see both (or more) sides of any issue, which comes in handy in fiction writing because it allows for creating moments of decency in the most morally deprived characters and allowing the saintly ones to fall considerably short of perfection. Accepting the dogma of a particular party without question or reservation goes against my nature, as does seeing the opposition simply, strictly, simplistically as the enemy. But life among other things is about making choices, and growing up in a non-affluent African American (Caribbean to be precise) household put the democrats in a far more flattering light than the republicans, so I didn’t ponder my registration decision strenuously. It was basically a pre-made choice. When I registered to vote and declared myself a democrat, the timing of it had nothing to do with wanting to support whoever was running for president or governor or mayor at the time. I had gotten a job collecting signatures for a politician who was trying to get on the ballot to run for lieutenant governor of the state of New York and as one of his campaign workers I was asked to register as a democrat, which was fine by me because I already considered myself to unofficially be one. Had I gotten that same job working for a candidate who was republican, perhaps I would have taken the decision lightly enough to say “what the heck” and gone the other way. It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at NYU and there were far more pressing things on my mind, like girls and…like girls.

Every four years as election time rolled around I surveyed the field and made a gut call. Typically it was for the democrat. But since I considered politicians a rather untrustworthy lot in general, this felt more like picking the lesser of two evils than supporting who I was most inspired by. I voted for Ross Perot specifically because he had not spent the majority of his life prior to running for president as a politician. That seemed to be the strongest qualification a candidate could possess. After all the sound and fury of each election season, the winner would step into office and for 4 – 8 years achieve scattered results and mixed reviews. Sometimes circumstances dictated a rise in his popularity, other times a significant fall, but none of these men changed the world from my perspective. World changing seemed to have reached its zenith in the 1960’s, whether the agents of that change were politicians or preachers or athletes or musicians, and after that the world simply grew more technologically advanced each year but not necessarily much different than the past. The decades of the 50’s and the 60’s were basically night and day in comparison to each other. Subsequent decades flowed into one another with much less contrast regardless of the fanfare.

Then this time around came around. A man by the name of Barack H. Obama took to the world stage and rocked it like the Kennedys, the Beatles, Elvis, and Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five all rolled into one. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that if the blatantly right man for the job somehow won, things were going to be quite different going forward. The game was going to be played by a new set of rules. Those who had strongly cared about government in the past continued to do so, but those who had scarcely paid attention before were now also engaged. Obama was not the first black man or the first minority or the first person under 50 or the first dynamic speaker ever to run for president. What he was, what he is, continues to be written in the history books. We’re only in the early chapters of those books, at the beginning of what surely has the potential if not guarantee to be greatness. We sense that great change is coming once again. What that change will be isn’t really clear. I'm not holding out hope for those 40 acres and a mule. Not much beyond disappointment may even occur, if only because there is so very much for this particular presidency to live up to. Time will tell as it always does. But for now, the sense of promise and potential is overwhelming, and all things seem possible even if we don’t actually understand what is meant by all things. What we do know is that a black man became president, not even one with a WASPY name, and if that could happen who knows what might take place next. Condominiums on the moon? Moving sidewalks? Flying cars? Robot maids? A cure for aging and antidote to death? A diet pill that works fantastically for 100% of the people 100% of the time, with no side effect other than increased libido? A pill that enables 80 year old men to get it on whenever they wish? Oh yeah, we already got that one. The New York Jets winning another Super Bowl? That’s what Obama’s election felt like – as if the future, at least the first part of it, had truly, finally arrived.

I've been asked by a number of people to describe the experience of being in DC on the day Barack Obama was sworn in. What did it feel like to be standing for hours among millions in the blistering cold in our nation’s capital to watch the inauguration of our new president, our great black of skin but colorless of soul hope? How did it feel to be there with three of my four siblings partaking in such a historical moment? How did it feel to know the moment would have occurred whether we were there to share in it with the masses or not, whether we had each done our small part by voting for him or not, but we had chosen to come nonetheless because it seemed senseless to be anyplace else? How did it feel the day after the day honoring Martin Luther King Jr. to believe the dreamy vision he had spoken of shortly before his death was by all appearances at last being realized? How did it feel to know that if my daughter ever asks me where I was on the day Obama became president and the future perhaps became the present, I will be able to say – I was right there with him, in body as well as spirit?

It felt great.

- Roy Pickering

Author of Patches of Grey -http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0578005816/ref=nosim/porfessionalp4-20

and Feeding the Squirrels - http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_feedingthesquirrels.html

The Gluten Free Illustrator did not make the trip to DC as she needed to stay in our nice warm home with our little one.

Excerpt from Patches of Grey

Here is a taste that will hopefully whet your appetite for more:

Lionel marched briskly home. A man's place was at the head of his household and it was essential that this be recognized. God was worshipped first and foremost because of the fear His power elicited. People might praise His infinite capacity for love, but it wasn't love that brought them to their knees in obedient prayer. When Lionel entered his kitchen he found Caren setting the table for dinner. A dinner the money she earned had paid for. What need did she have to be grateful to her husband, except for the merciful restraint he showed? But in order for the restraint to be acknowledged, a hint of power had to be displayed. Caren must be reminded of the fear.

"So I'm a real bastard, is that it?"

Lionel answered his own question by flipping over the dinner table, sending dishes and silverware clattering to the checkered linoleum floor. "How dare you tell Ellen I abuse you?"

Caren was momentarily distracted from the question by the mess her husband had created. A few plates and glasses had been broken. Fortunately, she had not yet placed any food on the table.

"I never said such a thing."

"I don't care how crazy she is. She didn't come up with that shit off the top of her head. She was quoting you."

"I told her you've been on edge because of the strike," Caren said. It would be no easy task to douse Lionel’s anger. She would probably have to settle for stifling her agitation at Ellen for poking her nose where it didn’t need to be. Caren knew that her friend had well meaning intentions, but stirred up trouble pays little heed to the purpose of its instigator.

"I break my back every day for this family. All I ask for in return is a hot meal and just maybe a little respect. You think I treat you bad? You don't know what bad is. But you seem to want to find out."

Caren was aware that the right choice of subservient words could placate Lionel. But thoughts had been placed in her head lately that she was unable to wish away, and these thoughts urged her to challenge rather than concede. Perhaps the self-respect fostered by her job of the past several months played a large part. Day by day, the woman who allowed herself to be intimidated by her husband was fading away. In her place, a woman who was just beginning to recognize her own value after four decades of living now stood. This woman was tired of such tirades, and even more tired of rationalizing her husband's occasional cruelty. Ellen was right. Lionel’s reign as tyrant had gone on long enough.

"I've got to run back and forth between work and keeping this place up,” Caren said. “You know what thanks I get? A drunken husband screaming at me like a baby who wants his bottle. You want a hot meal? Go eat it off the stove."

She tried to leave the room, but Lionel stuck out his arm to prevent her exit. It was then that Tony stepped into the kitchen, unheard over his parents’ argument and shielded from view behind his father’s tensed back.

"Don't you walk out on me," said Lionel.

He could not allow the matter to end on Caren’s terms. It was not supposed to have gone like this. Where was the remorse, the groveling for forgiveness? His wife needed to learn what life had taught him a long time ago. Pride would be knocked right out of a person who didn't have enough sense to hold it in check when necessary.

Caren read his eyes and found herself at peace in the retina of the tempest. Like the most experienced of sailors, she knew that nature’s wildness could not be fought, only waited out.

"What are you gonna do, hit me? Go ahead then. Get it over with if that's what it will take."

Caren staggered backward from the blow which followed, tripped over an outstretched table leg, and fell to the floor. Tony wrapped his arms around his father like a boa constrictor suffocating its prey.

"Who is this? Get off me. Get off me or else."

Tony ignored the commandment, holding on as if the fate of the universe depended on his grip.

"I'm not going to tell you again." Though his words were still acerbic, Lionel had ceased to physically struggle against the vise he was in. He was too drunk, and his son too strong with desperation. Nevertheless, Tony held on even tighter.

"You're going to regret this, boy."

Tony did not doubt that the truth had been stated, but refused to acknowledge it. No one would be allowed to harm his mother, not even the man he feared most.

"Let him go, Tony."

His mother’s soft spoken request accomplished what his father’s threats could not. Tony backed away from Lionel, hyper-alert to whatever might happen next. Lionel did not bother to look his son’s way, but simply walked out of the kitchen and left the apartment.

Caren knew exactly where he was headed and what he would do. Her husband would drink until his wallet was empty. Then he would come home, shamed and drunk enough to be willing to apologize in order to coax her into making love. She was used to the ritual and accepted it as she did the sun rising each morning.

"Are you okay?" Tony asked as he helped her up.

"I'm fine."

"I'll never let him hit you again."

Caren’s sudden burst of indignation had just as swiftly disappeared, replaced by a need to pacify and explain.

"Your father has a lot to deal with right now. He's angry about the strike and this is the only place he can let it out."

"He has no right to take it out on you."

"We're his family. If he can't count on us, who can he count on?"

Tony shook his head. Not only was his mother not distraught, but she seemed to have accepted what had happened and was asking him to do the same.

"You forgive him for everything."

"Of course I do. That's what love is."

Caren ran her hand through Tony’s hair. She could see the hate in his eyes and wanted to remove it. No boy should hate his father. Life was tough enough as it was.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, and so does your father. Promise me you'll try to understand him."

"I'll try," Tony said, not caring if he sounded sincere. He understood his father’s brand of love well enough. It was based on orders being followed, his presence being trembled before. But the day hopefully was soon coming when it would no longer reduce Tony to a petrified child.

Mother and son stood in loving embrace. Caren reflected on what she had just said. That's what love is. Moments earlier she lay on the floor, her hand covering the handle of a fork. She had imagined shoving the tongs into her husband's eye. If Tony had not come into the room, if Lionel had advanced to finish teaching his lesson, would her fingers have let go before bad grew irreparably worse? She didn't know the answer so she silently made the same promise she had asked of her son. All was lost once people could no longer forgive.

x x x x x

Copyright 2009 by Roy L. Pickering Jr. [M.U.D. House Books]

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0578005816/ref=nosim/porfessionalp4-20

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Press Release for PATCHES OF GREY

I am pleased, delighted, make that thrilled to announce that my debut novel Patches of Grey has been published by M.U.D. House Books and is now available for sale from Amazon.com -

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0578005816/ref=nosim/porfessionalp4-20

Below you will find a synopsis. Anyone who opts to purchase a copy please be sure to share your thoughts once done reading. I enjoy hearing from my readers, who I deeply treasure. After all, without them there would be considerably less point to writing in the first place.


Synopsis: Tony Johnson is a studious young man planning to soon graduate from much more than high school. Although his zip code places him in a Bronx tenement, his sights are set far beyond the trappings of his humble upbringing. Collegiate dreams combined with falling in love with a white classmate put him strongly at odds with his father. Although his brother C.J. s rebellious ways place him directly in the path of danger on gang ruled streets, and the virginal innocence of their sister Tanya is clearly approaching its demise, it is Tony who incurs the majority of Lionel Johnson's wrath for the sins of ambition, daring to be with Janet Mitchell, and refusing to bend to his father's will. Seeing unrealized goals reincarnated in the eyes of his eldest son harshly remind Lionel of what once could have been, and of what went wrong. His own childhood in a segregated southern town established a bitter, prejudiced outlook that is the only legacy he has to pass down to his children. When his job and role as primary breadwinner are lost, Lionel's authority quickly erodes and he drowns his disappointment one drink at a time. This affords Tony, who lacks the seemingly servile patience of his mother, an opportunity to assert his right to become the man he wants to be rather than allowing his fate to be set by chance and circumstance. But throughout the course of Roy Pickering's engrossing debut novel, Tony comes to learn that the world is not as black and white as he and his father's opposing mindsets would suggest.

Calling Rip Van Winkle

My 2-1/2 year old daughter has a mortal enemy who goes by the name of Sleep, nicknamed Bedtime. It is still the hope of her mother and I that she manages to get a decent nap and a full night’s rest each day. We’ve done ample reading on how critical sleep is to the development of a young child’s mind, and have seen much evidence of how important it is to pleasantness of mood. Since we both work, our daughter (who I'll call Queen Diva from here on out) is in fulltime daycare Monday through Friday and naptime is out of our hands. Often she naps there for about an hour, and far too frequently she doesn’t nap at all. On rare occasion she’s out for a good two hours, which is about the best we can hope for. Our naptime hopes are a little more ambitious on weekends when responsibility shifts back to us, but the results are not greatly improved. Queen Diva pseudo-regularly gives us about an hour and a half to ourselves at midday, a period during which remarkably little can be accomplished. Just as we’re nearing a state somewhere in the vicinity of relaxation, we hear her enthusiastic battle cry – I’m Awake! Double duty is shared with her daycare provider regarding daytime naps, but when it comes to putting Queen Diva to sleep for the night the ball is entirely in our court. We have heard fantastical rumors of toddlers who go down without a fight. We’ve even been witnesses to this seemingly miraculous event and marveled at the good fortune of those parents. When it comes to our own little one however, to quote the dapper Michael Buffer - “Let’s get ready to rumbleeeeeeeee.” My wife and I have come up with every strategy under the sun. Sometimes several days in a row go by when the struggle is less than epic and we foolishly believe we’re on to something. Then our good luck streak cruelly ends and it is back to the drawing board. Evenings can be quite stressful as result. We do our best to be patient, maintaining calmness of demeanor and consistency of habit, creating a sense of security while also promoting independence because when it comes to going to sleep, no one can do it for our daughter but herself. But more often than not, no matter how tired she appears to be (ironically the more exhausted she is the more hyper her behavior), Queen Diva is not ready to fall asleep until she’s ready to fall asleep. Since she is inevitably put to bed (crib to be precise because the attempt to switch her to a bed, even though it was a pink Disney princess model, failed miserably) earlier than her body declares itself prepared for slumber, we are treated to a symphony of complaint and distress. Yet we remain optimists, for what choice do we have? Our silver lining is that unlike the naps that sometimes never come, at night even though she tries to drag it out indefinitely, eventually she will succumb. When silence finally arrives we declare that tomorrow she’ll get enough exercise during the day to wear down her endlessly energetic self. Tomorrow a good daytime nap will translate to trouble free bedtime at night. Tomorrow she won’t be able to trick us into a false alarm bathroom run. Tomorrow that “cry it out” theory will actually work. Tomorrow she’ll decide that resisting sleep with all her might is simply not worth the hassle. But you won’t find me putting any money on tomorrow looking much different than today. The day after that is anyone's guess. ------

Erin's new blog -

The Gluten Free Illustrator

Stepping Up to a Near Impossible Challenge

Barack Obama will assume the presidency of this country at a most inopportune time. We are in a recession that will likely get worse, though hopefully not too much so, long before anything he can do will help to make it better. Faulting Bush or the Republican party or the Easter Bunny won't do us any good either. Assigning blame won't slow down the rate of unemployment or shorten the list of companies big and small lining up to file bankruptcy. Finger pointing won't help a single family pay their mortgage bill after a bread winner has been laid off. Only time and effort and intelligence will stem the tide. It would be nice if compassion to those who are struggling is generously applied as well.

x x x x x

In addition to the economy there are numerous other issues on Obama's plate. That's what winning such a monumental election gets you, a plate full of problems and a nation full of people (supporters and detractors alike) waiting for you to fix them. If this recession becomes a full blown depression, the most grateful person in the country will probably be John McCain, sitting pretty in one of his houses with nobody demanding that he save the day.

x x x x x

What especially interests me is not the political headaches awaiting the next occupant of the oval office, but rather, the enormously high level of social pressure that accompanies his role as THE FIRST. On my walk from the train station to my office building each day I happen to walk past multiple wholesale stores. A great many of them carry Obama themed merchandise: t-shirts, calendars, anything that his image and message of optimism can be stamped on. African Americans are clearly the biggest target audience for these items. A couple years ago one might have sported a shirt with the face of Tupac or Biggie or Mike Tyson or Michael Jordan as demonstratons of black pride. That has been replaced with apparrel presenting a more serious minded icon such as old school Martin Luther King Jr. alongside our trendy modern day hero - Barack Obama. I'm afraid I haven't been to church in a New York minute, but I wonder if there will be Barack Obama fans along with the MLK models I used to cool myself with during the hot summer Sundays of my youth, arm flapping away as the preacher did his thing up on the pulpit. I knew plenty about Dr. King, what he had accomplished, what he represented. He was the stuff of legend and a notable subject in history textbooks. I understand what Barack Obama represents as well, but as for accomplishments, they haven't really been church fan worthy. Not yet anyway. His election was based on potential rather than achievement. We have collectively rolled the dice and decided to take our chances on the promise of a new day. Our President Elect has written a couple books, done some oddly derided community organizing, and been elected to a few political offices including the biggest one in the land. He proved to be an impressive candidate as John McCain, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and others will attest. Whether or not he will be an impressive president remains to be seen.

x x x x x

Let's say for the sake of argument though that he excels at the job - pulls our troops out of the Middle East without terrible consequences, gets our economy back on dot.com style track, reverses global warming and eliminates the need for gasoline fueled cars or oil fueled furnaces. Let's just say that after eight years of his service everything is prosperous, solar, electrical, green, and almost literally coming up roses. The possibilty exists that Obama could pull all of this off and still be seen by many as a failure. Why? Because Barack Obama will not simply be the President of the USA during a time of multifaceted crisis. He will also be viewed as the savior of Black America. Martin Luther King Jr. had "the dream" and mentioned it to us right before being permanently put to sleep, but Obama has what could be described as an even greater challenge than that facing Dr. King during the civil rights era. Barack Obama is being asked to be the embodiment of the dream fulfilled. He must make every black citizen feel not just a temporary feeling of exhultation over his individual victory, but ultimately, a permanent aura of satisfaction over millions of lives made tangibly better. Obama needs to equal if not better what Abraham Lincoln accomplished for African Americans during his own inopportune time to be president. If you're unemployed or barely scraping by on minimum wage, in the past this was not viewed as the fault of the sitting president. Effects of racism such as being stuck in poverty with a vastly inferior educational system were understood to be much bigger than any one man could be held accountable for. Legally sanctioned bigotry and the poison from it that has trickled down into society far more effectively than Reaganomics is historic. Blame couldn't be put on the first or the second Bush, or Clinton, or Reagan, or Carter, or a particular predecessor any more than a single president could be credited with inventing patriotism. Many decades of seasoning have gone into the stew sitting in the great melting pot that is the United Yet Also Divided States of America. No one person created our nation's racial problems so no particular soul was reasonably or unreasonably expected to fix them - until now that is.

x x x x x

I have no doubt that over the next 4 - 8 years there will be many people who look at the state of their lives with great dissatisfaction and proceed to accuse Barack Obama of not having done enough to improve things. The rights to vote and not be segregated and not be enslaved have already been obtained. Yet in spite of great strives there also is still much disparity. "Where is my 40 acres? Where is my mule? Where is my equality? Where is my bigger slice of pie? Why have all of my woes not been eliminated and my sins pardoned now that a black man sits in the White House?"

x x x x x

These questions are not intelligent ones, but they are probably inevitable. Those willing to tug on their own bootstraps will certainly hold more realistic hopes and expectations. Will Barack Obama even live up to those? Or was he set up for failure by his own ambition? Will his presence and message and most importantly his actions continue to inspire us? Or will the novelty of his achievement eventually wear off and leave familiar complacency in its place? The burden of change is of course not really on Barack Obama. It is on all of us.

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Commentary by Roy L. Pickering Jr. (author of Feeding the Squirrels: A Novella)

http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_feedingthesquirrels.html

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Web link of the day: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3_95F5e-Ac

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Web site of the millenium:
http://eringopaint.etsy.com/

How Sweet It Is

It's been a long time coming. Let us now hope and pray that reality lives up to the at long last realized dreams.

I've speculated from before he got elected that in his 2nd term a bolder Obama would emerge. Term limits = braver 2nd term mindset. TBD

— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 4, 2012

THE MOMENT is almost upon us?

Back in the 70's when I was a youngster it seemed that there were only two football teams to choose between. You were either a Dallas Cowboys fan or a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. Although I lived in New York City (Da Bronx!), rooting for the Giants or Jets never crossed my mind. Some time after a Steelers dynasty that included four championships in a span of six years came to an end, I switched my allegiance to the hometown Jets. I've been mostly suffering for that decision ever since. But before the years of heartache started I was treated to a display of total dominance by the Steel Curtain. The locquacious Terry Bradshaw still had his hair as he threw touchdowns left and right and up the middle, Franco Harris was stomping over helpless defenders, Lynn Swann was poetry in motion (years before becoming a Republican politician of all things), and Mean Joe Greene turned brutality into an art form. As brightly as the stars shone in Dallas while their cheerleaders rooted the Cowboys on so prettily, they simply were no match for the mighty Steelers. I realized that I was witnessing something special.

I also understood as a young boy that I would not be seeing a black man sworn in as President of the United States of America any time soon. I've never asked my parents if they hoped before I was born that I would one day grow up to be a doctor or lawyer or some other prestigious occupation. I do know they came here from the Virgin Islands in part because they wanted a bright future for me. They envisioned a college education in my future even though they never really pushed the issue. They simply stressed the importance of getting and respecting a good education and allowed me to push myself. But if they were being realists as they tried to forecast what was in store for their first born child, President of the country was probably not on their wish list. A white collar desk job was probably sufficient.

Now I'm a grown man of 40+ years with a child of my own, plus a college degree earned and a job behind a desk that I would leave to write for a living in a heartbeat. Along with the rest of my countrymen I stand on the verge of something remarkable. Tomorrow is election day and a black man is on the ballot as Democratic nominee. He is even ahead in the polls, though I'm afraid to put much trust in them. As does just about ever Jets fan I firmly believe in jinxes. If all goes according to plan and prayer, Barack Obama will become President of the United States. This biracial man with brown skin and foreign sounding name just may come to embody the realization of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s dream. Courtesy of the efforts of both Hillary Clinton and Barack Obaman, I have come to live in a day and age where wanting my daughter to become President one day is not such a kooky notion after all.

But before we get to Tuesday we need to make it through Monday night, Monday Night Football to be specific. Last weekend my cousin brought the following piece of information to my attention that I have since verified. As the Washington Redskins go on the Sunday prior to election day, so goes the nation. Thanks to the research of the Elias Sports Bureau's Steve Hirdt, we learned in 2000 that when the Redskins would win their last home game before a presidential election, the incumbent party held on to control of the White House. When the Redskins lost their last home game before the election, the out-of-power party took over. It has worked out this way every time dating all the way back to the franchise's first game in Washington in 1937.

So being superstitious when it comes to football and miracles, tonight I will root like crazy for my first favorite football team - the Pittsburgh Steelers. The next day I will cast my ballot and root like crazy for John McCain and Sarah Palin to become footnotes in American history. It is time for a new day. Change is fine for a slogan but insufficient for this country. What we truly need is transformation. And we may be no more than a day away from one starting to take place. My fingers are crossed as my hopes take flight.

Opinion of Roy L. Pickering Jr.

http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_feedingthesquirrels.html