This week, here in South Carolina, a Columbia city council member who has held office representing the same district (The City of Columbia’s District 2) for 27 years, resigned after pleading guilty to federal tax evasion. According to reports, the man failed to pay more than $25,000 in federal income taxes in 2004. Before this revelation we learned that two convicted felons were trying to run for mayor of the city of Columbia and we have a governor that was hiking the Appalachian Trail in Argentina.

Last week we learned that New York’s elder statesman is being investigated for having filed a misleading financial disclosure report for 2007, he allegedly failing to report at least half a million dollars in assets. Before that, New York’s most recent (2) governors and one of her congressmen (who, by-the-way is a native South Carolinian) have fallen to scandal. Detroit’s former mayor was convicted while in office as was Chicago’s former governor and, the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development resigned while under investigation by the FBI for revoking the contract of a vendor who said he did not like President G.W. The list goes on and on and on and on.

While these people plot and plan ways to line their pockets, cheat on their spouses, payback, pay up, find their soul mates, date prostitutes, dance in water fountains, look for nonexistent weapons, come out of the closet, hike trails, and take their children and friends to the World Series with free tickets that were allegedly solicited valued at $425 a piece and evade taxes our children are being robbed of an education, families are being foreclosed out of their homes while standing on unemployment lines and in food pantries while struggling to get adequate health care and affordable health insurance.
Our country is broken, our government is broken.

These egotistical men and women sitting in high and lofty offices care only about what they want, what they (think they) need, what they think they should be entitled to, and how they can remain in power. You and I don’t count, our children don’t count, our elderly and our infirmed don’t. These people blatantly and continually lie, cheat, steal, cover up, profile, stall, threaten to filibuster, fabricate, procrastinate and pontificate yet, we continue to be in awe of them, reelect them, throw tea parties for them, forgive them and make excuses for them.

Is it just me or, is there something wrong with this picture?

I told her so were we and to let us give out the food without a problem. “You get paid to give out this food, I know you do. And I am going to contact the agency and tell them you are keeping it for yourself.”

“We don’t get paid to do this,” I told her. “And we don’t work with an agency. We do it because we want to help others.”

She walked away screaming in front of a long line of people  and I wondered if she got paid cash to do the work of the lord she was so committed to.

What is wrong with being committed to doing something for free? It is frowned upon in a world based on the mighty dollar. Everything anyone does has to have a price put on it. My husband grew up extremely poor and wanted to give back to the world and show people that there is a way out of poverty. When he discovered that a major warehouse food store just throw out day old breads and pastries he made a commitment to going out to that store every Sunday morning and bringing back the food to our neighborhood. We bagged the food in our dining area and kitchen, we had volunteers including our two daughters, we paid for the gas and we gave up all those things you do on Sunday morning, including going to church, to brunch or working out in a gym. We did this for nine years for free and enjoyed it. We learned about our neighbors and they learned about us. Our daughters wrote essays about their work that helped them get into college. People called us fools for letting the poor people into our home. “They’re going to case the place and rob you.” Never happened when we gave away the food and our kindnesses. But there is always that element that can’t understand doing something for nothing.

Like starting this website.  Bob Grant has given us a place to happily spread our creative wings and he is not making a dime. Every now and then someone decides to go on the attack and question what he is getting out of it. He has collected some very good writers, he has helped moved some of those writers on to other projects like “. . . as last” and Night Read. And he has started writing himself. He has probably learned a lot more about humanity and culture then he knew before. He reaches out to young writers who have amazing talents and older writers who felt no one cared.

And he doesn’t make a dime from it. He is committed to what he is doing. Can that be payment enough? Of course it can. It is those who, when asked for help respond with “What are you going to do for me?”, who can’t get past the freedom to do things for free.

There are many websites and organizations around this world committed to others without asking for money. It hurts to find out things like the head of the Red Cross made $7million last year before he quit. Or that a friend who loves to put on fundraisers for a living wouldn’t do one for Haiti because he doesn’t do anything for free. It is worse when I see ministers driving expensive cars but they refuse to help those in their congregation who can’t pay their utility bills.

Anybody asking me why I write here- for free- will get this answer. I love to write. I love the exposure. I love the other writers and seeing their work and the comments they make to mine. I even enjoy getting corrected, having arguments and pushing a point home when everyone is on the other side of the fence. It is all for the good of the muse and for the good of my soul. There is a lot going on this website that money cannot buy. It is a joy to be committed to something of value- for free.

Yet, once in a while, something crashes through that dense wall of denial and I can no longer avoid looking.

Today, at a very powerful, presentation, I learned that the three leading causes of death in the U.S. in 1900 (Pneumonia, Influenza, and Tuberculosis) are not even in the top five 100 years later (heart disease, Cancer, and stroke). In effect, over the span of an extended lifetime, our biggest health concerns have shifted from being “attacked from the outside” to being “attacked from the inside.” That’s a powerful bit of data.

Part of the reason is that we are now under constant, unending, on-going, chronic stress. Sure, we’re not fighting off saber-tooth tigers anymore; but we pay too many bills with too few dollars, or we attempt too many things with too little time, or both, or more. Our body can’t perceive the difference between “saber-tooth tiger stress” and the “IRS is on the phone for you” stress. All it understands is that something is a kilter; we are under pressure. (Whether the stress is caused by actual or perceived events makes no difference; we respond the same.)

Couple that fact with the detail that our modern diet is so out of whack that nutritionists refer to it as “hyper inflammatory.” That means that when threatened, our body throws the preverbal kitchen sink at almost any problem. Instead of marshalling a couple of “antibiotic soldiers” to quell a minor disturbance, it delivers an entire, heavily-armed, fully equipped battalion. Once the threat has been eliminated, those extra soldiers hang around with nothing to do – except leave waste products. Blend that with our constant stress-level, and well, we’ve got bunkers of waste-producing soldiers camped out all over our insides, lining our cells with all sorts of unnecessary non-disposable nasties.

Since stress is beyond our control, we cannot dispel it and send the soldiers on leave. Rather, we can only disarm the situation by thinking differently, moving more, and changing how we eat.

Here’s where today’s talk made its impact on me. Eric, the presenter, offered clear, easy-to-implement ideas to begin to reverse the course. Take some Fish Oil, increase Vitamin D, drink Green Tea now and then. He was honest; it’s not a panacea; it’s merely a few doable actions that can improve one’s heath. They are things I can do right now – and I did.

Not only are simple ideas usually the best, but, now knowing what I’ve learned, they don’t stress me out as much as doing nothing.

This is a tale you may have heard before from other authors who got close but no cigar. At a book signing party for someone else an editor from one of the A publishing houses came up to me when she discovered I was the author of her, and I quote, “favorite new book.” She would be pushing it at the next meeting. I was excited and flattered. But once I learned how the publishing business works I realized that I didn’t have enough power behind me to get them to publish a good novel when a bad one might sell more copies. I tried and tried other agents over the years but it was always something they couldn’t sell. Now I am on the road to self publishing and no longer feeling sorry for myself and my neglected work.

My book was rejected because they didn’t think it would make a good movie. And since the movie that flopped was historic no book publisher wanted that kind of black history novel for a long time. I have been honored to have Tim Roux read it and helped edit it. I respect his opinion and I have gotten nothing but good feedback from him. It is what I always assumed it was going to be- a good novel.

So why am I having a hard time editing the last few pages?

Perhaps it is the fear of letting go. This novel has belonged to me and me alone for so long that I am not sure I want to share it with the world. Maybe it is the fear of rejection again. The fact that once published no one would buy it or review it or even put it in their stores is scary. A knot forms in my stomach just thinking about it. No one in my family has read it and none of my friends have read it in years. There is a chapter that has brought readers and listeners to tears. Is that a selling point, that a book can tug at the strings of your heart? And is the whole reason that I can’t look at the last few pages have to do with the work that comes next?

In truth I would rather just write and have someone try to sell my work. But self publishing seems like a way to have a bit more control over your work. Editing suggestions are just that- not demands. It is  yours to sell, give away, leave in public toilets, I don’t know. You publish it your way and then you move on. There is marketing and distribution to think of but in the end it’s worth it to make it your book. Especially when you were told no one wanted it.

The last 20 pages are killing me because once I make all the edits it will be time to let the baby go. Send it on to iUniverse and wait for the outcome. There will be other re-writes and mistakes that weren’t clear before but they will be all up to me to change when I get the first draft back. Ready or not I have to go there. I have to put the book into the world then go to the next novel, hoping it is as good as the first. It is a job with many rewards and sometimes no pay. But I have to remind myself that I am a writer and this is what I have to do.

So instead of lists of Things To Do which inevitably lead to Things to Avoid, I have decided to compile lists of Things on Vacation. WAY more fun.

Top 5 BEST THINGS about the Vacation *:

1) Dreams Punta Cana was a FANTASTIC resort. Great staff who seemed genuinely happy to be there.

2) My husband and I each read 4 books (see list of Good Books)

3) I didn’t have ANY medical issues – no headaches, no tummy troubles

4) Met some fantastic new folks – mostly Brits – including one gent who (I think) is the spitting image of Geoffrey Rush. Seriously. And he didn’t even know who the actor was!

5) I think I only heard “I’m bored” or “I’m hungry” four times (total) over 2 weeks. That’s a huge record.

5a) Discovered Expedia.com. Our only travel agency from now on.

* Without meaning to sound flip about it, the #1A thing has to be that even though we were on the same land mass as Haiti, we didn’t feel even one tremor when the quake & aftershocks hit.

5 Good Books To Read on Vacation:

1) New Author Alert! Well, he’s new to us: Harlan Coben. Dwayne calls it “kind of guy-lit”, but even being a chick, I have to say that I found “Long Lost” not only hilarious, but compelling and fun. And I’m in love with Myron Bolitar now. I seem to have a problem with fictional heroes.

2) Another “New” Author (to us): Jennifer Roberson. I read “Lady of the Forest”, even though it (obviously a re-print) had a horribly cheesy cover (omg. I almost ripped the cover off just so no one would see it). I was hesitant – first, because of the cover, second because it was “another” Robin Hood remake. But it was fantastic!! Loved it.

3) “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. Dwayne read this and is still in a trance from it. I have to admit to being somewhat afraid of it, but he says it will change everything about how I write. Not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing, but it sure makes me happy when he enjoys fiction.

4) “Blink” by Malcolm Gladwell – As soft a non-fiction as I could find for Dwayne for our trip. I was hoping to edge him into fiction via this, and it worked (or he just ran out of non-fiction books). I know he enjoyed it because he kept pushing pertinent chapters under my nose, which he rarely does.

5) “Timeline” by Michael Crichton. I hadn’t gotten around to reading this before because Crichton has an extremely annoying habit of being way more intelligent than I am – and demonstrating it ad nauseum. But, well, Gerard Butler (hmm … have I mentioned him on here before? hmm) was in the movie, and I loved the movie. The best thing about this book is that it was entirely different from the movie, but still ended up being a fantastic story. Books are almost always better than movies, we know, but it was fun to have faces to match up to these characters. Like … well, like Gerry’s face.

5 Drinks on Vacation:

1) Dirty Monkey: Baileys, dark rum, something creamy, chocolate syrup … need I say more?

2) Pina Colada: Rum, Coconut syrup/milk or something + obligatory decorative pineapple & maraschino

3) Banana Mama: Dark Rum, Light Rum, Banana Liquer, something red

4) Tanqueray and Tonic: Dwayne’s favourite

5) Baileys: On ice … on coffee … on pretty much on anything.

5 Things that Shouldn’t be Allowed on Vacation:

1) Speedos or Thongs on anyone in need of a Weight Management Programme and/or anyone eligible for Senior Pricing

2) Topless Women: same rule as above, but really … at a Family resort, topless women of any age/size? Entirely too tacky (and gross, in my kids’ opinion).

3) Parties past 2am – especially outside people’s windows. Okay. I sound old. But seriously. All those folks are going to do is waste the following day in hangover hell. If you need to do that, go check out the Adults Only, wild and supposedly crazy Disco.

4) Blackberries.Come on. You’re tanning. You’re drinking. You’re away from work. The rest of us are laughing at you. Really. Put it down, unplug it and … if you can’t leave it at home, only bring it out in the privacy of your own hotel room.

5) Highly Skilled, International Pastry Chefs. This may be debatable, but I feel strongly that the only weight I gain (which was, I admit, substantial) should be from drinking. Desserts like we had? Definitely should be disallowed.

5 Things I Understand, But Don’t Enjoy:

1) Selling Photos: Those gorgeous photos of my darling children wrapping boa constrictors around their necks. Of an adorable monkey (who might actually pee on you – saw it happen – beware) on your head. Of squawking parakeets who have trouble balancing on your shoulders. I wish my photos turned out that nicely. I kind of think that an All-Inclusive should include a certain number of those pictures. Just because I suck at taking pictures.

2) “Almost Free Today!” “I make you a deal!” Market vendors. Say  no more.

3) “Come on! You gotta play this ring toss! No? You no gonna play? YOU ARE LAZY!”: Poolside/Beach Games. Dwayne loves ‘em. The girls live for the prize coupons. Me? I’m here to read, fellas. Walk away.

4) Bugs. Just stuck that in there. Actually, our resort had incredible (and very stinky) pesticide routines, and every morning we saw the carcasses of unfortunate beasties littering the stairwells. I think I saw one spider in 2 weeks. Ecologically, I know that’s bad. But selfishly? Really enjoyed that.

5) Butt out. Smoking is BAD BAD BAD and while I’m sipping on pure alcohol and eating artery clogging desserts, I shouldn’t have to inhale second hand smoke. Especially cigars. ewwwww

I wanted to write a list of Peeves, but that latter list is as close as I can get. But I have ONE VENTING that must be included on this page.

We’re not multi-millionaires. As a result, we save for awhile in order to go on vacation, meaning we don’t necessarily go every year. When we do, we search for the best Family resort possible. If Dwayne and I someday manage to travel without kids, we will search out the best Adults Only resort. People who do not realize the difference should INFORM themselves about it. Here are a few pointers: Do NOT sit poolside in your much-too-small pink bikini and shoot my husband the Hairy Eyeball every time my kid laughs out loud. Do NOT attempt to scald us with a glare when we burst out into a spontaneous water balloon battle with every other kid on the resort. Do NOT whisper between the two of you about “bad parenting” when we are at a Family Resort and you have no kids with you. I offer no apologies for my daughters. They are NOT subtle, shy or inhibited, but they are friendly, well-mannered and happy. They love to laugh, to play, to meet new people. They are exuberant, energetic kids, with pretty terrific personalities. They didn’t even splash you once, and you know it. In case you’re reading this, Pink Bikini and Bland-Faced Husband: You might try smiling. You might like it. Fewer wrinkles that way, they say.

And Thus endeth the Vent.

Special Mention: Congratulations to Dwayne (a.k.a. Vanilla Thunder) for winning the Canteloupe Carving Contest.

I finish on a positive note. Apparently I should go away more often. Because while I was gone, three agents expressed interest in “Under the Same Sky”.  So now, off I go to double check everything before emailing it out to each of them.

Good to be home … Better to be poolside, but … all good things, and all that …

We’ve all been involved with such meetings where the person running it is either insensitive to the needs of the attendees or the subject matter is painfully boring. It should come as no surprise that excessive or pointless meetings are probably the number one cause for decreased productivity in organizations, be it corporate or nonprofit (as Dilbert has pointed out to us time and again). Understand this, unless someone is looking for an excuse to duck a work assignment, nobody wants to attend an inconsequential meeting.

Remarkably, there are a lot of people who don’t understand the basics of running a productive meeting, hence the problem as exemplified by Martin’s movie. There is nothing magical about conducting a good meeting. It just requires a little preparation, along with some leadership and structure during its execution. Here are some simple guidelines to follow:

PREPARATION

First, determine the necessity of the meeting itself. Do you really have something important to discuss or do you just want to simply “chew the fat.” Meetings are nice but we should never forget they distract people from their work assignments. Therefore, we should only hold a meeting if it is going to benefit the attendees and assist them in their work effort. Let us not forget there are many other communication vehicles at our disposal: memos, e-mails, web pages (including blogs and discussion groups), posted notices, general broadcasts over a PA system, etc.

If you are convinced of the necessity of the meeting, you will need to know three things:

Your objective – Is the purpose of the meeting to communicate a particular message, develop a dialogue and reach consensus, educate/train people, or to offer a simple diversion for the attendees? People do not want to hear the boss pontificate on some trivial manner (a la Dilbert). Make sure you have a firm grasp of the purpose of the meeting and what you hope to accomplish. Ask yourself how the attendees will benefit from the meeting.

Your audience – Be sure to understand the targeted audience, their interests, their work assignments, and their attention span.

How the meeting should be conducted (this is critical). Should it be held on-site or off-site to minimize distractions? Who should lead the meeting? How should the meeting room be setup, such as required audio-video equipment, flipcharts/blackboards, computer equipment, podiums, and the setup of tables and chairs. A classroom setup is fine for lectures and presentations but not necessarily conducive if the participants are going to work in teams. For dialogs and strategy sessions, a roundtable or u-shaped layout is better. Even the chairs are important; everyone likes comfort but if you want to keep people’s attention, there is nothing wrong with hard chairs that force the participants to sit-up and take notice during the meeting.

Print up agendas in advance so everyone knows the meeting’s purpose, the items to be discussed, the timetable, and what is needed for preparation. It is not uncommon to also advise the dress code for the meeting. If possible, send agendas and any other items in advance for the attendees to adequately prepare themselves for the meeting. This will save considerable time during the meeting.

Post scheduled meetings to calendars and, whenever possible, send out reminders at least one day in advance.

EXECUTION

Having a strong and fair leader for the meeting is essential for its success. This may or may not be the main speaker. Nevertheless, the leader has to play the role of traffic cop so the meeting doesn’t get sidetracked and stays on schedule. Knowing when to defer peripheral discussions to a later time or place (such as after the meeting) is important to keep everyone focused on the main mission of the meeting. Being the traffic cop often requires skills in tact and diplomacy so the meeting doesn’t spin out of control.

Here are some other items to consider:

* Stick to the agenda. Start and end on time and maintain order. Got a gavel? Do not hesitate to use it judiciously. Maintain civility and decorum. Allow people to have their say but know when issues are getting out of hand or sidetracked.

* Follow the old military principle of: “Tell them what you are going to tell them; Tell them, and then; Tell them what you’ve told them.” Developing a punchlist of action items at the conclusion of the meeting can be very useful for certain situations.

* Introductions are important so participants know the cast of characters involved and their interests. But do not waste an inordinate amount of time here. Also, name tags or name cards are useful to avoid the embarrassment of forgetting names and titles.

* Make the meeting worthwhile. Keep it interesting and informative; Heck, make it fun if you can. Make it so the attendees feel that they are not wasting their time.

* Again, know your audience – speak in terms your audience will understand. An eloquent vocabulary might be impressive, but it may also intimidate and confuse the attendees (beware of the “verbosity of bullshit” phenomenon). Also, read the body language of the attendees to see if they are paying attention.

* I am not a big fan of histrionics. Many lecturers like people to get up, stretch, shake hands with everyone or hold a group hug. This can be downright embarrassing to people. Get to the point and move on.

REVIEW

All meetings should be reviewed, either formally or informally, to determine the success of the meeting. Informal reviews are used for short meetings to determine action items to be followed up on. Formal reviews should be considered for all lengthy meetings. Standard critique sheets should be used for attendees and the leader to evaluate the meeting. Prepare a summary and evaluate the meeting’s success. More importantly, learn from the comments received. There is little point of going through the motions of a review if you have no intention of acting on it.

CONCLUSION

Mastering the execution of an effective meeting requires a little planning, a little organization, and a lot of management. Bottom-line, how do you know if your meeting was a success? People do not groan when you call the next one.

“Unless someone is looking for an excuse to duck a work assignment, nobody wants to attend an inconsequential meeting.”
- Bryce’s Law

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

Tim Bryce is the Managing Director of M. Bryce & Associates (MBA) of Palm Harbor, Florida and has over 30 years of experience in the management consulting field. He can be reached at timb001@phmainstreet.com

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

Copyright © 2010 by Tim Bryce. All rights reserved.

I don’t have the time to write about everyone I see so many mornings I observe and take notes for characters that will appear in my stories.  The bus is a good place for watching people, those traveling with you and those outside. This morning my head was on overload from what I saw. At the bus stop a tall, thin mother waited with her equally thin daughter and son. Where were they going since it was too late to take them to school? Perhaps they had some medical condition that caused them to go to the doctor once a month. I had seen the same group in January. The little brother was annoying the sister who seemed to be annoyed at having to go on this journey. The mother was very tired and leaned on things or sat down whenever she could. When the bus came the daughter started complaining about the people around her that pushed to get on. Her anger was still on her face when she boarded the bus.

We passed the park that surround Grant’s Tomb and I saw a single person sitting on a park bench. The attire was jeans and the head was down as if the world had come to an end. This person could have been resting but what if, at 9:15 in the morning, he had just been told a close relative or friend died? Or perhaps something had happened in his life and he was trying to figure out how to handle it. He could have also met his lover in the park, a woman who meant the world to him but was married and told him, moments before the bus passed, that she was never leaving her husband. There was not much I could see at a distance as the bus went by. The man may have been looking down at a newspaper on the seat for all I know. But in my creation of his character he was sad about something.

And I can’t forget the man in the wheelchair. He got settled into the handicapped space and proceeded to remove the many layers of clothes he had on. The bus had waited for him as he rolled across the street to the stop. He moved at a fast pace so I assumed that he had been in the chair for sometimes and had built up phenomenal strength in his arms. A lady rose to help him remove his coat, his sweatshirt and then his sweater but he told her “I got it.” He said it with a frown on his face making me think that he did not like the help of other people. I wondered did he live alone or who had helped him get dressed. Perhaps the kindness of strangers was more than he could bear in his condition.

There were more people to observe and think about. There were characters waiting to be created. Sometimes I wonder if someone is doing the same while observing me. Are they thinking what does she do or why is she dressed like that? Are they trying to created a background for me and tell a life story that is completely fictional just because of the way I remove my gloves?

A couple once gave me a sweatshirt that says: “Be careful what you say, you might end up in my novel.” I could add to that be careful what you do. We learn when we observe. A head turned downwards could mean so many things, how a person stands and sits, how they walk could come in handy when you are trying to describe a character you have created. You can do this anywhere and take notes about human nature. I saw a woman smiling at a little boy on the subway one Sunday afternoon. He was with his father who kept telling him not to go to sleep, they were getting off at the next stop. The woman looked at the child with longing and I noticed her wedding band. She was carrying food for a local market and wine from a store I was familiar with. Perhaps she had no children. Perhaps she wanted one and this was the evening she and her husband planned to start trying. What was in the food bag, I wondered? Afrodisiacs? But when the man got to his stop and fussed at the child for sleeping her face became sad. Maybe she had lost a child and begrudged any parent the right to be mean to a child they had in hand. The rest of her trip her face stayed in sadness. It was not until she got off that she attempted to smile. Was she putting on a pleasant face for the husband who thought she had accepted the death of their child?

I have gone on longer than I meant but you can see what I mean. There are characters out there to be built. You can start from scratch or you can walk down the street and see a man scratching and go from there. People watching may have started out for me as an acting exercise but it turned into a necessity for writing. And when there are people to watch there is always something to write about.

Back in the early 1990s these competitions began to gain attention off campuses, and became large, money making sponsored events. Step has become so popular off campus that even church groups begun to formed liturgical step teams. In February of this year, Zeta Tau Alpha from the University of Arkansas, an all Caucasian sorority, entered in the Sprite Step Off National Step Competition in Atlanta and won. They won the $100,000 grand prize and Black folk are up in arms. Some say, “Oh no they didn’t”. Others say they should have never been allowed to enter the competition in the first place or they were good but, not that good (youtube has the competition online). There are those that feel that this is a “Black thang” and it is off limits to anyone else, while still others ask, “What’s the problem”?

The problem is that stepping is a cultural thing. To many, Zeta Tau Alpha entering this competition is like Alpha Kappa Alpha (AKA) dressing in traditional Irish garb and showing up to compete in an Irish ”step” dancing competition. There is no doubt in my mind that like the girls from Zeta Tau Alpha were, the AKAs would booed and possibly even worst.

Remember Riverdance back in the 90’s? Everyone was enthralled with the rapid high steppin rhythmic Irish dancing. Tariq Winston, a young African American tap dancer/choreographer who understudied and untimely stared in the Tap Dance Kid on Broadway back in the 80’s, developed a number with Colin Dunne called “Trading Taps” which was featured in Riverdance (you can see these performances on youtube). The difference here is that Tariq maintained his cultural “Black” tap dancing style and Colin his cultural Irish dancing style and, they didn’t compete, they didn’t compare, they complemented. They showed the similarities and the common elements in the two dance styles and it worked. It was a meeting not a melding or a take over. Their collaboration didn’t diminish either style nor did it nullify either style. What these two did was celebrate each other with respect.

So is step a cultural thing? One could question whether there should even be African American “Greek” fraternities and sororities after all, they are using Greek letters to identify themselves. Why don’t they use Swahili, Nubian or Egyptian letters? This question too has been long debated within the Black community.

Several cultures have a form of step dance but to the African American community, to the traditionally Black frats and sororities, stepping is belongs to them. It is cultural and it is a matter of pride. For others to invade this territory is tantamount to the theft of Jazz, Rock N Roll and Rap. A long held opinion has been that Europeans always taken what belongs to other cultures and clam it as their own. These art forms in music and dance are markers, they tell the story of a particular peoples struggle for their identity, acceptance, recognition and respect. These art forms (Jazz, Rap, R & B formerly Rock ‘n Roll,tap dance and step) are prized possessions that say we are creative, we are innovative, we are unique.

I understand the upset. I’m not sure I condone all the arguments. The grand prize winners in the 2010 Sprite competition may well have deserved to win. Maybe they are just that good. But sometimes we need to sit back and enjoy what someone else does. Sometimes we need to let others hold claim to what has always been theirs. We can appreciate it but we don’t need to claim it too. I like belly dancing, Irish dance and flamingo dancing but I know to whom these art forms belong. I appreciate them but I won’t claim them and I shouldn’t.

Grambling State University is know world wide because its famous marching band. Without question they reign supreme for their precision, musical talent and stimulating dance routines. The Black college/university campus marching bands are also in fierce but healthy competition and, there are some things you just don’t mess with.

Totally globalized native New Yorker and former broadcast news producer Muhammad Cohen is author of Hong Kong On Air, a novel set in his adopted hometown during the 1997 handover about television news, love, betrayal, financial crisis, and cheap lingerie.

It has been in the 50s for the last three days and will be there for three more. It is not the time to bring out the sleeveless dresses or the open-toed shoes. There are still mounds of snow waiting for a hint of sun so they can finally melt. But it is a time to cut down on the layers we attach to ourselves in winter. I usually wear a turtleneck, a sweater or jacket and a coat. I am down to a coat and one turtleneck or sweater- depending on the early morning temperature when I leave for work. Today my legs made an appearance in the much dreaded pantyhose. They were just a little chilled as I walked to the bus stop, but I felt a ladylike elegance that I hadn’t felt in months since skirts and dresses are not part of my warm winter attire. Perhaps I am drawn to them having grown up in an era when young ladies constantly wore dress and some offices did not permit their female employees, none of whom ever rose above secretary, to wear pants or slacks. I have lots of summer dresses and only a few for special occasions in winter when I must be whisked from home to car to event to car to home.  That way I can feel elegant in exposed legs and high heels and not so much like a frozen temptress.

This is the type of weather that warns you that you may have overindulged on those cold days when offices and schools were closed and you ate, not only three meals, but three good sized snacks. Your excuse was you couldn’t get to the gym, you couldn’ t get to run, you couldn’t get out of the house. And of course since it was cold you concluded that the more calories you eat the warmer you were. Try stepping into a spring suit when you have gorged on chips and cookies for three months. This weather is a sign that it is time to turn a new leaf and a green one at that. More salads and vegetables, less meat, less carbs, more movement. The street was filled with people who got that memo today. They were out and running or headed to the gym. Some were just taking nice walks, their faces lifted to the sun.

By the end of the week New York should be back on its usual weather course. It will be in the 40s with most mornings in the 30s. The people who decided to hold a family reunion on the steps of my brownstone for the past two nights will have to take their loud conversations into their tiny apartments. The young ladies who wear the tight jeans and short jackets that barely come down to their waists may have to opt for longer coats. The men who left their heavy coats and walked about in sweatshirts, the necks revealing collars of thin t-shirts,  will probably resort to putting on thermal long sleeved shirts. It will be a return to winter no matter how short its stay. But we will have to return.

This tease has been brought to us by Mother Nature. No matter how many heaters we have, air conditioning systems we create, means to travel we take up to escape climates we don’t like, she is still in charge. And while global warming has warned us that it is not nice to fool with Mother Nature, she has been kind enough to grant us a temporary reprieve from two feet of snow and blustering blizzards. The plants and the animals know what is up and we should take a hint. Enjoy and get ready for spring- when she decides to let it come. But it may not be soon.

I happen to reside in one of the most densely populated counties in Florida which has been growing over the last two decades at a rate of approximately 20%. This means we have a rather large budget supporting numerous county agencies whose mission, in theory, is to support the local residents and businesses. Obviously, their efforts should encourage business which would, in turn, result in more revenue for the county. Not so here. Inspectors give the distinct impression they couldn’t care less. Instead of working with local businesses to overcome their problems, they seem bent on closing them down any way they can. Last year, dozens of restaurants closed their doors in this county due to the slumping economy; now we have someone interested in opening one. Yet, government officials move lethargically to help the business open their doors.

The cause for all this should come as no surprise; the greater the organizational hierarchy, the more unproductive the entity becomes which means, in the context of government, an adverse effect on its constituents, namely business. Twenty-to-thirty years ago, when the government was smaller, county officials and employees seemed more amenable to helping companies, but as the county population grew (as well as the government in proportion to it), service seemed to decline. Normally, you would think a bigger organization involving more people and funding would be able to adequately service its customers. Interestingly, the opposite begins to occur when we create enormous bureaucracies. Corporate entities have known this for years and went through a period of flattening their organizational structures thereby forcing them to eliminate superfluous activities and focus attention on the essential duties and responsibilities of the business. Government needs to do likewise, not just at the local level, but at the state and federal levels as well.

We have long suspected there is considerable waste in government, but when it becomes glaringly apparent, as in the restaurant example, it is time to shake things up. It is one thing when corporations become bureaucratically ineffective (who must answer to shareholders), quite another when it is a government institution. After all, government is suppose to be a servant of the people, not the other way around. If this is true, government should be an expediter or champion of business, not an impediment.

Just remember, bigger is not always better; it does not innately make you more competent; in fact, it might make you more clumsy and ineffective. Therefore, our mantra shouldn’t be “fatten government,” but rather, “flatten government.” Just be sure to add the “L.”

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

Tim Bryce is the Managing Director of M. Bryce & Associates (MBA) of Palm Harbor, Florida and has over 30 years of experience in the management consulting field. He can be reached at timb001@phmainstreet.com

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

Copyright © 2010 by Tim Bryce. All rights reserved.

Not so much in the world of reality where our fate depends sometimes on us, but occasionally on Times and Chance. On people who can be selfish and careless. On governments that speak too much and do too little. On an elusive yet present power that we cannot see, understand, or control. We work hard to play the cards right, but Fate steps in and sometimes rewards us. Other times it mocks our efforts with excessive derision, leaving us stumped with frustration at life’s many ironies.

I guess the opportunity to play Providence is one of the reasons I am drawn to story telling. You’ll never catch me doing non-fiction. Only invented stories that may faintly echo reality, and nothing more. Why would I ever do factual reports when there is way too much reality around, arrogantly commanding me to swallow some more of its often times natural bitterness? With all the acute, sometimes chronic pain and suffering going on, I’ll read me a good story. Or better yet, write me an awesomely happy story. I will not be as cruel or inconsistent as Fate. I will give my characters the happy endings every one in life craves. My tales may begin with sorrow. And even confusion. But it will never conclude there. At the end of the day, love will come. Joy will be realized. And my subjects can be rest assured that they will have a defined happy-ever-after that not even powerful Fate may trifle with.

I glanced at my wife and raised my eyebrows. She ignored me.

“I’m going to get my cards read,” she said, moving with her typical alacrity toward a table where a gray-haired woman dressed in black studied the tarot. Suddenly I felt like the “hanged man,” a premonition of the destiny of our marriage, and wandered off to peruse the charlatans and their mummery.

My wife and I had become regulars on the psychic fair circuit, held indoors at the Ramada Inns of the world, or outside in good weather. She had quit her job as a financial manager and become an herbalist. Which really had nothing to do with psychics, mediums, distance healers and tarot card readers, but alternative medicine somehow got lumped in with all this gimcrackery.

Her foray into alternative medicine was a reaction to the evisceration of our lives and relationship that my four battles with bone cancer had engendered. It didn’t seem to make sense to continue building our careers in the corporate world in search of better salaries and benefits. The emptiness of working for a major telecommunications company and an insurance corporation, dealing daily with yuppie nincompoops and middle managers jockeying for “power” (bush-league Mussolinis); spiritual vapidity in an environment in which crass materialism was worshipped on the altar of Baal—seemed trivial and outright pathetic after my family and I had repeatedly faced mortality. One longs for the transcendent. Or perhaps it was just existential angst—“there’s got to be more to life than this.”

Our marriage was in steep decline; we had grown apart as I had focused my “tunnel vision” on survival for seven years, while she focused on raising the children and making ends meet. Frankly, we were exhausted.

Our marital situation was not helped by her initiation into Wicca, the ancient “earth” religion. She had become a witch. Her coven of fortyish divorced women and those on the brink of divorce exclusively worshipped the “goddess” in the form of Diana, the ancient Roman fertility deity. Out-of-balance, as most Wiccans worshipped both the god and goddess. No men allowed, or apparently tolerated.

They believed that their rituals were passed down for millennia, from a time seven thousand years ago when all of Europe worshipped the goddess and women ruled—before patriarchal invaders from the East conquered the peace-loving tribes and installed their male sky-gods.

I suspected that men, being the physically stronger and more aggressive, had always “run the fuck” no matter what the gender of the deities they worshipped.

That being said, when my wife wasn’t casting spells, we did everything together in a vain attempt to regain the passion we had during our early years. Everything that is, except normal marital “relations.” Maybe it was the influence of the divorced Wicca women (misery loves company—frankly a couple were daughters of Sappho); perhaps it was that she didn’t love me anymore. Perhaps by that time she considered me a disease with a human being attached to it. Which was understandable, considering our ordeal.

And my spiritual void? A yawning chasm that made the Grand Canyon seem like just another scratch in the dirt. I had the sinking feeling that if there was a God, he wound up the universe like a clock, set it on the mantel, and then left the room. The parochial school idea that “God’s plan” dictated every move each six billion of us made seemed pathetic at best. That being said, somehow I didn’t think I’d find enlightenment at the Ramada Inn…

A very thin man with a very thin beard clinging to his jawbone and roseacia-blotched cheeks held his left arm in a curve in front of his body, palm facing his heart. A muscular Mediterranean-type guy in a tank top pushed on the extended arm, attempting to force it to the man’s body. It didn’t budge.

“Shit.” He said in disgust and wandered off.

“Wait—don’t you want to sign up for classes?” said the thin man, leaning over his table and yelling in vain to the beach boy.

I knew what the thin man was doing. He was demonstrating the benefits of standing post meditation: in which one squats a bit and holds the arms out in an arc in front of the body. And meditates for an hour. It’s a form of qigong—Chinese for “energy work”—which has been around for thousands of years. I had practiced it continuously since ‘91; it helped me beat the cancer and survive the chemotherapy. My wife thought it somehow connected me to the world of psychics, mediums and Wicca.

But it is a science of moving energy in the body, accomplished only after years of discipline and practice. It wasn’t about wishing something and conducting an elaborate ritual to somehow manifest a result. Such as material abundance or the perfect soul mate.

Constant practice made the arms as powerful as hickory limbs, virtually impossible to bend. Some say it’s the presence of chi, electrical energy flowing freely through the limbs. Of course, it might have been just physics; the bend in the arm.

“Let me try.” The thin man beamed; another potential customer to impress. I grabbed his arm beneath the triceps and gave his radial nerve a slight squeeze. His arm collapsed instantly and his left knee buckled. I’d learned that move in martial arts classes’ years earlier.

He rubbed his arm and the roseacia on his cheeks got redder. Paradigms lost.

I smiled. I glanced down at the books for sale on the table before him. One proclaimed “Absorb the Energy of the Polestar—the Path to Psychic Powers.” I picked up the book and skimmed the back cover.

“The Polestar? That’s millions of light years away. You’d get more juice from a candle.”

“Obviously, you understand something of the art—but you’re not at my level.” He was huffy; I’d thrown a monkey wrench into his ego.

I dropped the book on the table. “Polestar, huh? It’s in the Little Dipper—it figures.” Oxygen deprivation: A result of traversing the ether without a space helmet.

“If it could be talked about, everyone would’ve told his brother,” he shot back. Triumphant—a Taoist maxim, the possessor of arcane knowledge.

“What about ‘Those who know do not speak, those who speak do not know.’ Picked that one up in a fortune cookie.” His smugness dissipated; he looked puzzled.

I moved on, and pondered. Wild claims peppered the Eastern internal energy arts: Healing over great distances, starting fires by projecting chi, or internal electrical energy, knocking attackers down ten feet away by emitting this force from the palms, and so forth. They gave the serious study of energy in the body a bad name. As in the world of psychics and mediums, sleight-of-hand prevailed. Why? Manifest some magic and the training halls fill up quickly, as we all want to feel special in some way; being a sorcerer qualifies. And more power and money to the teachers.

Goats and Cleavage

It was getting hot in the ballroom; the psychic fair was filling up with people. Mostly women; it occurred to me that this would be a good place to find some if one were single. The hanged man came to mind—except with the noose around his testicles.

I spun in a slow-motion 360 arc, taking it all in, and spotted my wife still sitting at the tarot table, poring over the cards with the old woman. I figured I’d have my fortune read, or somehow participate in this circus. You know, let her know I was interested. It might reap benefits: it might lead to a release of the “tension” in my loins, which was at the saturation point. One tires of “polishing the clown.” At various levels, it reinforces the cosmic desperation one feels upon realizing he’s essentially alone in the universe. And essentially, a prisoner of matter.

…Psychic Readings: $20. The lettering on the raised tent card caught my attention, as the calligraphy seemed to be done in Celtic script, with great curving arcs and flourishes. It reminded me vaguely of the Book of Kells. My Irish-Norse blood began to pulse.

Then I looked up and sitting behind the table was one of the most stunning women I’ve ever encountered. Pale skin; a high forehead with pitch-black hair swept straight back and falling beyond her shoulders. Cobalt eyes; an alchemy of blue and grey, their almond shape enhanced by heavy eyeliner culminating in tiny triangles painted at the corners, the pyramids of Giza demanding to be explored. Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra. She was wearing a flowing purple dress worthy of the queen of Tyre, cut low in a square across her bosom, revealing her white chest and several inches of cleavage. Tightly around her throat a silver Celtic torque; the heads of goats molded into its open ends, which rested on the top of her sternum. About forty; my age.

A stack of copies of newspaper articles lay on the table; her work with police departments finding lost children and solving crimes. A grainy photo of her on the top article: a tight black sweater, V-necked. Again the cleavage. A way to attract the goats, no doubt. It was working.

“If you’re a psychic, can you tell me what I’m thinking now?” I stared into those cobalt eyes, smiled the smile of Lucifer sticking pins in Job, and fought like hell not to drop my gaze to her cleavage. It was a strain.

“I don’t read minds—I get impressions of the past, present and future. And I receive messages from the dead.” She made these claims calmly and with conviction, no hint of a smile, staring back into my eyes. Then, just the briefest whiff of a smirk: “But I don’t have to be a mind reader to know what you’re thinking.”

She pointed to a stack of business cards on the table, then leaned forward to pick one up. The neckline of her dress drooped and I got a good look at a few more inches of cleavage. This had to be by design. The card read: Abril Jenkins, Psychic, Medium. Sounded Welsh to me, and authentic. Not some goofy New Age made up name, like “Shakti Gawain” or “Silver Ravenwolf.” I fished a twenty out of my wallet, dropped it on the table and sat down across from her in the lone folding chair.

“Now, let me make a prediction,” I said. “You’re going to look deeply into my eyes, or spin a pendulum over my head, and tell me I will receive a ‘lump sum’ in the very near future.”

She actually tilted her head back, and laughed. “No, no lump sum for you.”

Then she stopped smiling and her fleshy lower lip pressed up and partly over her upper one. “I see people standing on either side of you.”

I thought my wife had come to pull me away. But there was no one standing anywhere near me. “Shouldn’t you be in a ‘trance’ or something?”

“That’s for the movies. It either comes or it doesn’t; you can’t force it…but there is a woman, slim, about our age, with brown hair and blue eyes standing next to your right side…on your left is an older gentleman with silver hair—and a terrible scar on his temple that looks recently healed.”

Suddenly I felt weak and slumped in the chair. My mother passed away when I was a teenager, age 38, an agonizing death from ovarian cancer. She fit the description. My grandfather, her father, at the age of 75, crippled by a stroke, blew his brains out with a .38 just a couple of years back.

I sat up straight and got my left brain working again. “What’s the woman wearing? Please don’t tell me a shimmering white robe.”

She smiled; my sarcasm bounced off her like pebbles plinking off a breast plate. “A sweater—a shade of orange; pumpkin perhaps. Brown slacks. And a gold pin on the sweater—it looks like a spiral.”

My mother frequently wore a sweater that was an offbeat shade of orange—and a gold pin, the letter “C,” for Carol. The letter was done in a fancy scroll; the bottom of the “C” curled up into the hollow of the letter, like a spiral.

“She says she’s glad you’ve stopped drinking.”

Suddenly I felt my eyes watering. I looked away and my sarcasm, my edge, evaporated. I had quit the dubious gift of Bacchus, weekend bacchanals, a couple of years back—it was a bad mix with the painkillers the doctor prescribed for my bone pain. How could she know this? How could she know about my mother? Her orange sweater with the spiral “C?” The physical description and age? My grandfather with the bullet wound in his temple?

“What else does she say?” I asked with the enthusiasm of a true believer, although in my mind I felt a pull on the reins, the charioteer slowing the pursuit of an enemy in headlong flight, suspecting a ruse.

“Nothing. They’ve gone.”

I looked her in the eye, no longer interested in her cleavage, and nodded. The tears started to bubble in my eyes; I picked up her card and meandered, head down, through the tables and stalls inhabited by the various purveyors of New Age mummery: distance healers, palm readers, wizards of energy and pyramid enthusiasts. A paradigm cracked; perhaps there was more at the end than the embalmer’s gift.

I reached the corridor and found the men’s room. As I was standing at the urinal the Italian body-builder type swung into the next porcelain marvel of civilization, unzipped and sighed.

“You believe any of this shit?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, man, me neither. I’m just here for the women. Lot of women here.”

“Indeed. More than I realized.”

He rinsed his hands in the sink, flicked his fingers a few times, turned to me and said “The way to get into their pants is easy. Pretend you swallow this shit—the “sensitive” routine. Then they’ll spread—and they’ll do the swallowing. You got to run the fuck, man.”

Run the fuck. Yes, I guess that’s what we do.

I am down, but not out. The constant physical pain is crippling.I do all that is possible from my bedside.
After almost five years, I found a surgeon who might be able to help. He makes no guarantees, and I expect none. Any chance is better than no chance. My book was supposed to be a legacy for my family. What really breaks my heart is seeing my hope shattered on the rocks of dishonesty. After a lifetime of failures, this book was to be the crowning achievement of my life, and something worthwhile for my family.

John Armor, Esq.
Box 243, 421 Kettle Rock Road
Highlands, NC  28741
828.200-0320
John_Armor@aya.yale.edu
www.TheseAreTheTimes.us

Whether it was my training as an artist (writer, actress and painter you look at people all the time) or just my tendency to observe those around me in case they attack and I need a good description I catalogued everything I could about him. He was huge, at least 6’4”, and perhaps as wide. His hair was matted, unkempt dredlocks some down past his chest. He wore a heavy coat bound at the waist with a woven leather belt. His shoes were, however, an unexpected treat: pointy- toed red alligator most likely a size 13. I told myself I could pass him and pretend that I didn’t see him. Unfortunately, he was staring at me as if he knew me.

In the seconds before we came face to face I tried to place him. Where had I seen him? Where had he stared me down before? My heart skipped a beat as I thought this could be the ex-boyfriend I dropped 30 some years ago because he was crazy. To prove his insanity he stalked me for several months after I told him I never wanted to see him again. He was amazingly tall and from the city as well. Did he come home to New York and go totally batty?

Was the man before me someone I passed on the street and ignored? Someone whose hand was extended and I refused to share the wealth they thought I had? There are days in this sometimes bleak city when you pass someone in need on every corner. You know you can’t help them all when you are barely able to get by and help yourself. You end up passing them all. Passing those sitting on grates that warm them with hot air from furnaces below ground, pass those who have hand written signs explaining their current fate and pass those released too early from mental hospitals or who never had a needed psych evaluation. You grow immune to the minions you can’t help, their gloveless hands, chapped lips and dirty faces.

This mountain of a man was unforgettable. Not my ex I was sure, not someone I had ever seen since those in need show up in different places around the city where they can find warmth, food and shelter. Some refuse the homeless shelters, which can be violent. They sleep in the subway moving from station to station. This scary, wide eyed man was very unfamiliar.

His eyes on me I did not hold my purse tighter or try not to look at him. There were a few more people bundled up on the cold street besides me so I didn’t feel so alone. But if Goliath had decided to jump me, there was the possibility I would be on my own.

He stopped in front of me so I couldn’t pass. Ignoring what could be conceived as a belligerent move, I stepped to the right. He grunted: “Nice hat.”

My first thought was “What?” Then I remembered the powder blue chapeau pulled down over my ears, it’s furry warmth keeping out the blustering cold.

I smiled and said: “Thank you.”

He lifted a hand that was covered in what was once a leather glove and pointed. “Matches your coat,” he said and stepped to my left going about his business.

I moved in my intended direction, my pace the same as before. I tried not to think how fearful I was of a man, giant and slightly dirty, who just wanted to compliment my wardrobe. I thought him crazy. I assumed he was harmful. I thought him anything but human and that was sad as well as wrong.

Perhaps better safe than sorry could have been considered my motto but I was having a hard time trying to forgive myself for my profiling. I didn’t know if this man was homeless. I didn’t know if he was crazy. He just fit the picture and fear created a prejudice. I was reminded of all those times in the subway where white women had moved away from young black boys, their purses held close to their chests, because they assumed the kids were out to rob them. Although I could claim that I was feeling fear for my own protection from someone probably a little crazy I knew I was doing the same thing. Most of us don’t think of the homeless and mentally challenged as still part of the caring and feeling human race. We avoid them so as not to confront their needs or be confronted by their insanity. We are wrong. I was wrong. There was enough humanity in this man to see the beauty in a blue hat and to see that I had taken the time to match it to my coat. It was a simple thing but it was important.

I was still ashamed as I walked on my way knowing that a man with a suit could jump me or someone dressed as a nun could beat me up but I chose to resort to urban fear of a large man who only wanted to say something nice. I could have returned the compliment and showed that I understood his humanity. I did admire his red shoes.

What the politicians and media failed to grasp is the general outrage of the country with politicians as represented by the Tea Party, a body of people consisting of both political parties who are basically saying, “None of the above.” The disgust of the people goes beyond Washington, and touches on state and local governments as well. And why not? What do people hear about their politicians? Sex scandals, obnoxious economic policies, insane budget deficits, pork, excessive spending and debt, as well as graft, corruption and greed. To all appearances, our politicians are obnoxious irresponsible clods who couldn’t manage themselves out of the bathroom, let alone our government. Bottom-line, they give the impression they are not getting the job done and people are fed up with it. To illustrate, recently I saw the following bumper sticker on the road, “If you’re not pissed off, you’re not paying attention.”

The Tea Party has grown much faster than anyone had anticipated. Local chapters sprung up seemingly over night and you would now be hard pressed not to find some Tea Party activity in your community. Consider this though, for every Tea Party activist, there is probably five pacifists who do not have the time to participate other than to donate money and vote. With such momentum, incumbent politicians should be running scared as a big blowout is in the offing and the political landscape will undoubtedly undergo substantial change in November.

The big question in the media now is what direction the Tea Party should go; should it become its own political party or merge with another? Again, I think the media is missing the point here. I don’t see this as evolving into anything other than what it is already, a powerful lobby that is run by the people as opposed to a corporate body. They can be much more effective in this capacity, whereby they can maintain their virtue and act as a government watchdog.

Let’s take it a step further though, the Tea Party may just be the political force needed to call for a Continental Congress to change some of the absurd rules influencing Washington, such as term limits, kickbacks from lobbyists, campaign reform, compensation, etc. Years ago, Milton Eisenhower posed the idea that the President has within his power the ability to call for such a congress. Unfortunately, no politician in Washington has the political fortitude to do so. Plain and simply, they are happy with the current system and would never dream of implementing such an idea. After all, they would have too much to lose if they did. However, if the Tea Party continues to grow as they are forecast to, they could very well become the political muscle necessary to call for a Continental Congress, which would be another reason why they should remain neutral in terms of political parties. If they were to do nothing more than this, it would have been well worth the effort.

As an aside, watch for incumbent politicians from both parties try to embrace the Tea Party as we get closer to November. It should be really funny.

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

Tim Bryce is the Managing Director of M. Bryce & Associates (MBA) of Palm Harbor, Florida and has over 30 years of experience in the management consulting field. He can be reached at timb001@phmainstreet.com

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

Copyright © 2010 by Tim Bryce. All rights reserved.

Then the girls decided to kiss each other on the lips and the mothers, high heels clicking across the tiled floor of the department store, rushed to pull them apart. They did not say ‘don’t do that’. They just smiled at their little daughters and took them a safe distance from each other. Enough was said by that action in 1962 Georgia. Holding the little ones’ hands and keeping them apart they were teaching the children prejudice.

We are not born with hate. It is something that has to be taught. I think it was best put in the Rogers and Hammerstein musical set during World War II called “South Pacific”. When Nellie Forbush decides she can’t marry the Frenchman because his first wife was a native and he has two half Polynesian children she confronts the young Lieutenant who has fallen in love with the native Bloody Mary’s daughter. They are both confused as to the feelings they have but they know they can’t go back to the United States with these people of color on their arms. He sings these provocative following lines:

You’ve got to be taught

Before it’s too late,

Before you are six or seven or eight,

To hate all the people

Your parents hate,

You’ve got to be carefully taught.

While this show was on Broadway, black soldiers were coming back from serving this country and meeting prejudice in getting jobs and housing. It was never a hit song from the show like “There is Nothing like a Dame” and “Some Enchanted Evening”. Musicals were supposed to be uplifting and fun, not teach social issues so most people paid no attention to “You’ve Got to be Carefully Taught”. Having decided I was going to be a musical theatre actress I knew every score of every musical that came to Broadway before I graduated high school. I was in my 30s before I listened with an open mind and open ears to the truth this song preached and I used it to explain racism to lots of adults.

Once will doing children’s theatre in a suburb north of Atlanta, Samuel L. Jackson and I were confronted with an example of this prejudice. We were doing a play with the Academy Theatre that toured schools around the city. We went out to get lunch leaving the other two actors at the school after the first of two performances. It was recess and the steps of the front of the school were crowded with children going out to the playground. We had seen two black teachers and no black students but this was nothing new in the schools where we entertained. A second grader coming down the steps smiled at us with big brown eyes and we smiled back until he said: “Hey ni*****, how y’all doing?”

It was not a racial slur to him. It was obvious that the child had been taught this is how you greet black people. He actually thought he was welcoming us to the school. He thought he was being friendly. When our smiles faded and the teacher standing near him turned beet red from the embarrassment she felt- not for us put for her school she later mentioned- he looked confused. She pulled him aside to talk to him, telling him what he said was wrong. I am sure the child went home and heard it again and decided it wasn’t wrong if mama and daddy said it. That’s what he had been taught.

It took an apology from the principal to convince us to do the show that afternoon. In a cast of four actors, 3 were black and not feeling the love that we usually got from kids getting out of science or math class for an hour. For the first time in the two months that we had been doing the show we realized that an integrated cast meant nothing to students who were being fine tuned to became a little less prejudiced than the white knights of the KKK. In the end we decided not to be prejudiced against the children of prejudiced parents. No child was going to stand up and shout the ‘n’ word and tell us to get out. Perhaps our working with them and our clarity on the issues we were presenting would let them see a different way to relate to people.

Everyone passes their prejudices on to their children. It shouldn’t happen. Once we become adults it is up to us to step back and recognize that we don’t necessarily have our parents’ same hatreds and fears. If I felt that way then I could never be friends with any white person because of the history of slavery or any German person because of my father’s service in the war. The list of hate is something that does not move forward. It is taken from the past. We examine everyday why we want something, why we like something. We need to start examining why we hate things. Is it justified just because it was a learned behavior or did something trigger the loathing we feel? We have to stop teaching our children to hate and we’ve got to teach ourselves to hate because it is policy, because it is normal and because our parents did. It is a continuing cycle that holds whole nations back. We’ve got to be taught to deal with everyone. That’s we need to be carefully taught.

“Finn.”

“Oh,” Bailey muttered, flipping over the card to read who they were from.

“The newspaper sent her these?”

“Yeah, they do it every year.”

“It’s not her birthday is it? You should’ve said—.”

“No, it’s not her birthday, but don’t mention them.”

“All right then.” Bailey turned back towards the fire, somewhat surprised at his tone of voice. They lapsed into silence for a time, the only noise the chinking of the fire. Bailey sniffed and pulled out her ponytail, fluffing out her hair to dry it. “Ahhh, that’s better,” she groaned and sank into one of the armchairs facing the fire. Rags’s eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. “Where is she anyway?”

“In the bathtub.”

“A bad day?”

“The worst.”

“Damn.” They lapsed into silence, each to his or her thoughts. The gradfather clock by the door chimed eleven. Bailey sighed, “I’ll be right back.”

Bailey set off down the dark hallway to the recesses of the house, following the sounds of Bright Eyes. The door to Finn’s bedroom was ajar, but when Bailey knocked and called her name, she got no answer. Light from the sleek black stereo in the corner glowed electric blue. Bailey switched it off, the light dimmed and the CD whirred to a stop. There was a sloshing sound from behind the bathroom door, and a sobbing cough. Bailey knocked on that door and called Finn’s name for the second time. There was no reply.

“Finn? Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“I don’t believe you. I’m coming in.”

“If you want.”

Finn lounged in the large antique clawed tub, swathed in bubbles. Only her head and her toes peaked out from the foam. Lavender votive candles flickered around the window that looked blindly into the yard. A bottle of Korbel rested near her elbow, its emerald glass frosted with condensation. Finn held a delicate champagne flute between two fingers, slowly twirling it and watching the crystal twinkle.

“See. I was right. You’re not ok.” It was easy to see that Finn had been crying. Bailey settled herself against the counter. “What’s bothering you?” Finn didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at Bailey. Bailey let the silence hang for a moment. “Please, Finn. Let me help you.” Still nothing. She tried a different tactic. “You know you’re upsetting Rags. He doesn’t know how to help you anymore. It seems like none of us can. You just go off for hours and come back looking as if somebody died.” Finn’s face darkened. “You thought you could hide it, didn’t you? We’re not stupid and we’re not blind. Stop killing yourself over whatever it is. Remember: ‘It isn’t worth the hurt’? Or were those just words to you? Well, they meant something to me. A few months ago I wouldn’t even be here; wouldn’t have been brave enough to look at you sideways. So I guess I have to say thank you, I just wish I knew how to give something back. To teach you like you taught me.” Silence swelled between them, bellied out into every corner of the room, sliding down their throats and into their hearts until there was nothing left to say but the truth.

Finally Finn spoke. “No,” it was a word made of granite. “You’re not stupid and you’re not blind. You’re too fucking smart for your own good.” A terrible look had moved into her face, it made the shadows at the corners of her mouth and in the creases of her eyelids blacken like bruises. Bailey couldn’t find anything to say to that look. But Finn still hadn’t met her eyes. So she left, picking up the champagne bottle as she passed out the door.

When Bailey went to bed that night, a slim dark something rested in the center of her duvet as is someone had tossed it there. Bailey flipped on the bedside lamp and sat down on the edge of her mattress. The scrapbook was cold to the touch and the pages crackled as she turned them. Family pictures were glued to the first few pages, their edges frayed as though someone had run their fingers across the printed faces over and over again. A father and mother and their little girl smiled out of every frame. She had huge brilliant eyes and a halo of dark curls around her miniature porcelain face. In the park, at the zoo, a Christmas party with a tree resplendent in the background. They looked happy. Bailey thumbed the corners of the page, somehow afraid to turn to the next one.

A newspaper headline screamed, it’s edges also jagged, not as if someone had lovingly passed their fingers over it; as if someone a hacked it from the page. “Hawthorn’s Dead! Murder/suicide, authorities speculate.” The same little girl gazed up from the front page news, her eyes huge and streaming with tears, her mouth open in a frozen wail of pain. The articles went on for pages and pages. “Mother-In-law refuses to comment” and “Hawthorn daughter, orphaned at 6.” Even pictures of the crime scene: a spray of red on the tiles by the kitchen table. Bailey’s skin was cold, her heart twisted, but she read every word. At the end of the last page she closed the book and set in gently next to her on the bed, her body shaking.

“So,” Finn spoke from the doorway; the terrible look had left her face, but her voice was lifeless. “Now you know. They send those stupid flowers every year. Every year for sixteen years.”

“Finn…” There was not enough air in her lungs to force the words out.

“Don’t. Please, it doesn’t do any good. Whenever anyone who’s old enough to remember hears my last name and is smart enough to put two and two together I get that shit. And it doesn’t help. You wanted to help me, well help me by not saying what you were going to. And you can help by not talking about it. Good night Bailey.”

Bailey couldn’t sleep that night. The apartment was too big; big enough to swallow her whole.

            Anyone with children is likely to have a collection of treasures similar to mine.  Assorted dollar store treasures, gumball charms, dandelions and daisies offered “to the best mom,” rocks, feathers, stickers and handmade cards, poetry and pictures that neither Donald Trump nor Bill Gates could offer enough to induce me to sell.  They are tangible expressions of my children’s love for me.  The droopiest, saddest looking weed offered ever so lovingly by your five-year-old is a treasure more precious than the most perfect diamond.  It is a token of the purity and fervency of that love only a mother and child are privileged to share.  Every time you look at that treasure, it fills you with the warmth of that love all over again.  That is truly priceless.  Every one of these precious offerings has touched my heart and enabled me to see what is truly exceptional in the midst of the mundane.

            I had an experience that reminded me once again of just what is truly priceless.  I used to clean house for my friend, Fannie, who was the caretaker for, Leona, an elderly Alzheimer’s patient.  I was a little uneasy about this job, not knowing exactly what to expect.  A lovely, well-cared-for lady in her eighties met me at the door that first day.  She clearly had no idea who I was, but she let me in anyway.  As the weeks passed, I would smile at Leona as I worked and talk about trivialities – the weather, her cat, her outfit.  I was charmed by her sweetness and innocence and truly came to enjoy those mornings.

            One particular week as I put up clean curtains in the living room, this lovely lady listened quietly as I carried on a running conversation with Fannie.  As I finished up a few minutes later, I overheard my friend telling her about my children, whom we’d been discussing.  I asked if she’d like to see pictures of them.  Most people groan inwardly when a proud parent pulls out the pictures, but her face lit up as she turned on the lamp next to her so she could study the pictures more closely.  I told her their names and ages and she told me how beautiful they were.  I thanked her.  She looked at me seriously and handed the pictures back to me almost reverentially and said, “Thank you for letting me see your children.”

             I got my things together and prepared to leave.  As I walked over to say good-bye, she handed me something.  It was a beautiful, costume jewelry ring.  I hesitated to accept it because I noticed she wore many of these baubles.  Fannie urged me to take it.  I did and with a hug and kiss of thanks I left her, smiling and satisfied with her gesture of gratitude. 

              I was touched deeply by her selfless gesture of true appreciation.  It was a vivid reminder of what really matters:  people.  It ends up being that simple.  Taking the time and making the effort, no matter how small, to connect with another human being is the single most important thing any one of us does each day.  We get so focused on ‘things.’  One thousand years from now what difference will it make if you earned an extra $10,000, built a huge home, bought an expensive car or earned another promotion?  None of those things are bad or wrong in themselves.  They only become hindrances when we elevate them above people.  The extra $10,000 may pay for part (a very small part at that!) of a child’s college tuition, put a much needed addition on to your home or pay medical bills.  In that way it makes a positive difference in the present.  Spending a few hours each week reading to children at the library, teaching someone to read, or surprising an elderly neighbor with homemade muffins and thirty minutes of your undivided attention pay dividends for years to come.  A smile and a kind word to a frustrated cashier or a stranger you pass on the street can turn their whole day around.  Those things may seem trivial, however, only in eternity will we know how we may have touched a life.  Spending those precious moments with an elderly shut-in may have turned their thoughts from despair and suicide to hope and life.  You may never know during this lifetime if the hours you spent teaching a child to read sparked such a love for learning and confidence in his ability that his future became one filled with joy and anticipation where before it appeared bleak and unfulfilling.

            I think we all tend to miss the truly important and valuable things as we barrel through our busy schedules trying to accomplish everything on our ‘to do’ lists.  I know I sometimes do.  I need a reminder every now and then that no job is too menial or unimportant if it touches another life.  We could all use a reminder of that.  I happen to have a beautiful reminder I wear on my finger.  I don’t think I’ll forget any time soon.

I was in my mid 20s at the time and working as an Avocation Specialist for Job Corps in Atlanta, Georgia. I taught drama and speech, crafts and painting, took students on sports related field trips (don’t ask me why but their favorite was Live Atlanta Wrestling which I never went to but sat outside and read to the background of screams for blood and beatings), and played a mean game of volleyball, the only sport I was ever any good at. My 411 pound friend was often on my team and I have to say we usually won our games and were something to contend with.

Being easily bored with my 2pm to 10pm job I created new evening activities for the all girls Job Corps. Besides art exhibits, pool competitions and the occasional play I conducted an exercise class. We worked out and discussed food options since the menu at the corps was not only bad but carbohydrate heavy and the only places nearby to get food were bars, bar-b-que joints and fast food places.

The happy go lucky 411 young woman wanted to join but I was skeptical. I gave her a few exercises to try on her own until the doctor approved her working out. She confessed that she didn’t want regular exercises and was hoping I had a miracle for her. I replied that I had one exercise that was sure to work. It was called pushing away from the table. She was insulted.

This young woman ate a lot because of her size and because of her upbringing. Both her loving parents were large but nothing like her. Once a week they sent her baked goods such as layer cakes with thick frosting, homemade fudge and brownies and, her favorite, oversized lollypops. I didn’t believe the rumors about her weekly packages until I saw her open one myself. Along with new socks and underwear there appeared a double fudge cake and several suckers. She got upset because there were no cookies.

The nurse on duty called me in one day to tell me that the girl had been sick with a cold and the doctor, meeting her for the first time and amazed at her weight, had put her on a diet. It was requested that the staff counsel her if we saw her eating anything she wasn’t supposed to. We didn’t see much and thought she was doing well. Turns out she was leaving the grounds to seek comfort food. They had asked her parents to stop sending the weekly boxes and she had become distraught. She took what little pocket money she had and would walk 12 blocks to a fried chicken establishment. There she would sit and eat a meal for three people before walking back. She would arrive covered in sweat and everyone from security guards to students thought she was taking matters in her own hands and taking long walks to exercise. It was one of the security guards who saw her there while he was on a lunch break. He said she ate like she was starving. In her mind she probably was since she found the portions they gave her in the Corps cafeteria too small and too filled with veggies.

After a month of her sneaking food and taking long walks the doctor decided to do extensive tests on her. Every organ was in perfect condition, her sugar which had never been high was better than normal and there were no signs of heart disease, high blood pressure or liver ailments. She didn’t have thyroid problems, she didn’t have tooth problems or gum disease. She was in perfect health except for the fact that she was extremely obese.

And she proudly told everyone, she had lost weight. She had lost one pound. She was very happy with herself.

For the rest of her stay at Job Corps her parents sent monthly boxes. The doctor gave up trying to help her diet. They couldn’t force her to loose weight anyway.

I, on the other hand, had to deal with her on a more complex level. As I said she was a happy, self assured person and was easily elected President of the student council. That meant whenever I took the officers to meetings with other Job Corps she had to go. I would apply at the Corps motorpool for a van instead of a car so as to make it comfortable for all four students. More than once all the vans were signed out and I had to take a small car. This presented the problem of who sat where. Worse than that was the site of the meetings: an all you can eat buffets crammed with fattening food. While the other young ladies took a choice of a small helping of fried chicken, pork chops or honey glazed ham, she got a piece of all three. I saw her and saw how the young men from the other Job Corps were looking at her. I mouthed “Put two pieces of meat back” from across the room and although she acquiesced she was not happy. All the way back to Atlanta she complained about being hungry. When we stopped for gas she purchased a large candy bar. This on top of the cake and pie she had for dessert.

When I left Job Corps after two years she was down to 405. She had decided to go on a diet. Why? Her boyfriend of six years had dumped her. She thought that losing weight would get him back. I told her that losing weight would open doors for her to a better life. But that was not what she wanted to hear. She was a young woman in an age defined by looks. She had no sense of self when it didn’t involve food or a man. She had always been fat and happy. Did losing her fat really mean losing her joy?

I don’t know what happened to her but whenever I see commercials for weight loss reality shows I think of her. At some point her healthy heart was probably going to say enough, she was going to start breathing hard after long walks and considering her sweat tooth, diabetes would not be far behind. Or would any of this happen just because she was overweight? Perhaps she learned to take care of herself, perhaps she got down to 300 pounds. Perhaps she developed amazing self esteem again. I struggle with the 50 pounds that I have put on since Job Corps, marriage, two children and a sedentary job. This girl moved and I still don’t move as much as she did. She fed her beast but she worked out all the same with her walks and her volleyball.

We all need to move more, to push away from the table more, and to push back from the computer. Long walks when you can’t run are there for the taking and so is good health. We are a fat society but we are not happy. The carrot that dangles before us with promises of better nutrition and looks is not enough. We must find the pleasure in what it means not to be obese. But we must find it in ourselves. Otherwise we miss the point of good health and good living.