There Is A Storm (Fiction)

I wrote this 12 years ago and have come back to finish it for publishing. I've got to update it for 2015, but other than that I'm ready to go. This a small excerpt from the first chapter of the book. Don't read too much into the first chapter, after all, it is just the beginning. Read on!

There Is A Storm

It was Sunday morning and the church was unusually quiet. Bishop Bailey sat slumped in his chair at the front of the choir. He looked tired and beaten. Usually, there was a light in his eyes but this morning his eyes were dark masks of mystery and anonymity. The radiance of the smile that usually lit his face was gone, replaced by a look of weariness and fatigue. It seemed that he might be angry or even sad, but his body movements said defeat. Whatever battle he fought, he lost and it showed on his face.

All eyes were riveted to the troubled figure as he stood and walked to the podium. Despite his appearance, his step was measured like a soldier’s and steady as if a silent cadence kept a rhythm that only he could hear. Draped in the long folds of his robe, his arms moved with deliberate motion and helped push him toward the podium where the microphone waited as if a challenge to his approach. With each step, strength seemed to enter his body as his robe flared behind him like a leaf in a breeze. By the time he reached the podium, he was walking erect like a general leading his troops into battle. His nose flared slightly and there was a light behind the eyes where there had been trouble moments before. Bishop Bailey did not have a deep voice but when he spoke that day, it was like thunder crackling in the rafters. The power and intensity of his voice pulsed and reverberated throughout the church.

“Church. I’m tired today. My bones are weary and my heart is heavy today. I don’t exactly know what I’m going to say, but I hope that somewhere and somehow that I give you something to leave here with. I hope I give you something to leave here with that will stay in your mind and stick to your bones. I want to give you a bone to chew on that has some meat on it.

You see, I’ve been fighting for a long time. I’ve won some battles and I’ve lost a few, but that never mattered because even when I was defeated I always did my best and a man that does his best cannot be defeated even when he falls as every man must. No, it is not that we didn’t win the fight; it is that we fought well and carried our beliefs before us like a mighty sword.

Still, there are times when there is something more troubling than our fall. There are things that upset us much more than losing. There are times when even victory is not enough to carry you forward. It is times like these when we pull on the reins of the almighty and ride the winds of faith. It is times like these when we forget about what we can’t do and call on someone who can do. I have been there and I have ridden the horse of glory and tasted that sweet wine.

Just like you, I have stood in the raging winds and the driving rain and dared it to put me down for I knew I was protected. Just like you, I have stood among the mighty forest of lightning and thunder and I have not been afraid. I have withstood the mighty torrents of temptation and avarice, just like you. Just like you, pain and suffering have been in my life but I have always made it through the storm, just like you. Just like you, I have braved the violent and furious whirlwind of today’s world with only my faith as armor and I have returned again and again and I have not wavered.

But today—today, I am much tired of the world. I am tired to the bone. My armor is too heavy to carry any longer and it irritates my skin. My sword is chipped and bent and my buckler is broken. I’ve been in one battle too many. I’ve stood against the raging winds of reason and logic too long. I’ve been battered and bruised too long by the whims of fortune and curious happenstance. I have been in the storm too long. So, this will be the last time I stand before you as your pastor and spiritual leader. I’ve already turned in my letter of resignation effective as of this day.

But before I go, I’d like to thank you for allowing me to help; thank you for allowing me to be part of your lives; thank you for being there for me as I’ve stood in the storm. And, most of all thanks for all the love you've shown and given without reservation.”

With that, Bishop Bailey left the pulpit and marched down the middle aisle and out of the church without looking back. As he passed, tears glistened at the corner of his eyes but his step was firm and resolute. And, then he was gone.
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Surrounded by the few things I had collected during my stay at St. Mark’s, I reclined in the leather easy chair and stared at the ceiling as if some answer was waiting there, but I knew better; I’d already searched this room and every other one in the rectory and there was nothing here except more rooms filled with doubt and disbelief.

I would miss the comfort and warmth of the old manse, but I had to leave. We had outgrown each other. The house was now only growing old while I was growing tired of looking into the mirror each day and seeing a fraud. I am surprised no one else saw it when it seemed so apparent to me. It was in my face, eyes and everything I said and did. I felt it living inside of me as surely as my heart pushed blood through my veins and my lungs sucked oxygen from the air. It was alive inside and finally allowing my suspicions and doubts come to the surface.

The doorbell didn’t surprise me. I had been expecting this call for months. I knew who it would be as I started walking toward the front door. As I looked through the yellowed sheers covering the door’s glass, I saw the troubled faces of Rev. Cooke and Rev. Berry. They were responsible for my tenure at St. Mark’s. They had chosen me to lead St. Mark’s flock, put their trust in me and supported me throughout my tenure and now were here there were questions they wanted answered and rightfully so. As I looked through the door glass it was difficult to miss the dismay registering on their unbelieving faces.

“The Mississippi Chinese: Between Black and White," a book written by James Loewen in 1971, is an important look at race in the United States, especially in the Deep South.

You may know of Loewen from his popular "Lies" books including "Lies My Teacher Told Me," "Lies Across America" and "Lies My Teacher Told Me About Christopher Columbus." Mississippi Chinese examines a much overlooked minority in the United States and how they melted into the racially charged a

tmosphere of the Old South. A part of American history that frequently slips between the cracks is how white plantation owners imported Chinese "sharecroppers" hoping to replace their recently lost slaves following the Civil War.

Loewen, reveals the Chinese initially were classified with blacks, but later transitioned from "colored" to white. Part of the move from black to white came at the insistence of the plantation owners that the newly imported Chinese cut ties with "part-black Chinese and those married to colored wives." Loewen's scholarship reveals a part of American racial history rarely if ever discussed publicly and essentially unknown to the majority of Americans.

For any wanting to explore the history of race relations in the United States, "The Mississippi Chinese: Between Black and White," is an informed, intelligent look at what really happened in American race relations.

Don't be misled by the four-star rating, as this book is easily a five-star effort. Because of its scholarly nature, it isn't always the easiest read, thus, the four-star rating. However, "The Mississippi Chinese: Between Black and White," is an important analysis of race in the United States.

In the Belly of the Beast

Over the years as a reported, I’ve written on a variety of topics and situations. I specialized in going places that most people stayed away from and knew little or nothing about.  My work has appeared under the Associated Press heading and various other places. Here's a peek at what many hear about, but don't know about.

Everybody knows the reason men go to strip clubs—to see naked women. If you thought something else, you been living in a hole, but actually that’s only partially correct and in some cases, dead wrong. Depending upon the age, status and financial means of the male, naked women may be only a small reason why men go to strip clubs.

Crowds at strip clubs vary by location and cost. Generally, the more upscale clubs draw patrons with varying amounts of disposable income, including movies stars and professional athletes. These clubs generally offer top shelf liquor, a variety of cuisine and the best looking women. They also are more expensive and out of the range of teenagers and “I just got my first job” men. “There no competition at these places like that of the local "meat markets." You can get all of the time you want with any dancer if you pay. Sealy, a long time patron a one particular strip club said, "The best part  of coming here is  that rarely is any man judged." Dennis, 35, another longtime patron, who is married with children told me the same thing. He sees  no conflict in patronizing a strip club.

"Man, this is all fantasy. None of these women is going home with me and I know that just like they do. I talk to them about some of my fantasies or just anything that comes to mind. It’s a good way to be in the company of a pretty women without becoming involved.” He is not alone in his assessment. There is research to show that one of the main reason men go to a strip club is for the personal interaction with the dancers in the form of conversation and attention.

“I appreciate a beautiful female body. Over here I get to see all I want and I also get the feel of walking on the edge,” Pete said. Pete is what they call a “regular.” He has been coming to the same club for more than a year and always spends his time with one particular dancer. “Walking on the edge” is another common reason for strip club attendance. Because mainstream society sees strip clubs as part of an unsavory subculture actually gives appeal to many men even though it is legal.

Make no mistake, at many skin clubs real sexual activity occurs raging from oral sex to actual intercourse. Many patrons are louts, but they are asses any other place they go. Drugs can be a problem at many strip clubs, both selling and using.

I’m talking with “Sparkles,” obviously not her real name, and she is telling me how the other girls hate because she is more beautiful and more talented. I’m looking at her and thinking, “You’re loaded and probably drunk.” Drug addiction and alcoholism run rampant in many of the less savory clubs. Many of the women have children, often two or more.

Going to a strip club to talk has the same wring as reading Playboy for the articles, but there is truth in both ideas. Playboy Magazine actually had interesting interviews with celebrities, authors and sports figures, including Norman Mailer, Gore Vidal and Arthur Ashe. According to some regulars, strip clubs offer the same opportunity—only it is live.

“I’ve been married 20 years and there isn’t much happening sexually between my wife and I. It’s not that I don’t love her,  because I do, but this gives me a chance to have a little variety without stepping outside of my vows,” Pete said. “I know none of it is for real but that makes it even better because when I leave—that’s it. I go home and some of that exotic atmosphere stays with me.”

Talking with the exotic dancers leaves no doubt that the majority of men come for companionship and talk. “I have several friends who stop by a couple of times a week, BJ said. “Sometimes they just want to talk and other times they may want a dance, but talking is always a big part of it,” she said. BJ who is 29, which is old by exotic dancing standards, said it is not unusual for men to spend their money for talk.

“I’m a cheap psychiatrist or expensive bartender, depending upon how you look at it. Taking off my clothes is a small part of this job. My real job is making customers happy and usually that means listening,” she said.

It is clear that female flesh sells, something that Wall Street advertisers have known for years as they use the female body to sell everything from Summer’s Eve to Mercedes-Benz. Now it is starting to move into the mainstream as stripping is becoming more acceptable. The crowds differ in all the clubs ranging from a blue-collar manual labor clientele to white collar business executives and women. Women are increasingly patronizing upscale clubs because many of their business clients want to go there.

Once, women were required to come with a male escort to enter traditionally male oriented strip clubs, but that requirement disappeared when clubs became more upscale and now women frequently drop in for a drink or just to talk with the friends they came with. Now, they have strip poles at work-our classes. In fact, many athletic establishments actually teach how to dance like a stripper.

What did I learn from my little tour through the skin business? Nothing I didn’t already know. As a reporter I’ve interviewed prostitutes, death row inmates, cancer victims, sports figures, politicians and more. So, I learned nothing I didn’t already know, but I hope I passed along a little information about a subject few know anything about.

Riverside Park--Independence, KS

Many moons ago I did something I dreamed of doing since my 15th birthday. The Fourth of July in Independence found me sitting on a park bench, away from my friends watching the flashing silver streamers and gold twinkles of the annual fireworks display. As the aerial bombs exploded into light, I felt the hot summer breeze drift over my damp skin, but I didn't care because I sat there with my first serious girlfriend.

Straight up Park Street, past the Girl Scout House, the baseball fields and about 35 feet past the two lions guarding the entrance to Riverside Park, there it sat. We used to call it the waterworks, but the Kodachrome fountain that sat about 40 yards from the Shelter House put on its own display, shooting bright plumes of water high in the air and all the while changing colors in a soothing rainbow of red, blue and green.

Holding hands, there were as many stars in our eyes as in the sky. Although I was sitting on the bench, I was far away on another planet watching the silver rings of Saturn and awesome diamond studded belt of the Milky Way. I was in love for the first time in my life; I mean smitten, swept off my feet and overcome with emotion.

Although neither of us spoke, communication flowed through the gushing pipelines of our hearts. With what is now known as Logan Square fountain playing its music on the catch pool surface, even though it must have been nearly 100 degrees, I felt nothing except the smoothness of her skin touching mine.

"There you are," Larry Morrison said. "We've been looking for you for more than an hour. Johnny told us you were out here."

Bucket head Johnson chimed in, "DB doesn't want to be bothered." Leroy wasn't known for startling insights, but even he could see the lost look on our faces. Before I could get a word out my partner Gayle Anderson and Jo Ann Pringle walked up.

"You guys gonna sit here all night? I thought we were going to drop the top and head out to Six-Mile-Junction?"

Even as hot as it was, riding with top down at 70 miles an hour cooled you off quickly. Finally, we got up and stood looking at the fountain until I pulled her close to me and gently brushed her lips with mine.

That was many years ago, but that night in front the fountain is still in my mind, locked away in my personal treasure chest and my memories of a special night in Independence, KS on the 4th of July.

Men and Lesbian Women

What’s the deal with men and lesbian women? Why are so many men sexually interested in lesbian women? Think it’s not true? Go to personal websites and notice how many lesbian women post warnings—“If you are a man don’t write!” Nevertheless, they persist. What is it?

It is not the first time I’ve seen it. I have friends who think that getting involved with a lesbian would be a “great” relationship. What prompts this thinking? I have several lesbian friends who tell me they are constantly pursued by heterosexual men who just won’t take no for an answer.

In some cases, I understand simply because a good-looking woman is always an attraction for a man before he finds out that she is a lesbian. After that, the dance of seduction should end. I would be the first to admit that any male in his right mind would be interested in my friends, BUT—although I love beautiful women, my interest suddenly wanes when women aren’t interested in me—no matter their sexual persuasion, although I'm sure at some time in my life I've been one of those retrogrades. Nevertheless, why go through the hassle?

I’ve seen men who can’t take "no" for an answer even in heterosexual situations and they are the bane of disinterested women everywhere, but to pursue a woman who’s interest clearly is in other women seems like an obvious chance to stay out of a no-win situation. Yet, they persist.

Why? I am not naïve, but it so clear-cut. Why would any man even waste the effort? Still, they persist. I’m sure some straight women try to seduce gay men, but without taking a survey, I’m sure the number is minute compared to men purposely trying to seduce lesbian women.

I try my best not to judge anyone, but in this case I’m going to make an exception by saying that men who knowingly pursue these women either have no idea of what it is they are doing, which I doubt, or they don’t care that they are invading another person’s space. In other words, they are not only shortsighted and insensitive, they are the same misanthropes who also persecute foreigners and participate in mob violence.

Is it just me? Or, am I too sensitive to the needs of others? Any woman who doesn’t want my attention is spared my interests no matter how strong they may be. I would expect the same treatment from any woman whom I did not want. So, again, what is it with men chasing after lesbian women? Is it ignorance, ego or lust? I suspect all three.

A Barrel Full of Laughs, A Life of Sorrow

A Barrel Full of Laughs, A Life of Sorrow

According to some Negro folk tales, at one time slaves were not permitted to laugh in public. Legend says that

 if slaves found something to be funny and there were white people around, they were to run to the nearest “laughing barrel” and wipe the smile off their face before they peered out. Many believe the practice was the genesis of the term “barrel of laughs”

Wesley Brown’s award-winning novel, "Darktown Strutters," gives a vivid description of the practice that implied there was a potential of insult to white people who may be in the presence of black folks laughing. The unspoken insinuation that blacks might possibly be 'snickering' at white people. Presumably, the unwritten Jim Crow law was enacted on Southern plantations that did not permit whites to be insulted by Negro laughter.

As a side note, Brown also explains the term Jim Crow derived from a minstrel song entitled “Jump Jim Crow.” The book also tells of the inhumanities suffered by slaves before, during and after the practice died out thanks to the Emancipation Proclamation, even though many of the laws continued well into the 1950’s.

As the story goes, during slavery times, blacks were not allowed to laugh on many plantations. When the urge to laugh became irrepressible, the slaves had a “laughing barrel” into which they would lean way down, place their head in the barrel and laugh; then go back to whatever it was they were doing.

Here one discovers that before and even after the American Civil War, there were such things as barrels placed around the streets of southern cities or the pathways of plantations for black people to stick their heads into should they get the urge to laugh in public. It seems that local white people didn’t want to hear their laughter, lest they gain the sense that it might be aimed at them.

Author and poet Maya Angelou, in her book “Discovering Family Roots in Slavery,” writes about how on many plantations slaves were not allowed to laugh. There was a rule against it. So, when the urge to laugh became uncontrollable, when the urge to laugh became irrepressible, they had what they called “the laughter barrel.” At the moment when they couldn’t hold it in any longer they would, under the pretext of getting something out of the barrel, lean way down inside and let it all out. They would laugh and laugh and laugh, then wipe the smile off their face and go back to what they were doing.

“Many churches had ‘shouting barrels’ into which overjoyed slaves would place their heads in order not to disturb the church services,” Daniel Lane and Roy Cunningham write in their book, “Notable Blacks of the Pee Dee Section of South Carolina.”

There is little hard evidence to prove the stories other than those passed along in the oral tradition of the familiar slave narrative. A book titled, “Mother Wit from the Laughing Barrel," edited by Alan Dundes speaks of “laughing barrels at least eight times. Although the book is a compilation of slave lore, legend and folk tales, there is some reason to believe the stories were true. Many believe the tale is not founded in truth, but considering the times, along with the way slaves were treated, it is not hard to imagine such a course of action.

Making slaves laugh in a barrel isn’t as far-fetched as one might think. As ridiculous as the practice seems, there were others rules that were just as silly and many of them were dangerous. In the Deep South, blacks had to either cross the street or get off the sidewalk to allow white pedestrians safe passage. Failure to do so could result in a beating or worse.

Clearing the sidewalk was just one of the many humiliations heaped upon slaves and later during the Jim Crow era. One such heinous and unwritten law included “reckless eyeballin,” which fell harshly upon any black man who had the nerve to look at a white woman. Emmet Till fell victim to such an unwritten law when he supposedly whistled at Carolyn Bryant, a white woman. Till was beaten, shot and dropped in the river, his body weighted with a fan blade tied around his neck with barbed wire.

Sadly, I actually had people in my family who talked of it and were afraid of talking too loudly or even laughing around white men even though they escaped the South and lived in Chicago. Emitt Till was killed while I was in Chicago. This is not ancient history. They had "laugh barrels" in the South for Negroes to stick their heads in because white men assumed blacks were laughing at them. It is difficult to put that kind of treatment behind you even though you know it is poisonous.

Personal experience with segregated movie theaters, swimming pools and restaurants were small insults, but helped contribute to internal anger among Negroes. Although seemingly harmless, more virulent practices existed such as never addressing a white man by any other name unless prefixed with "sir." The same applied to white women, but they were to be called "mam." On the other hand, blacks were expected to answer to names like "boy or uncle," while women were called "gal" or "girl."

Writing in the Texas Monthly, in 1985, Gary Cartwright, delivered a story titled, “The Final Gun.” In the story, Cartwright writes, “There was a barrel in Saratoga called the laughing barrel, and blacks who felt themselves in danger of laughing were required to stick their heads in it.” Saratoga is located thirty-eight miles northwest of Beaumont, TX.

Whether or not “laughing barrels” existed or are just part of black folk lore probably makes no difference other than to add insult to the injury slaves faced regularly in the South. However, based on previous Jim Crow rules, more than likely “laughing barrels” existed, as it seemed that no humiliation was too low to be heaped upon black men and women.

Painting from the Winfred Rembert, Caint to Caint Collection, 2010

Why Men Fall Asleep After Sex

I know why men fall asleep after sex. After years of research into the subject, I found the answer. I don’t know how I overlooked it when it was so apparent. Conversation! Men fall asleep after sex to avoid conversation. A little known fact is men have only a certain amount of words they can use for romantic encounters. This finite number is usually expended in the conversation leading up to a sexual encounter. On the other hand, if it is a “quickie,” the chances of falling asleep decrease, but the probabilities of conversation remains the same.

My research shows it is nothing personal, but men expend large portions of their romantic and interactive vocabulary when they first meet a woman. By the time they’ve slept together six or seven times, his interactive and romantic vocabulary for that women is nearly exhausted and must be renewed on a day-to-day basis. Even then there are a finite number of words nature limits a man to speaking. Either he can use it for meaningful conversation or he can use it for romance.

Nature made men this way. In the beginning, there were hunters and there were gatherers. Men did the hunting and women did the gathering. Initially this worked out fine, but the gatherers soon tired of gathering things and grunting at the children, so they invented language. When the men returned from hunting, the women introduced them to the new trend—talking. Initially, the men liked it because it made telling stories about the size of the mastodon they killed easier to tell without stretching their hands.

After a while, instead of talking, men invented the high five, low five and the chest bump as ways to say “outstanding,” without mouthing the words. Women also caught on to these hand signals and began using them to wave the men into their cave where they would talk with the men over the camp fire until it burned out. Of course, the man stayed until the fire burned out because that was the signal for sex. After sex, he went to sleep for the next day’s hunt or stood guard while the other men slept.

As the amount of conversation picked up, the two-day hunting trips became longer until it lasted more than a week. Still, they returned, but with news ideas. Men invented the “honey do.” As a way to get out of spending time in the cave, talking men invented the “honey do” under the guise of helping when in reality it was a ploy to get out of talking.

Today, despite subtle hints like sleep, comas and death, women still try to engage men in meaningful conversation after sexual encounters. However, I cannot tell you any more about that, not because I don’t want to because I’ve used up my 471 daily word limit. (481)