No one knows when he died. No one knows how he died. Well, obviously someone does. Whoever wrapped his little body in a black plastic trash bag sealed with duct tape certainly knows. Aside from that, if not for a routine traffic stop, the only person who would have known that Quincy Davis was dead would have been the person who stashed him in the truck of her car ten years ago; his loving mother.

Who loved Quincy?

Who loved Quincy?

No funeral, no memorial, no grieving for Quincy. Apparently, his mother Tonya Slayton felt no remorse at all; well, she might have been a little annoyed at the inconvenience of him taking up valuable cargo space in her car, but other than that, she went on with her life pretty much as if nothing had ever happened. Or, quite possibly, it got a little better as she was no longer burdened with the very child she brought into this world.

Sorry, but children are, bluntly, inconveniences to many people. I see it all the time. Parents pushing their children into the arms of strangers, if not outright abandoning them to the streets. Keeping them busy in one activity or another so they don’t have to spend any face time with them. “I need a little me time, time with adults,” I’ve heard often. Take it for what it’s worth. I take it at face value. You can’t stand to be with your own children. Then again there are those for whom a child is nothing more than a conversation piece, a trinket, a possession, something they can put on display. Ask them just who their kid’s friends are, what their child’s favorite color is. Yeah, good luck.

No mention of the father in any story I have found to date; fathers are pretty damned inconvenient in society today too. What about siblings? No aunts, grampy or grandma? No favorite uncles, snot-nosed cousins, rambunctious best friends? No neighbors, parents of BFF’s, coaches, teachers, pastors, local friggin’ barbers? No one on this great green planet noticed the hole created by Quincy’s absence? Did no one ever hug this child, kiss his forehead, feel for him in their hearts? For God’s sake, what kind of miserable existence must this child have had before someone ended his life and he became a permanent fixture in the rear of his mother’s mustang? How could anyone, let alone a child, live day-to-day knowing that he was of such little value to anyone that he could vanish forever and no one would notice. Or care. And don’t think this wasn’t Quincy’s life. You know damned well it was. Just another expendable little life, brought into this world by another selfish cretin with a personality disorder so advanced that the stench of her own son rotting in the truck of her car had no effect.

Yes, it tears my eyes to read this. Catches in my throat. His death was probably quite violent, the final culmination of a life that was deemed absolutely worthless from the beginning. It was his mother who determined he was of no value to anyone in this world. As a result, there is no one to mourn him now.

Well, I mourn you Quincy. You deserve your special place in heaven. Rest well little man.

So I just put my eldest daughter on a plane for her first solo trip away from home to a young leaders conference in Washington DC. Due to the weather, the flight that was supposed to have been wheels up by nine a.m. finally departed at one-fifteen p.m. As if the trip wouldn’t have been stressful enough for the both of us of on a good day, the weather decided to add an extra level of concern for the both of us, as brave as we tried to be for each other. I waited in the boarding queue with her until the line started down the ramp, as she kept pushing her hand in the small of my back to shoo me away. She couldn’t bring herself to hug me in front of all the strangers surrounding us, her eyes probably every bit as moist as mine. Have a great time honey, daddy loves you. Farewell on this fathers day. Please come home again; I’ll lay awake until you do.

Dad has all the embarrassing photos...

Dad has all the embarrassing photos…

If you were to peer under my desk at home, you’d find a small shelf no wider than some of the largest books I have standing on it. You’d also find three rather non-descript storage totes, two the size of large shoeboxes, one the shape of a pizza box, only twice as high. The boxes are ornamental, fabric covered, and they match the decor of my office. They also contain some of my most valuable possessions. Every once in a while, or truthfully more often than that, I like to open one or more of these boxes and admire the riches inside, hold them, spread them out on the desk and marvel at their inestimable value. The irreplaceable collections in these little decorative storage bins certainly need a more secure location than the foot of my desk; maybe I need a small safe or a safety deposit box. Of course, that would make them less accessible and who wants that? No, the little storage bins will have to do. The two smaller shoe-sized boxes are labeled “Photos” and “Videos.” The larger box is labeled “Dad’s memory box.”

I don’t even have a camcorder that can play the little tapes anymore. I burned through that machine after years of abuse at recitals, band concerts, trips to the beach, and all around constant pounding on various playgrounds. The very first video I ever took with it is sound only; I was hiding in another room, trying not to distract my eldest daughter who was probably three at the time. As she busied herself with whatever toy was holding her focus, probably her blocks, she was singing happily, not loudly but very strong and clear. I couldn’t bring myself to intrude on the moment and I just let the audio catch her for what seemed like five minutes of one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. The dozens and dozens of other tapes are all like that, all neatly labeled with dates and in numbered sequence. I have to find some way to get them off the tape so I can view them.

It’s the same with the box marked “Photos.” Every digital picture I have ever taken of the kids is backed up on CD’s, all labeled by date and sequenced. I don’t even know how many thousands of pictures it holds. Enough to actually crash my Imac iphoto library several times. But I still follow the same ritual, year after year, event after event, chronicling each step along their journeys away from me with a melancholy mixture of pride and dread. It is as I had noted before, the unforgiving father clock ticking away unmercifully at the time we have left together as father and child. And I know my place, my charter; give them what they need to be able to fly away from me when they’re ready. Never be willing to let them go but be prepared to give them the push they need. Seems quite unfair, really.

If you were to pick up the box marked “Dad’s memory Box,” you’d probably hear a rattle before you opened the lid. Chances are that there’s at least one piece of macaroni rolling around the bottom somewhere, a derelict decoration straying from the dried glue that held it in place as a border or an accent piece on some beautiful artwork that depicts a breathtaking scene or a magnificent creature. Some of the animals are quite amusing and heartwarming; the stick-legged cat with the sausage body or the graceful unicorn with the beautiful mane that looks too long for the body. Of course because dad loves hippos, there are quite a few of them as well, most with a very wide grin of self-satisfaction.

We celebrate our fathers on father’s day, ostensibly to pay homage to the man who loves and supports his children, earning their love and respect for all he does. I may be biased by the relationship that I don’t have with my own father but that’s not what father’s day means to me, not as a father. No, father’s day for me is about the pride and joy that I have for being allowed by some greater power to have been trusted with this great responsibility for which I have never been trained, for which I was never fully prepared. Father’s day is always a reminder that the appearance of my own children into my life has made this life that much richer, that much fuller and that much more meaningful. Name another role that can instantly give you purpose and clarity; a role I never had to interview for, never had to prepare a resume for, a gift bestowed upon me before I was even remotely wise enough to understand let alone value it. The first time I had those chubby little fingers wrap gently around my index finger, my motto became clear; I only want to be a good father. No greater responsibility can be placed on any man’s shoulders; No greater reward can be had. As always, I will try to live up to my own expectations, and I’m sure I will often fail. But I will never cease to try; I am a father. It’s what we do.

I won’t tell them that the gift I wanted for father’s day was just to be a father to begin with. It feels somewhat greedy, taking gifts from the greatest gifts in my life. But I hope that they give them because they truly love their father; that they want to tell me in some measure that I have done a reasonably good job at this life-long endeavor, this journey with no map, task with no instruction booklet. I count the passing of each father’s day knowing that they will end when I do, not before, but each one more poignant than the last. For soon, father’s day will be a card from a great distance, maybe a cheerful call after dinner or possibly, a dinner out with an extended family. But I will still be introspective; worried that I didn’t get this or that right, that I made some awful mistake, that I didn’t deserve the love they gave me; or I wasn’t the father they deserved. And I’ll smile, thank them profusely for the gifts, letting them have their moment of devotion to their father, all the while secretly thanking the good lord that he put me here, in this place, in this role, giving me a meaning and purpose that many men seem to be missing.

For the greatest gift they could ever give me on father’s day, they have already given; the chance to be their father, loving them unconditionally, being a part of their lives, who they are, were and will become. They can, and I hope will honor me on this day. And I will bask in it, every bit. But later tonight in bed, when the house is silent and I stare at the distant nothingness fading into the night-time ceiling, I will as I always do, hope and pray that I was indeed, up to the task and am truly worthy to be called their father.




So, what emotion should we reserve for Rachel Dolezal? Disgust? Pity? Bewildered amusement? I would guess that depends on what your agenda is. Normally, the social justice meted out for appearing in black-face is excommunication from society, a shaming and loathing that requires months of introspection and countless twitter apologies if one hopes to ever be forgiven. Some are forgiven. Most aren’t. Go figure.



We talk the talk about race, but we never budge from the hard realities of it. The realities that segmentation of race artificially imposed by government policy is far more destructive than beneficial, used for nothing more than scoring points on an electoral map, never seeking to achieve whatever lofty goals they may have once had. Everyone is so equal, so special that we must all achieve the same results or someone is to blame; or some event from history, or past transgression. Some people are so damaged by what their ancestors lived through hundreds of years ago that they just have to have special loan programs at the bank, need special allowances made for them at college admissions offices or are allowed exemptions from curriculum or discipline. Those who champion diversity only see diversity if they enforce it upon us, as if left to their own choices and outcomes, people wouldn’t be diverse enough. Or maybe they’d be too diverse and wouldn’t need to be part of a social construct of a specific “racial segment,” which is actually nothing but a perpetually aggrieved voting block.

What Rachel can teach us will be lost in a few months, the oddity of it will wane and we’ll be on to some new issue that divides us, which of course the government will inflame in order to swoop in with some new mandate or policy to once again fix a problem of their making. And we’ll all look at each other with suspicion and fear or hate, quite content to blame others for whatever little number of check boxes didn’t get filled in the grand quota of life that government tells us we need before we can all get along. More programs, more taxes, more hate and distrust for us along with more power and influence for those who peddle the divisiveness they call diversity and equality.

What does it actually mean to be black? I cannot answer this question, since I’m as white as cottage cheese and am not allowed to have a comment or opinion in any way shape or form. Only people like me can be racist. Against that backdrop, we’ve had leaders tell us we are cowards about discussing race. However, discussion usually means two sides; but not when it comes to discussing race. White people are racist for even wanting to discuss race. Wasn’t I always told that white people could never understand what it means to be black? Ever?

But from afar, observing it from a distance, one wonders what the hell is going on with the black community in this country? Rachel Dolezal was whiter than I am for heaven’s sake; but once she donned the black-face and got a new do, she only needed to become hostile to white people, her own heritage, and bingo, she’s in. No claim of misappropriation of black culture for Rachel? What was the selling point? Was it the false claims she made about being harassed as a black woman? If they had known she already sued Howard University for discrimination as a white woman, would she still have been considered sensitive to the black experience, would she still have been teaching African-American culture at Eastern Washington University? New old saying; if you can’t beat em’, get a tan.

Melissa Harris-Perry feels that Dolezal may in fact be black. Cis-black or trans-black. Absolutely marvelous. “I wonder can it be that one would be cis-black and trans-black, that there is actually a different category of blackness, about the achievement of blackness, despite one’s parentage?” Yes folks she’s serious. Fifty shades of black as it were. And if you’re wondering what’s wrong with her question, you’re just as daft as she is. What the hell is the “achievement of blackness?” Is it something that Russell Wilson failed to achieve? Or maybe even Stacy Dash? Mia Love? For what it’s worth, Morgan Freeman doesn’t feel President Obama is quite black enough.

There are those who support Dolezal. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar feels, “Dolezal has proven herself a fierce and unrelenting champion for African-Americans politically and culturally.” Apparently, he feels she was “outed” by her vindictive parents over a legal dispute that they have with her. I wonder if the legal dispute has anything to do with her claiming not to be their daughter, claiming her adopted brother as her own son or maybe her false accusation that they punished her with “baboon whips.”

How about we take this at face value, let’s discard the emotion, the political advantage, the recriminations; we have a young woman who is suffering something psychological. Of course, episodes psychological seem to be celebrated today, but hey, humor me anyway. It would appear that we have an individual who was looking for attention, maybe an identity, a persona. Sorry, but she was conditioned early on that white equal bad, black equal good. And whether you want to admit it or not, there is as much black privilege as you claim there is white privilege. In fact, there are all sorts of minority privileges out there, and it’s supported and fostered by the political classes who seek to do no more than keep us at each other’s throats, convinced that it’s the other guy who has the leg up.

Had she become the pasty-white freckled ginger adult she was destined to become without an obvious tanning addiction, would she have been as effective a leader in the NAACP as she became? Probably. But who knows. Like Elizabeth Warren, checking off the right boxes and identifying yourself as something other than the hated white man seems to open a lot of doors. And please, don’t give me all that crap about how wonderful it is to be a white male in today’s society. Liberal society has done nothing but foster hate for all things white for my entire life, making many middle-aged white men like myself far more cynical about race relations, as we’re held responsible for everyone’s failures. We’re pretty damned tired of being told we have advantages that never materialize while we get squeezed out of opportunities we’re suited for because our little boxes weren’t the right ones checked.

Anyway, if this doesn’t start changing the conversation about race and/or blackness within the black community, nothing will. Does this not shatter some of the conventions that we’ve all had to accept or be cast as the villain, asking the right questions but excoriated for the having the temerity to ask them? Are some blacks more black than others? What about non-African-Americans who happen to be black? Where do they fit in? Or blacks who have shed the yoke of victim-hood, are they black even if they aren’t down with the cause? And what do we do with the Oreos and Uncle Toms? What does it mean to be black and what happens if I wake up one day and just happen to feel Trans-Black? Do I have to change my political views to be black or does ancestry play any part at all?

At least she’s got us talking. Or for what it’s worth, she’s probably got the majority of Americans shaking their heads in disbelief, regardless of their color. Or maybe, just maybe, a large majority of blacks in America may now finally see how viewing the world first through the prism of one’s own skin color only separates us all from one another in this society. Are there those who are white and will hate others just because they are black? Yes, of course and there always will be. Just as there are blacks who will hate anyone or anything considered too white, even hating people who actually have the lineage Rachel tried so hard to affect. Hated, just based on their political point of view.

It’s not enough to complain about racism, scream it at the top of your lungs, and use it as an excuse or a weapon. One needs to be committed to living without the consequences of those tiny little check boxes or the power we bestow upon them. Racism will never die out completely, but it will never diminish until we decide to start ignoring race altogether.

It’s what we all say we want. But like Ms. Dolezal, we’re too addicted to the power of those tiny little boxes.

Who the heck is Josh Duggar? Sorry, I don’t cruise the dial on the sewage pipe that often, basically I stick to old westerns, documentaries or the history channel. I can’t switch the channel fast enough when I see one of these unreality shows; seems like they’re always about some oddity, a spectacle for the feeble-minded. Not sure what’s worse, the fact that there are people like this out there, or that there are people who make them millionaires. Geez, if I could just develop some behavior more bizarre than my almost normal (?) routine, I might be able to dig myself out of the financial black hole. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’d look that good with man-boobs or a silicone pumpkin-ass. But I digress.

Just a man groping with his faith?

Just a man groping with his faith?

So Josh is a member of a devout Independent Baptist family whose apparent claim to fame is the fact that Mom and Dad only have one hobby. One that they are obviously pretty darned good at. So are people watching this show for its uplifting message, its family values and its weirdness factor or were they just hoping for the eventual train wreck? Beats me, but I don’t go to the idiot box for morality lessons or someone else’s skewed vision of “reality.” I guess entertainment is a pretty broad concept. Hey, I still watch the Stooges so what the hell do I know.

However, one can’t get through a show without an infotainment blurb about “what the Duggars are saying now” or “what’s next for the Duggars”, etc, etc. The story is crowding out real news, like what cup size is Caitlyn? Yeesh. So I just hadda take a peek to see what the fuss was all about. Fuss indeed.

Mr. Duggar seems to have violated four of his younger sisters when he was a young teen himself. How sweet. And Mom and Dad, taking a limited break from their own copulation, apparently tell the local authorities that Josh admitted to “fondling the breasts and genitals of several victims while they were sleeping in the family’s home and that similar incidents happened for or five times.” Months later, Josh admits to his parents that again, he fondled another victim while she lay asleep on the family couch. And he continues, nine months later molesting one victim as she sat in his lap.

Question; what kind of idiot continues to expose the vulnerable to the predator? Maybe I’m old school, maybe its hyperbole or maybe I don’t really know what I’d do in that situation and I’m blowing smoke; but my gut tells me that my son would be immediately enrolled in some type of institution, both arms in casts. So I’m not giving Mr. and Mrs. Procreation a pass here. One can debate where Josh learned this behavior from in the first place, but anything beyond one chance is enablement.

Sickening enough was the act. Now we get the follow on chatter about the evils of religion, or maybe the evils of no religion, or forgiveness or how the hell can you forgive this, yaddi yaddi yadda. How Josh “admitted” his mistake, his sister-victims forgave him, his parents were anguished, his wife stands by him. It’s all still noise to me. He’s a sick individual, period. Said the same thing about the wonderful Ms. Dunham when she admitted to “finding” her toddler sister stuffed full of pebbles. Twisted people, in need of help. Can people like this ever be cured? I seriously doubt it. Can they ever be forgiven? If the victims wish to forgive them, fine. If they believe that whatever God they worship forgives them, I’m good with that too. And it’s not like they need to seek forgiveness from me which is a good thing, because I know I couldn’t and I’m not even involved. I guess forgiveness helps with the healing. Only the victims can say and they’re the ones who have to rebuild their lives, trying to recover something that is lost forever.

Just as sickening is how society at large looks at this. Maybe I’m making too sweeping a generalization here, but it’s “your side” versus “their side” over this issue, marginalizing the damned perverted act in the first place. The deeply religious were offended by Ms. Dunham, quite sure that her lifestyle was related to her lack of morals, her upbringing, and her permissive views; the left see nothing but hypocrisy in the religious who tout family values and morals, with neither side willing to admit that evil, horrifically disturbed people need no creed, religion, viewpoint or party on which to base their deviancy. But this is the game today. Let’s not worry about the act, let’s see if we can pin it to something I disagree with; my side wins! The left is quite sure that there is a cover up going on based on the Duggars’ religion; maybe their beliefs fostered this behavior; it certainly sought to hide it. Even though Duggar admitted his behavior, that’s not enough; although at seventeen Ms. Dunham continued to masturbate in bed next to the wiry body of her younger sibling and that was just peachy from their point of view. Exception’s all around, no matter what side of the spectrum you’re on. If Josh wasn’t religious but still a famous reality star, maybe Whoopi would have said it wasn’t real “fondling-fondling.” Or heck, maybe if his name was Polanski he’d have a much better career path than the one he has now. All he’s left with is a possible book deal, and a career giving motivational speeches at camps for wayward religious youth. All is forgiven.

You can pick and choose sides over any issue and relate it to the superiority of your viewpoints, or the inferiority of those you disagree with; but be careful. All you’re doing is marginalizing the seriousness of that issue. This has nothing to do with politics; nothing to do with religion. It has everything to do with a young man who was twisted enough to find sexual gratification at the expense of his own minor sisters. Until we can all agree that it’s hideous and it occurs everywhere, far too often, we’ll never come to any agreement on how we should respond to it or prevent it.

As long as my side can score points, the act has a perverse value and the victims are nothing more than collateral damage. And society is nothing more than an old Jerry Springer re-run.

I hope the Stooges are on……

Life is tough in Baltimore; getting tougher every day. One would think that since the residents of Baltimore threw off their last oppressive republican mayor in 1967, all of their problems would have just faded away into the liberal utopia they continued voting for. They now have a democrat mayor, and all fifteen members of their city council are democrats. It would appear that they have the racial make-up they have been clamoring for; Mayor Rawlings-Blake is black, as is Police Commissioner Batts. Three of the six police indicted in the death of Freddie Gray were black; not sure if they’re democrats. But the black state attorney who indicted them is. All this political correctness in the ninety-plus square miles that make up the city of Baltimore and since Freddie Gray’s death in April, Baltimore has seen forty-three of its residents murdered; its highest homicide rate in forty years. And summer hasn’t even started.

There...fixed it for ya...

There…fixed it for ya…

It’s heartbreaking to see the nightly news segments, the residents of Baltimore dazed and fearful. Many are afraid to even step outside of their homes, afraid to sit near windows. People are suggesting that the police are no longer policing; although when the cops do show up, these same fearful residents will gather around the crime scene ten to twenty deep, IPhone in hand, to make sure the cops don’t terrorize the perp or suspect or victims. According to commissioner Batts, his officers are not holding back. “Our officers tell me that when officers pull up, they have 30 to 50 people surrounding them at any time,” Batts said. Whatever. It’s the way it will be from now on. Get used to it. It’s what the residents of Baltimore wanted. Yes, same to you.

Whatever long-standing belief you have about race, or cops, or white privilege, or victimization, the unfortunate people of Baltimore have determined their own destiny. They are nothing but expendable organisms in the grand social experiments that liberals have been subjecting black people to for my entire life, and well before that. Consider it just “breaking a few eggs” to get to that perfect utopian omelet.

I’m not sure how we convince people that “black lives matter” when they don’t seem to matter much at all to blacks; somehow when seven-year old Kester Anthony Browne gets shot in the back of the head, the issue becomes “not enough police” or not enough attention. Not a word from Al, or Loretta or Obama. And of all the people in this country who should be asking why, the residents of Baltimore aren’t the ones asking. It’s white guys like me, guys who aren’t allowed to ask the obvious questions because we have white privilege, or white racism or some other decidedly un-PC attribute of the day that makes us poison; only allowed to somehow, through some twisted liberal logic, ultimately take the blame for inner city residents shooting their own children in the back of the head as they vilify the police force.

We now have the perfect storm; one that’s been building for years. We have a department of justice and an agitator in the White House who seek nothing more than to federalize the police forces of this country at the expense of those policed. Think your police are removed from your control now? Even though the citizens of Baltimore are the ones who voted in the officials that run their city? Just imagine how sweet policing will be once it’s done at the federal level. How accountable will your local cop be then? Fat chance of electing your local Chief of Police, or local legislators who enact the ordinances they follow. As with the police in Cincinnati, they’ll be too busy with sensitivity training to have the time, let alone the inclination to make any arrests. Policing by quota. Not matter what the crime, the color, gender, or nationality of the victim, it’ll be the color, gender, nationality or some other little magical check box that determines when a crime has actually occurred and who, if anyone, gets arrested. Think I’m being foolish? Tell me how many people, many with their faces pointed towards a surveillance camera have been arrested for the looting in Baltimore? Last count was about 200, with half of them being released without being charged. The rest? We’ll have to wait and see what charges will stick; after all they were apprehended in the area designated by the mayor as “space to destroy.”

It’s been a pretty rousing success, the liberal indoctrination of generations of blacks. Black leaders will champion those who died at the hands of police while remaining indifferent to the daily deaths of the average young black man, or as in the case of Kester, a black child. If Obama had a son, for some strange reason he obviously wouldn’t look like Kester. Will the president remark that the mayor acted stupidly when she gave a clear signal to riot? Or for that matter when State Attorney Marilyn Mosby made it clear that she heard the mob’s cry for justice? “To the people of Baltimore and demonstrators across America, I heard your call for ‘No Justice, No peace,’” she said. “Your peace is sincerely needed as I work to deliver justice on behalf of this young man.” Prosecution by mob rule? No issue there for sure.

And what about the “Reverends?” Where the hell are they now? Why aren’t they stepping into the streets of Baltimore to calm the strife, now that the oppressive occupying force of racist police is gone? Are the forty-three lives lost since Freddie’s passing of any less value? Is it because black lives really don’t matter unless there is a clear profit to be made from them? Maybe reverend Al is too busy hiding from the IRS or sitting in the back of the courtroom as his daughter tries to sue the City of New York for her inability to navigate the sidewalks of the city without falling on her ass. Racist concrete, now doubt.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s finally getting uncomfortable for the race baiters to face the reality and answer these questions. Why are blacks killing blacks at such an alarming rate? And why are the liberals who elbowed each other for room at the memorial podiums of the unfortunates who died at the hands of the police, now so silent? Which black lives really matter and why? How would Mayor Deblasio now counsel his son about the dangers of other young black men, not cops, who are currently killing other young black men rampantly across this country? Or are these thoughts and questions taboo because they do not support the long-taught orthodoxy of victimization that truly paralyzes the black community? Is it because if they aren’t victims anymore, they will be forced to accept that their circumstances are largely a direct result of their choices? Well, we can’t have that can we?

Black lives matter; I don’t know which ones, and I’m not quite sure under what conditions they matter. But all sorts of really neat, special people, from Hollywood air-heads to slimy politicians continue to post this sentiment while the blood runs freely in the streets of Baltimore; the stunned liberal ruling elites quite sure that somehow the evil white man and his oppressive police apparatus are at fault. We’re going to need a real hash tag we can all understand. One that we can get behind, one that really nails it.


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