Ok. So...in keeping with my promise to blog/write every day, I am going to start what are the equivalent of morning pages, in case I don't have enough time to get into what I want to get into today.  (Oh, and for the record, I posted twice yesterday to cover my ass for today, which has already started out a bit hectic. My time is severely limited today. See photo below.

Let me say a little something about morning pages. Right after the twins were born, I realized that I was going to have to get serious about writing, if I ever planned to do it again because as you might imagine, my entire world was flipped off its axis.  I was completely turned around.  The funny thing was that I found that I forced myself to write. For maybe a month. And I did that with the help of Julia Cameron's book, "The Artist's Way." I doubt there is an artist alive who hasn't read this book or found it useful.  Thirteen years ago someone mentioned the book to me, and I had always been meaning to buy it but my priorities were different back then and writing or being an artist meant something completely different to me then. Again, we'll get back to that.

The irony is that my mom was in town from Toronto helping me with the twins and we took a trip to Barnes and Noble to have some coffee and chit chat. It's funny that every time my mother comes to town we end up there and somehow she ends up buying me a book that transforms my life. At least for a time. Well, I was actually looking for the latest Zadie Smith novel and they didn't have it.  As I was wandering down the aisles, "The Artist's Way"  practically jumped off the shelf and into my arms...Oh, I'm sorry. My time has run out for today. I'm being summoned. To be continued...

You have been warned. Off the computer.  Now.

I know I'm jumping ahead but, what the hell. I'm on a roll...and making up for lost time.

I know this is late; in more ways then one. You see, I'm turning this blog into a semi journal, so bear with me.

I found out i was pregnant on Ash Wednesday, April 19, 2012: unofficially. Holy shit, that's almost three years ago to the date! I don't look anything like that now by the way. (That's my vanity talking...another issue we can address at another time. I trust you'll be back? Please. Don't let the picture frighten you.)

Anyway, after 6 pregnancy tests and staring at myself blankly in the mirror, wondering what was really going on. Who was this person staring back at me? I had so many conflicted emotions. First, I was ecstatic, overwhelmed with joy that  I wasn't sixteen and in high school; second, panic and frustration that I was 39 years old.

Needless to say, I  made an appointment to have the news made official. Sure enough,  they confirmed it,set up ally tests and here i am 16 weeks and 2 days later pregnant, confused, overwhelmed, overjoyed, shocked and awed by the fact that I am carrying twins.

Yes. Twins! I was shocked but as soon as they gave me the news, I thought back to the evenings my husband and I sat on the couch and prayed before our evening meals. Before every meal, and after giving thanks, He prayed for twins. Now, I pray too. But even I was skeptical. There are no twins in my family that I know of, and my husband wasn't aware of twins on his side either.

 One thing i have learned throughout this pregnancy-aside from the fact that my body does not belong to me anymore, but that we do serve a mighty God and there is a purpose to the chaos that is existence. Ever since i became pregnant I only care about the lives inside of me. I've learned a lot about myself. I have not always been a nice person. And that scares the shit out of me because I do believe in Karma.

Anyway, I think now I know what love is. Or selflessness.  Everything else is secondary:  the job i hate, the disappointment I felt when I realized I couldn't/wouldn't have a drink in 9 months!!!!??? Before the pregnancy, I couldn't last five days.  The boys kinda cured my "affliction." (Perhaps we'll delve deeper into that another time-I've put you through so much already.)  

So I'll end here for now, and let you know that every morning, despite the fact that I don't want to get out of bed and board that freaking 5 train during rush hour to a job that I would rather not be doing, I rub my tummy and remember it ain't about me anymore. In fact, as I heave myself out of bed and go to work, I realize I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. 

Before I begin, Craig in lieu of an email, I wanted to dedicate this post to you.

This should pretty much catch you up on where I am right about now. As for the question you asked regarding A Hard Day's Night; yes it was a job I should have applied for thirteen years ago.

 I'm not worried about being blackballed. If someone is interested in hiring me they will. I'm qualified. In fact, I'm overqualified, and I refuse to settle ever again. I think that I had to experience that humiliation in order to realize it. Like I said, I'm getting older. I don't have time for regrets, well not regrets that I'll regret.

I WANT YOU TO SEE ME, TO HEAR ME TO FEEL ME! I know how corny this sounds but I'm getting pretty desperate lately.

I've been writing for far too long now. It's about time I get some feedback, some followers, some hate mail-whatever.

I know how cliche this sounds as well but I still have to say it. Or maybe I've been saying it too much-I am a writer. If I don't write, I'll die. A slow, agonizing, pathetic death. I'm miserable.

This is scary, but it has to be done. I'm too old to start over and I'm too old to make any more mistakes, well mistakes are inevitable I guess, so what I mean is that I want to be taken seriously as a writer and this means I have to open the fuck up. There. I said it. I cursed. I don't like to curse, but at this point I felt like it conveyed the frustrations I'm feeling at the moment. I don't like to curse, but sometimes I have to, but I've always (because of my good Christian upbringing) felt badly about doing it. However, I realize that it's affecting my writing in that it's not sincere. Not that I have to curse to be sincere, but I do have to open up.

So...that being said, I'm inviting the world into my writing life. My life is precious and beautiful and strange and what I write about reflects that. It should reflect the good, the bad and most certainly the ugly. There's a lot of ugly.

Well fuck it. (Shit, I'm on a roll.) Here it is: My life, my love. My thoughts. My world. Love it. Hate it. Follow me. Don't follow me. I don't care. I'll keep living. I'll keep writing. For me, those two things are mutually exclusive. I make love, peace, war with my words.

My friends, you may do with that what you must.

The story begins today, but it actually started two years ago with the birth of my twins...and let the journey begin...

Finally Found A Place 2 Go

I’ve been looking for “A Place2Go for some time now. I mean, I’ve been places, they just haven’t been “that” place. The food, the company or the ambiance wasn't what I needed it to be. A few nights ago, at a little spot in Westchester, I found all 3. At the behest of a an old young friend, I skittishly hopped on the I 95 North to New Rochelle headed towards "A Place2Go", a Jamaican infused, induced, influenced, inspired-whatever you want to call it spot that has completely shattered not only my universe but (being Jamaican I can say this) every single unsatisfactory, unfavorable, take-it-for granted preconception I've ever had regarding going out for “Jamaican” because I obnoxiously assume that I’ve had Jamaican food all the ways it can or should be done, so what’s the point? It just seemed a waste of time to me-until now. This place Effen rocks- (Let me defend the use of the word “Effen” here. This is the name of rapper 50 Cent’s new vodka and I thought his word of the Swedish word for “smooth” was pretty clever. Also, I’m dying to try the cucumber vodka but none of my local “wine and spirit” shops carry it—wink, wink; nudge, nudge), from its tuff cocktails, like the tropical Long Island Iced Tea Honestly, this is the best Long Island Iced Tea I’ve ever had. Usually they are a mish-mash, hodge-podge of hard liquors that are a bit too harsh for my palette and which I drink if I’m on a limited budget and need something that’ll kick in hard and last. This Long Island was perfectly balanced, without the harshness and believe me, it lasted. It was as smooth as fruit punch, and it’s one of those drinks that sneak up on you. I easily could have had more until after a few sips in I felt the kick in the ass that reminded me I was driving and chilled. As soon as I get someone to be the designated driver, I’m going back for more. The calamari I ordered was fried to perfection and my home girl’s fried chicken wings-were too; cooked perfectly all the way through and not-greasy at all. My issue with wings is that they are either fried nicely on the outside, but the inside could do with a lot more cooking or the inside is cooked but the skin isn’t crispy enough. By the way-I’m not even a wing person, but I ended up finishing hers. Oh! And can I say that the side of coleslaw was as gorgeous a garnish on the side as it was tasty? And I liked that my calamari was a top a bed of my favorite green: baby arugula, which is not something I usually find at my around the way-Jamaican joints. Needless to say, I ordered some more wings: Buffalo and Jerk-to go. Actually, if I could, I would have ordered every single appetizer on the menu: pepper shrimp, deep fried jerk chicken balls, crab cakes, codfish cakes…and let me tell you that even though there’s nothing extraordinary-sounding about the dishes I’ve described, you had to see them to believe what I’m telling you. You hear me? I witnessed them. I also had an opportunity to talk to the chef, and that brother's enthusiasm for not only preparing tantalizing twists on classic Jamaican cuisine, but his understanding of the importance of visually stimulating food is evident in every single plate that is served. Each item brought out of the kitchen was a colorful feast for the eyes; inviting you to taste and see; to experience… It is obvious di ‘bredda" luv weh im do.’ Traditional entrees like jerk chicken, jerk pork, oxtail, and snapper were presented with flare and with pride. Each garnish was placed with precisions; not simply flung on the plate, smothered in onions, gravy or hidden beneath a pile of vegetables obscuring the objet de art. When somebody makes that much of an effort with your food, it makes you feel special; that you are someplace special and that you are worth the time and effort it takes to create the delectable flavor you will savor long after you’ve finished your meal. From the old-school to new school tunes playing in the background, the friendly wait and bar staff, you feel like you are hanging out in your best friend’s stylish and unpretentious basement, laughter permeates the air, good vibes a plenty, making its rounds throughout the entire place. Everybody is feeling it. Everybody is having a good time. Everything is copasetic at A Place2 Go. They wouldn’t have it any other way. They couldn’t have it any other way. Finally, let me say this: A Place 2 Go gave me one when I desperately needed it; I want to shout out the chef, the staff, the management, waiters and bartenders for their excellent service and professionalism and mostly for the Irie time. I know that they put a lot of effort into ensuring your experience is a good one that that you will come back. As a matter of fact, many of the people I talked to that night were regulars. While I’m saying this, I have to shout out to my sista girl, twin mom partna) NaughtyRas for introducing me to this lovely little get away that’s not too far away from my own backyard. Nuff respect y’hear girl? I can’t thank you enough. I plan to make that place a habit. Next time I’ve got to check out the band. Nothing much else to say but this: Make 273 North Ave, New Rochelle your Place 2 Go. You won’t be disappointed.I’ve been looking for “A Place2Go for some time now. I mean, I’ve been places, they just haven’t been “that” place. The food, the company or the ambiance wasn't what I needed it to be. A few nights ago, at a little spot in Westchester, I found all 3. At the behest of a an old young friend, I skittishly hopped on the I 95 North to New Rochelle headed towards "A Place2Go", a Jamaican infused, induced, influenced, inspired-whatever you want to call it spot that has completely shattered not only my universe but (being Jamaican I can say this) every single unsatisfactory, unfavorable, take-it-for granted preconception I've ever had regarding going out for “Jamaican” because I obnoxiously assume that I’ve had Jamaican food all the ways it can or should be done, so what’s the point? It just seemed a waste of time to me-until now. This place Effen rocks- (Let me defend the use of the word “Effen” here. This is the name of rapper 50 Cent’s new vodka and I thought his word of the Swedish word for “smooth” was pretty clever. Also, I’m dying to try the cucumber vodka but none of my local “wine and spirit” shops carry it—wink, wink; nudge, nudge), from its tuff cocktails, like the tropical Long Island Iced Tea Honestly, this is the best Long Island Iced Tea I’ve ever had. Usually they are a mish-mash, hodge-podge of hard liquors that are a bit too harsh for my palette and which I drink if I’m on a limited budget and need something that’ll kick in hard and last. This Long Island was perfectly balanced, without the harshness and believe me, it lasted. It was as smooth as fruit punch, and it’s one of those drinks that sneak up on you. I easily could have had more until after a few sips in I felt the kick in the ass that reminded me I was driving and chilled. As soon as I get someone to be the designated driver, I’m going back for more. The calamari I ordered was fried to perfection and my home girl’s fried chicken wings-were too; cooked perfectly all the way through and not-greasy at all. My issue with wings is that they are either fried nicely on the outside, but the inside could do with a lot more cooking or the inside is cooked but the skin isn’t crispy enough. By the way-I’m not even a wing person, but I ended up finishing hers. Oh! And can I say that the side of coleslaw was as gorgeous a garnish on the side as it was tasty? And I liked that my calamari was a top a bed of my favorite green: baby arugula, which is not something I usually find at my around the way-Jamaican joints. Needless to say, I ordered some more wings: Buffalo and Jerk-to go. Actually, if I could, I would have ordered every single appetizer on the menu: pepper shrimp, deep fried jerk chicken balls, crab cakes, codfish cakes…and let me tell you that even though there’s nothing extraordinary-sounding about the dishes I’ve described, you had to see them to believe what I’m telling you. You hear me? I witnessed them. I also had an opportunity to talk to the chef, and that brother's enthusiasm for not only preparing tantalizing twists on classic Jamaican cuisine, but his understanding of the importance of visually stimulating food is evident in every single plate that is served. Each item brought out of the kitchen was a colorful feast for the eyes; inviting you to taste and see; to experience… It is obvious di ‘bredda" luv weh im do.’ Traditional entrees like jerk chicken, jerk pork, oxtail, and snapper were presented with flare and with pride. Each garnish was placed with precisions; not simply flung on the plate, smothered in onions, gravy or hidden beneath a pile of vegetables obscuring the objet de art. When somebody makes that much of an effort with your food, it makes you feel special; that you are someplace special and that you are worth the time and effort it takes to create the delectable flavor you will savor long after you’ve finished your meal. From the old-school to new school tunes playing in the background, the friendly wait and bar staff, you feel like you are hanging out in your best friend’s stylish and unpretentious basement, laughter permeates the air, good vibes a plenty, making its rounds throughout the entire place. Everybody is feeling it. Everybody is having a good time. Everything is copasetic at A Place2 Go. They wouldn’t have it any other way. They couldn’t have it any other way. Finally, let me say this: A Place 2 Go gave me one when I desperately needed it; I want to shout out the chef, the staff, the management, waiters and bartenders for their excellent service and professionalism and mostly for the Irie time. I know that they put a lot of effort into ensuring your experience is a good one that that you will come back. As a matter of fact, many of the people I talked to that night were regulars. While I’m saying this, I have to shout out to my sista girl, twin mom partna) NaughtyRas for introducing me to this lovely little get away that’s not too far away from my own backyard. Nuff respect y’hear girl? I can’t thank you enough. I plan to make that place a habit. Next time I’ve got to check out the band. Nothing much else to say but this: Make 273 North Ave, New Rochelle your Place 2 Go. You won’t be disappointed.
A Place2Go

Hard Day's Night

Good Morning, to the best four followers in the world. You guys motivate me man. After yesterday's events it's good to know that you are here. Helping me through. I'd truly be lost without you. Finally, I got a call to interview for a position I've waited nearly 13 years to be considered for. My day of reckoning had come. This interview was supposed to change my life , yet in a bizarre way it reminded me of how far I've actually come. The chick who called to ask me to interview for this life-changing position actually did me a favor. She told me to come in THE DAY AFTER she scheduled me for said interview. Of course, she can blame it on my incompetence. All those cute, perky-twenty-something'sin their trendy short skirts and high heels see an old, tired (certainly un-trendy) looking woman sitting in the waiting area to interview for an entry level job on the wrong day. Even though I would never have made this kind of mistake, I know how it looks. Pathetic. I feel pathetic. I wrote it down, I recorded the time, date, everything she told me to bring for the interview, I show it to the chick but of course it doesn't matter now. She won't even look me in the eye. She tells me the hiring manager has other interviews (understandable) and she might see me if she has time. "In the meantime you can fill out this paperwork and wait," she says. And I did wait. I sat and waited with my head down and back turned and filled out the paperwork. I just had a feeling the whole thing was a bust this morning when I thought I'd have time to take the twins to the library and be home with enough time to get them settled and get myself together. But when I brought them home, they didn't settle as quickly or quietly as I'd hoped. At that moment, I found myself excited for an opportunity to have another experience besides "mommy." I'd had enough of the tantrums and the crying and I needed a life outside of the boys or I would definitely lose it soon. When my suit didn't fit and I spent about five minutes crying at my image in the mirror, depleting the time I had in the bank, I should have seen it as an omen. When my nail polish started to peel, I should have left it alone, but I took up more time as I tried (horrendously unsuccessfully) to touch them up. Now my finger nails were covered in a globby mess of gun-metal blue, which matched my suit quite nicely, (before the peeling) if I may be so bold. Anyway, I did make it out of the house with a couple of minutes to spare. However, you'd think when I got to the subway platform and the doors shut in my face with the next one across the platform not taking any passengers that I would just call it quits and go home to play referee as I'd become accustomed to doing. Just give it up. But no, I kept it moving because I thought this was my moment of truth. Finally. But, when I got to the interview and security couldn't find me in the system, I recognized that I'd made a mistake. I didn't belong here. I wasn't wanted here. As I rode the elevator up to the 8th floor, I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and I just looked...WRONG. The gentleman at reception was so kind. He really did try to find me among the scheduled candidates. It was just not meant to be. He told me that he was filling in, the receptionist had gone home sick and that's probably why he was unable to find my information, but I should go ahead and start filling out the paperwork... And that brings us back to the beginning: The chick comes back out into the waiting area after the kind man at reception goes to find out if he can help me. I tell him before he goes, that everything happens for a reason, and he responds, "you could be right, it could have been an error on our part," and I love him. But he disappears and I don't see him again. She flatly tells me to continue filling out the paperwork, but the hiring manager will not be able to see me today. (I'm confident she DID SEE ME, but decides I'm not worth her time) but I should leave my application at the desk, and if the hiring manager has time she will reschedule an interview next week. "Thanks Renee," she gets up and walks away. I'll never forget the slant of her voice, her pock-marked, over-made-up face or the way she refused to look me in the eye, shake my hand or apologize for the inconvenience. We both know this is all her fault. I'm sure my friend knew it too. I start to fill out the paperwork, trying to save face. I know they won't call me, and I definitely don't want to work there. As I sit, writing away,keeping my back towards the voices that gather to check out the spectacle that is me. I hear a nasaly, high-pitched voice proclaim, "It's my turn." Ugggh....covering phones. I am so beyond that right now. I have done it far too long and longer than I should have. I am 40 years old, with a master's degree. This is the last time I get low-balled. Besides I have twins to provide for and I require a salary that can accommodate that. I don't need six figures, but I certainly won't accept what they are offering. I don't have the time or the luxury to settle and hope that something better will come along. Thirteen years is long enough. I've overpaid my dues. The irony is that even though I wouldn't get to interview here, it's the only interview I've actually prepared for. I didn't finish filling out the paperwork, instead I wrote them a little note, thanking them for wasting my time, alerting the hiring manager that I have a master's degree and that the Glass Door reviews were right; their salary is way below industry standard. Don't bother re-scheduling an interview. I knew they wouldn't but it gave me great satisfaction to advocate for myself like that. So. I handed my "paperwork" to the adorable, smiling young receptionist. "Do I need to...?" She asks still smiling. She knows very well what she does not need to do. I return her dumb smile, shake my head no. I leave the office, change into my converse, slip on my shades, and walk towards Madison Avenue in search of sushi. It's a beautiful day outside.

Rhetoric and Innuendo

I’m not a political pundit, talking head, sociology expert or even a celebrity whose opinion might carry weight on this particular issue. I am however, the mother of two young black boys and I think what I have to say is worth listening to. The United States government cannot currently function because of our inability to have an honest, open dialogue about race. The president is right: what happened in Ferguson, New York and now Cleveland and what continues to happen to poor communities of color in America is not a black problem; it’s an American problem. Until we can address the fundamental causes of racial inequality in this country: i.e. inadequate schooling, housing, social and economic injustice and perhaps most importantly the rate at which we are killing ourselves. Not only through direct violence but the way many of us allow ourselves to be heard. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, much to the chagrin of my own people-we must take responsibility for ourselves and our communities otherwise we are doomed as a race. That doesn’t have to be the case. It is quite possible that Michael Brown would be alive today had he not been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In a society that believes black men are predisposed to violence-(a prejudice helped beautifully along by urban culture these days) it is suicide for a young black boy to brandish toy guns. In the case of Erick Garner, we all saw that he did not cooperate with the officers and he was in fact resisting arrest. If he had cooperated, he would have been alive today. Unfortunately Akai Gurley was in the wrong place at the wrong time at his home in the projects, simply walking up a staircase-and he was shot in the chest by a rookie officer for it. Here’s my question, or maybe it’s more of a statement: black men are 21 times more likely to die at the hands of police. Why? Fear? Prejudice? If so, then anybody considering a job as a police officer must seriously consider his true feelings about the community he/she is sworn to protect-most likely they will be facing the people that you are fearful of, and as Giuliani said: it’s not racism, it’s statistics: cops are placed where there is the most crime. How would we react if the majority of police officers were stationed on Park Avenue and not in East New York or Harlem? There would be outrage if there were no cops where they were needed. So, a cop who has prejudices (and it’s nothing to be ashamed of-we all have them-it’s why the intelligent among us become educated, or participate in training-to dispel the ignorance that binds us) and holds the power of life and death in his hands is a dangerous person to have patrolling the streets of high crime areas. People will call Giuliani a racist but hear him out. He makes a valid point. Some of us don’t like to hear the truth, and that’s just as destructive to us as racism. When are we going to stop killing, selling drugs to one another, robbing and harming each other and then expect the same cops we vilify to serve and protect us? Can sensitivity training help? Is community policing the answer? Would an independent prosecutor taking these cases away from the grand jury really make a difference? Are more laws, bureaucracy, red-tape, press- conferences, civilian review boards, and proselytizing going to solve America’s race problem? Talk is cheap. One mother speaking at a Ferguson community meeting after the riots put it best; “we’re tired of rhetoric and innuendos.” She’s right, but this works both ways. What are we going to do about this? We’ve tried community policing- broken window theory approach to deterence-after school programs, etcetera, etcetera yet, here we are days, months, and years after Anthony Baez, Abner Louima, Amadou Diallo, Patrick Dorismond, Sean Bell, Trayvon Martin, and the list is as long as history. Young black and brown men are still dying at the hands of police. Anybody who is arrested has the right to a trial by their “peers.” They have a right to let the justice system run its course; to prove beyond a “reasonable doubt” the accused’s guilt or innocence. They have rights as human beings, as citizens of a country that prides itself on justice and equality whether it’s an officer accused of a crime, or someone who is arrested for allegedly committing one. We are a nation of laws and no person or institution should be above the law. However, the right to trial was taken away the moment the officers decided to take matters into their own hands, tragically and I assume unexpectedly killing the perpetrators of the crime they had been accused of. They assumed they were above the law and so far they are- all of the officers have been acquitted of any wrong doing. They continue to get away with it. Denis Hamill wrote about how important it is for the community of victims of these tragedies see the wheels of justice turn-however slowly. He stated that the outcomes in the cases of Abner Louima, Amadou Dialo, and Sean Bell-all similarly egregious crimes produced no rioting because the officers involved were tried in a court of law. The community felt as though their anger, frustrations and unanswered questions were addressed in a court of law where justice should prevail. There is dignity in that, regardless of the outcome, it lets victims and families know that their loved ones mattered. In the case of Ferguson, and now New York, questions were unanswered: I mean how is it the world could see that a man was telling the officer he could not breathe, yet that officer continued to choke the life out of him? Somebody should answer for that. As a mother, it is my responsibility to make sure aren’t ever in the wrong place at the wrong time-iI can’t guarantee it, but I have to try-especially if you live in a sundown state like Ferguson Missouri, or countless other southern states. I pray my boys will never, find themselves in such a situation –it’s my duty to prepare them, to teach them so that they know better; but if they do not, I will warn them that America is not as safe for them as it is for white boys and I will show them the evidence. If a 12 year old boy gunned down by the police for simply playing with a toy gun doesn’t put the fear of God into them, I don’t know what will. So far in New York the protests are peaceful, but in Ferguson we watched the city burn. Sadly, Ferguson is already plagued by racism-it was simply a matter of time before the bomb went off. I will never condone the willful destruction of property- especially property belonging to the very community burning it down-nor can I condone the violence that claims lives-black, white or other. It has not eradicated racism- it never will. We will never fix racial disparity until the system changes, until we address the fact that schools require adequate funding to keep young black men (and women) in school, increasing the likelihood that they will go on to college and earn decent salaries thereby eliminating the possibility they’ll get shot for participating in illegal enterprise. If they happen to be fortunate enough to be drafted by a professional sports organization without finishing their education, they will be educated and informed enough to not look foolish standing in front of cameras on national television, apologizing and begging for their jobs back because of they did something they never would have done if they had proper guidance or training. They wouldn’t be reliant on an organization that promotes and profits from the perceived innate savagery of black men. (Hello Ray and Janay Rice) My emotions are as scattered as this piece. My heart breaks for black men in this country-especially the most important negro in charge-Barack Obama, the half-white black man-(I always have to point that out so we can see just how deeply entrenched racism is in this country) who has fought and is still fighting to defy the angry black man stereotype that plagues black men who dare to achieve, or like him, do their jobs-but can’t because at the end of the day, all they really are to most of America are thugs, and criminals whose lives are meaningless. Blacks, especially black men should sit down, shut up or be put down. Isn’t that the desired outcome of censuring the President of the United States of America? Is it me, or a coincidence that in the latter days of Obama’s presidency we are seeing an increased amount of violence against young black men? I was never one for conspiracy theories but lately, they seem to make sense. Until we discuss race-honestly-then and only then (I’m thinking house and senate republicans -some democrats too-really need to sit in a room and air out why the just can’t seem to agree with the black man) can this country progress and live up to its ideal: one nation under God indivisible with Liberty and Justice for All. Only then can we heal and get to the important business of safeguarding this sacred republic. God Bless America. God bless us all.