Gladine Rosetta Hill Wilson (then,
crazily, Wilson again) Parrish would have been perhaps 83 on March 10.
“Perhaps” because she finagled her age to the point that some of her
sisters believed she was younger than she was when she died.
Watching the Oscars Sunday night was fun
and fanciful because there’s nothing like watching wealthy, accomplished
white people “acting” racially guilty when they’re really quite
comfortable in their homogeneous groupings.
Ten-million-dollar baby and NBC newsman
Brian Williams is guilty. He knows better than to insert himself right
smack dab in the middle of the news he’s witnessed or reported directly,
and because he did, he resorted to lying about them and himself.
There is this joke among black people —
remember first that humor about cultural diminishment ain’t funny and
not all blacks know one another — that says Black History Month is in
February because it’s the shortest month of the year.
I would not trade the liberation of
working for myself — of coming up with ideas and translating them into
paid words, or teaching at the University of Cincinnati or working with
Northside teenagers — for stacks of cash at a more reliable, albeit
mind-numbing, soul-sucking job.
The holidays aren’t complete without the
macabre sight of our neediest brothers and sisters lined up all over
town in inclement weather waiting for handouts — boxes of food, a
turkey, clothing, maybe a voucher or two for free furniture.