In a matter of minutes, Troy Davis an inmate on death row, convicted in the 1991 killing of an off duty Savannah, Georgia police officer Mark MacPhail will be executed. The days leading up to the execution, have been fraught with campaigns championed by Congressmen and other elected officials, Nobel Prize winner, Desmond Tutu, and the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and other organizations. If the execution of Troy Davis is stayed, justice may not be served. Justice goes beyond the premise of innocence and guilt and granting clemency to one individual is not entirely justice.
The death or impending demise of another human should evoke some sense of empathy, however, when that human is dying because it is believed that they deserve to perish, empathy soon finds its way out of the window and the grim reaper is heralded. If Davis is executed today, it will be a victory for the family of MacPhail who have had to deal with the loss of a son, who was killed in the prime of his life; a young father at twenty seven. While the death of Davis will bring closure for one family stricken with grief, his own family will be torn by the loss of their son. Herein, there seems to be an equality of sorts because each family loses a son. The only difference is that one family was informed of the loss after it occurred and the other family has had time to ready themselves to mourn a son.
For others, the disparity is greater than timing. It is about a failed judicial system, racial inequality, and a system that thrives on subtle Jim Crow laws that we like to believe are a relic of the past. Deciding the case of Davis' innocence is almost as complex as deciphering ancient languages that have been lost. The entire case is steeped in witness testimonies that at first seemed unadulerated, then were recanted, evidence that was denied admission, positive admission by the defendant, witness testimony, and casings from the murder weapon that matched casings that were beieved to have been used in an earlier crime by the defendant.
The entire case is nothing short of a witches brew and it is only on this ground that the debate over the death penalty is justified. Capital punishment when deserving is appropriate. It might not deter, but it is the closest to justice that society is capable of devising. Besides, it is in line with the Levitical philosophy of an "eye for an eye." Hence, when heinous crimes do happen, the last thing society should do is turn the other cheek. Turning the other cheek is the antithesis of civilized society although champions of human rights might argue that the death penalty is.
Whatever side of the debate anyone chooses, one thing is clear, that Davis was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Although a mere four hours away from Atlanta, the city of Savannah is a case study in poverty among African Americans. The majestic weeping willows and restored mansions on Abercorn street- with outhouses that are a reminder of the south's slave ridden past- contrast sharply with the poverty in neighborhoods only a few miles away where the sound of gun shots and periled cries are a constant. The sound of periled cries are cries that Davis is famiiar with, cries that prosecutors believe he sometimes evoked on occasion and perhaps in the murder of MacPhail. It might be argued that Davis is a victim of circumstance and so society needs to pardon him and heed his plea for a second chance.
As much as I do not want to see an innocent man suffer for a crime he did not commit, cases like this are an occasion to examine our communities. Why was Davis a high school drop out and dilatory worker in possession of an unregistered weapon? Why didn't the Davis family have access to state assistance for their disabled child, requiring Davis to drop out of high school to provide assistance for his family? Where was the male figure in the Davis family at the time of the murder?
Thus, while the evidence is controverted and there is clear proof that justice did not proceed as it should, we need to put the blame on Davis first. If Davis was known to his community as a third grade teacher and not as a derelict he would not be mentioned in this case. Davis is like countless others who make bad choices and then appeal to society when the consequeces of their action are brought to bare. Poverty surely is a crutch, but is never an excuse for irresponsibility. So, while I cannot speak on behalf of Davis' innocence because I am unsure of it, I can make the appeal that the legal system is proceeding on faulty footing and this alone should be reexamined.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
35 before 35
I was sorely afraid to write this post. Not because I mind sharing some of my goals, but rather I was afraid I had lost the touch and forgotten how to write. I have not blogged in six months for several reasons and I forgot how good and quite cathartic putting ink to paper feels symbolically.
This blog post was inspired by my sister, Wally, who wrote a list of thirty things she plans to do before turning thirty. Without giving too much away, setting thirty as a goal might seem over zealous in my case, so I went with the nearest milestone age, thirty five.
I have always been good at making mental lists and checking things off once I got them done. However, a lot can be said about writing things down on paper. Mental notes are soon forgotten and there's a certain permanence that comes with the written word. I remember at the age of seventeen I scribbled the words "I owe myself a college degreee" in a journal I owned. For some reason, I feared I would not get one. I don't know why, but that nagging fear was there. Now, working on my third degree, I stumbled across that old journal and I read about the fears I had then and realized that writing out my thoughts and ending on the note that I would get a college degree helped put a lot in perspective.
So here goes some from my bucket list:
3. Graduate from Law School
5. Visit all the continents I haven't been to yet
11. Learn to swim
12. Pay for the groceries of everyone in a long line in front of me at the grocery store
15. Become a certified scuba diver
17. Run a half marathon
19. Attend every tennis grand slam tournament
20. World Cup
21. Own a boxer named Denver
22. Give back significantly to my alma mater
23. Force my parents into early retirement
25. Vacation for a whole month
27. Attend Fashion Week in New York, London, Paris, and Milan
28. Be part of the solution to alleviating global poverty
34. Learn to bake a "bad" red velvet cake
35. Learn contentment in everything
I think this is a good place to start.
This blog post was inspired by my sister, Wally, who wrote a list of thirty things she plans to do before turning thirty. Without giving too much away, setting thirty as a goal might seem over zealous in my case, so I went with the nearest milestone age, thirty five.
I have always been good at making mental lists and checking things off once I got them done. However, a lot can be said about writing things down on paper. Mental notes are soon forgotten and there's a certain permanence that comes with the written word. I remember at the age of seventeen I scribbled the words "I owe myself a college degreee" in a journal I owned. For some reason, I feared I would not get one. I don't know why, but that nagging fear was there. Now, working on my third degree, I stumbled across that old journal and I read about the fears I had then and realized that writing out my thoughts and ending on the note that I would get a college degree helped put a lot in perspective.
So here goes some from my bucket list:
3. Graduate from Law School
5. Visit all the continents I haven't been to yet
11. Learn to swim
12. Pay for the groceries of everyone in a long line in front of me at the grocery store
15. Become a certified scuba diver
17. Run a half marathon
19. Attend every tennis grand slam tournament
20. World Cup
21. Own a boxer named Denver
22. Give back significantly to my alma mater
23. Force my parents into early retirement
25. Vacation for a whole month
27. Attend Fashion Week in New York, London, Paris, and Milan
28. Be part of the solution to alleviating global poverty
34. Learn to bake a "bad" red velvet cake
35. Learn contentment in everything
I think this is a good place to start.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
#blackhistorymonth
Today marks the 35th anniversary of the celebration of Black History Month, also commonly referred to as African-American History Month. What began in 1926 by Carter G. Woodson as Negro History Month is now celebrated in February to commemorate and highlight the accomplishments of Africans in the diaspora. So, from February first until the last day in the month it will not be uncommon to see events that are directed and sponsored to help celebrate these achievements. Anyone who is tuned in to popular culture might have heard a comic or two question why the shortest calendar month was chosen. Why not January, July, October, or December? Those months have thirty-one days and do not suffer the effect of leap years they jest. While comics banter light heartedly, critics have weighed in and suggested that if black history truly is Amerian history then it need not be celebrated. To that I say it needs to be celebrated for the same reason that while Barack Obama is America's president he is Black America's president too.
This Sunday as I sat in church and watched a group of ladies dance I was moved. I was elevated because more than all art forms, dance is such a pure expression of freedom. I worship at a predominantly black church because I prefer the culture of the black church. So, for almost five minutes, I watched the women move gracefully, many of them in their late fifties and sixties. I desired that I would have such agility in my old age, but more than that the fluidity of their movements, leaps, and pirouettes, were a reminder of a much greater freedom. That from slavery and that to me was worth leaping for. The United States of America respected and granted its inhabitants the right to worship freely but still endorsed slavery for seventy six more years. When African-Americans praise God and leap and jump and shout out in the aisles, it is a testament to freedom, freedom of worship and freedom from slavery.
Undeniably, there is a need for Black History Month just like there will always be a need to never forget the day Barack Obama was sworn in as President. The need to remember Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Langston Hughes, Madame C.J. Walker, Marcus Garvey, Harriet Tubman, Condoleeza Rice, Oprah Winfrey, Johnson H. Johnson, Billie Holiday, Michael Jordan, Colin Powell amongst others will always persist. But as much as Black History Month is a reminder of accomplishments, it should also be a call to responsiblity and a time for deep reflection and to ask the all important question of what we are doing with our freedom. We did not become free to shake our behinds on national television, invest our money in consumer goods while our net worth suffers or lead the nation in new cases of HIV infections. We are better than that. We are a huge market and our presence should be felt not just only in the cash registers of department stores but in the halls of the Ivy Leagues, in government, in the film industry, technology and everywhere else there is a name to be made in the pursuit of something positive. But while we work towards that, Black History Month is and will always be celebrated in February.
This Sunday as I sat in church and watched a group of ladies dance I was moved. I was elevated because more than all art forms, dance is such a pure expression of freedom. I worship at a predominantly black church because I prefer the culture of the black church. So, for almost five minutes, I watched the women move gracefully, many of them in their late fifties and sixties. I desired that I would have such agility in my old age, but more than that the fluidity of their movements, leaps, and pirouettes, were a reminder of a much greater freedom. That from slavery and that to me was worth leaping for. The United States of America respected and granted its inhabitants the right to worship freely but still endorsed slavery for seventy six more years. When African-Americans praise God and leap and jump and shout out in the aisles, it is a testament to freedom, freedom of worship and freedom from slavery.
Undeniably, there is a need for Black History Month just like there will always be a need to never forget the day Barack Obama was sworn in as President. The need to remember Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Langston Hughes, Madame C.J. Walker, Marcus Garvey, Harriet Tubman, Condoleeza Rice, Oprah Winfrey, Johnson H. Johnson, Billie Holiday, Michael Jordan, Colin Powell amongst others will always persist. But as much as Black History Month is a reminder of accomplishments, it should also be a call to responsiblity and a time for deep reflection and to ask the all important question of what we are doing with our freedom. We did not become free to shake our behinds on national television, invest our money in consumer goods while our net worth suffers or lead the nation in new cases of HIV infections. We are better than that. We are a huge market and our presence should be felt not just only in the cash registers of department stores but in the halls of the Ivy Leagues, in government, in the film industry, technology and everywhere else there is a name to be made in the pursuit of something positive. But while we work towards that, Black History Month is and will always be celebrated in February.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Where Did All the Time Go?
I am unashamedly addicted to the internet. I do have a knack for being able to find almost anything on the internet. So if you're trying to hide something from me, you'd be unwise to dig a big virtual hole to stash that something away because I will find it. I spend a lot of my time reading the news, but the news is so varied today and gossip counts as news, hence I read a lot of gossip blogs. Interestingly, I bet I could tell you what Kanye West had for lunch on January 15. But then again the internet is so full of verbal vomit that if I know what Mr. West had for lunch, it's only because he told me on Twitter.
I've found great things on the internet and met people on the internet. No I do not have a membership on eharmony or one of those sites, but I have made some great contacts.
Frequently, I'm asked by people how I am able to find so much on the internet. To that question, I sometimes have not had the model response, I do not think there is one. But after being proded, I am going to share some sites that I have grown to love on this thing called the internet and will be interested in knowing what some of my readers enjoy.
1. Apartment Therapy
2. Facebook
3. Southern Weddings
4. Karla's Closet
5. The New York Times
6. The Sartorialist
7. The Young, Black, and Fabulous
8. Twitter
9. Bleed for Fashion
10. Gentlemen's Quarterly
11. Lonely Planet
12. NPR
13. The Harriet Project
14. New York Magazine
15. LexisNexis
I've found great things on the internet and met people on the internet. No I do not have a membership on eharmony or one of those sites, but I have made some great contacts.
Frequently, I'm asked by people how I am able to find so much on the internet. To that question, I sometimes have not had the model response, I do not think there is one. But after being proded, I am going to share some sites that I have grown to love on this thing called the internet and will be interested in knowing what some of my readers enjoy.
1. Apartment Therapy
2. Facebook
3. Southern Weddings
4. Karla's Closet
5. The New York Times
6. The Sartorialist
7. The Young, Black, and Fabulous
8. Twitter
9. Bleed for Fashion
10. Gentlemen's Quarterly
11. Lonely Planet
12. NPR
13. The Harriet Project
14. New York Magazine
15. LexisNexis
Monday, January 17, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Happy New Year!
It's already the sixth day in 2011. I am truly thrilled to be alive because it's going to be an even better year than 2010. I've been working on a mental bucket list and here are ten things off that list that I must do in 2011. My list is actually a lot longer though.
1. Learn how to swim, so I can learn to scuba dive.
2. Take a road trip out west {Utah, Montana, Colorado, New Mexico}
3. Meet MO :)
4. Attend The White House Project's Annual Convention, Passion 2011 in Forth Worth, SXSW?, Essence Music Festival, HBS Africa Business Conference, and a food festival of some sort.
5. Write more short stories.
6. Write more short stories.
7. Give to a different charity every month {I already gave to Partners in Health for January; you should give to them too and support the work they do}.
8. Be a better friend, sister, daughter, grandchild, student, cousin, and aunty {even though my nephew is a sometimes monster, lol}.
9. Invest in a lot more items that have resale value.
10. Read more books. I find reading makes me a better writer and I live to write amongst other things.
Bonus: Cook more than I did in 2010 and make sure there's some good red wine on hand.
1. Learn how to swim, so I can learn to scuba dive.
2. Take a road trip out west {Utah, Montana, Colorado, New Mexico}
3. Meet MO :)
4. Attend The White House Project's Annual Convention, Passion 2011 in Forth Worth, SXSW?, Essence Music Festival, HBS Africa Business Conference, and a food festival of some sort.
5. Write more short stories.
6. Write more short stories.
7. Give to a different charity every month {I already gave to Partners in Health for January; you should give to them too and support the work they do}.
8. Be a better friend, sister, daughter, grandchild, student, cousin, and aunty {even though my nephew is a sometimes monster, lol}.
9. Invest in a lot more items that have resale value.
10. Read more books. I find reading makes me a better writer and I live to write amongst other things.
Bonus: Cook more than I did in 2010 and make sure there's some good red wine on hand.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
A Work in Progress
Below is an excerpt from a story I began working on in the summer of 2009 [sigh], however, I plan to add more to it over winter break. Right now, it is quite wordy and not devoid of errors in both syntax and grammar. So go easy on it and on me. Thanks.
There is only one way to get back home. Take the bridge down Ahmadu Bello Road over the Kaduna River down to Barnawa. It was always Barnawa until the riot turned it into New Jerusalem with the Christians on one side and the Muslims on the other.
It was almost dusk. The call for prayers went out as the flock began to return home. They understood the call and poured into the compound in single file. The older rams rubbed their sides against the wall as they entered while the lambs frisked around. Mallam Umaru rolled lazily on his bed. He had been in the same position since he finished his dinner. Dinner was tuwo, a corn meal staple and soup made from okra. The soup was very thin so that the okra lay in clumps at the bottom of the bowl while a whitish liquid floated on top. There were two chunks of meat in the soup.
Actually, the chunks weren’t really meat. They were bones the butcher saved for people who could not afford to purchase meat. The bones were typically filled with thick yellow marrow that oozed out and hung limply by a thread-like film.
The bones were kept in a bucket covered with swarms of bluish green flies. The flies were usually loud and the butcher often had to yell above the sound of their annoying chorus. His yelling coupled with the rhythmic slamming of his knife made him look sinister. He never gave a bone away. He sold every part of the cows he purchased. The testicles too, every part had some value.
Last week, Mallam Umaru had to severely whip his youngest son Yahaya. Yahaya had toppled the pot of soup as he tried to gnaw off some of the meat on the bone. The crashing of the pot to the ground woke the entire house. Mallam Umaru unleashed his wrath on the young boy, letting the horsetail whip inflict stripes. He couldn’t decide on what to be angry about, the fact that his son had tried to eat the meat off the bones or that there would be no dinner the next day.
Finally, he planted his feet on the floor rubbed his eyes and then smoothed the fuzz on his head. He let his fingers linger much longer in the middle, circling his bald spot slowly as he fixed his gaze on the door. His eyes dropped down to his prayer mat and then he looked at the corner of the room where his golden kettle was nestled with several plastic kettles. He heard the call again and finally pulled his weight off the bed.
As he opened the door to exit the house, the rams stood up and walked away from under the awning giving him room to make his path. He walked hastily towards the gate his long robes fluttering softly in the wind. As he walked down the road he thought about Salamatu. She had been with him the previous night and would be back tonight. As the thought of the previous night crossed his mind a smile formed on his face. He didn’t see the young man on the bicycle and he didn’t have the time to jump out of the bicycle’s path. The bicycle was old and rusty. The brakes would have been useless even if the driver applied them.
Mallam Umaru felt the left handle bar plow into his sides and then he was knocked off balance. His kettle lodged itself by the front tire of the bicycle and his mat lay a few feet away on the ground. As soon as he landed on his bottom an orange fell into his lap. A few minutes ago, the orange had been sitting in a carefully arranged pattern with others on a metal tray balanced on the head of the bicyclist.
The young bicyclist began to curse at him for not looking out. Mallam Umaru rubbed his head again this time, but he did not let his fingers linger on his bald spot. He ran them down quickly and let his hand slide past his belly button all the way down. The cursing grew louder and a small crowd started to form.
“Dan Iska” the boy yelled, “Open your eyes old man and look where you are going.” He continued.
“If you’re too hungry to keep your eyes open for long then pray in your bedroom.” He said, his voice rising higher.
Mallam Umaru looked up, trying to find a sympathetic face among the crowd of strangers. A younger man in glasses with his prayer mat slung over his shoulder stepped forward and offered to pay the boy for the oranges. The boy stated an inflated price and stuck his hand out defiantly, a look of anger on his face. The bespectacled gentleman put a wad of notes in his hand and begged him to forgive the old man.
Mallam Umaru sat in bitter silence, wallowing in the shame of the whole incidence. He was grateful for his long robe that ran to his feet. It masked the telltale signs of his thoughts just before the accident. With the help of another gentleman he propped himself up and thanked the bespectacled gentleman. The gentleman pressed some money into his hands and told him to praise Allah he was okay.
A young boy blind in one eye with unshorn hair handed him his kettle and mat and asked if he was okay. The boy lingered for a few minutes starring at the crumpled notes in Mallam Umaru’s hands. The boy had already filled his enamel bowl with the dust-covered oranges he gleaned off the floor and through his good eye he looked intently at Mallam Umaru, expecting a note or two. As he gazed, he raised his hand quickly to smack a fly that had perched itself on the thick mucus that ran from his nose. Grateful for the distraction, Mallam Umaru thanked the onlookers, mumbled an apology to the young bicyclist and continued on his way to the mosque.
There is only one way to get back home. Take the bridge down Ahmadu Bello Road over the Kaduna River down to Barnawa. It was always Barnawa until the riot turned it into New Jerusalem with the Christians on one side and the Muslims on the other.
It was almost dusk. The call for prayers went out as the flock began to return home. They understood the call and poured into the compound in single file. The older rams rubbed their sides against the wall as they entered while the lambs frisked around. Mallam Umaru rolled lazily on his bed. He had been in the same position since he finished his dinner. Dinner was tuwo, a corn meal staple and soup made from okra. The soup was very thin so that the okra lay in clumps at the bottom of the bowl while a whitish liquid floated on top. There were two chunks of meat in the soup.
Actually, the chunks weren’t really meat. They were bones the butcher saved for people who could not afford to purchase meat. The bones were typically filled with thick yellow marrow that oozed out and hung limply by a thread-like film.
The bones were kept in a bucket covered with swarms of bluish green flies. The flies were usually loud and the butcher often had to yell above the sound of their annoying chorus. His yelling coupled with the rhythmic slamming of his knife made him look sinister. He never gave a bone away. He sold every part of the cows he purchased. The testicles too, every part had some value.
Last week, Mallam Umaru had to severely whip his youngest son Yahaya. Yahaya had toppled the pot of soup as he tried to gnaw off some of the meat on the bone. The crashing of the pot to the ground woke the entire house. Mallam Umaru unleashed his wrath on the young boy, letting the horsetail whip inflict stripes. He couldn’t decide on what to be angry about, the fact that his son had tried to eat the meat off the bones or that there would be no dinner the next day.
Finally, he planted his feet on the floor rubbed his eyes and then smoothed the fuzz on his head. He let his fingers linger much longer in the middle, circling his bald spot slowly as he fixed his gaze on the door. His eyes dropped down to his prayer mat and then he looked at the corner of the room where his golden kettle was nestled with several plastic kettles. He heard the call again and finally pulled his weight off the bed.
As he opened the door to exit the house, the rams stood up and walked away from under the awning giving him room to make his path. He walked hastily towards the gate his long robes fluttering softly in the wind. As he walked down the road he thought about Salamatu. She had been with him the previous night and would be back tonight. As the thought of the previous night crossed his mind a smile formed on his face. He didn’t see the young man on the bicycle and he didn’t have the time to jump out of the bicycle’s path. The bicycle was old and rusty. The brakes would have been useless even if the driver applied them.
Mallam Umaru felt the left handle bar plow into his sides and then he was knocked off balance. His kettle lodged itself by the front tire of the bicycle and his mat lay a few feet away on the ground. As soon as he landed on his bottom an orange fell into his lap. A few minutes ago, the orange had been sitting in a carefully arranged pattern with others on a metal tray balanced on the head of the bicyclist.
The young bicyclist began to curse at him for not looking out. Mallam Umaru rubbed his head again this time, but he did not let his fingers linger on his bald spot. He ran them down quickly and let his hand slide past his belly button all the way down. The cursing grew louder and a small crowd started to form.
“Dan Iska” the boy yelled, “Open your eyes old man and look where you are going.” He continued.
“If you’re too hungry to keep your eyes open for long then pray in your bedroom.” He said, his voice rising higher.
Mallam Umaru looked up, trying to find a sympathetic face among the crowd of strangers. A younger man in glasses with his prayer mat slung over his shoulder stepped forward and offered to pay the boy for the oranges. The boy stated an inflated price and stuck his hand out defiantly, a look of anger on his face. The bespectacled gentleman put a wad of notes in his hand and begged him to forgive the old man.
Mallam Umaru sat in bitter silence, wallowing in the shame of the whole incidence. He was grateful for his long robe that ran to his feet. It masked the telltale signs of his thoughts just before the accident. With the help of another gentleman he propped himself up and thanked the bespectacled gentleman. The gentleman pressed some money into his hands and told him to praise Allah he was okay.
A young boy blind in one eye with unshorn hair handed him his kettle and mat and asked if he was okay. The boy lingered for a few minutes starring at the crumpled notes in Mallam Umaru’s hands. The boy had already filled his enamel bowl with the dust-covered oranges he gleaned off the floor and through his good eye he looked intently at Mallam Umaru, expecting a note or two. As he gazed, he raised his hand quickly to smack a fly that had perched itself on the thick mucus that ran from his nose. Grateful for the distraction, Mallam Umaru thanked the onlookers, mumbled an apology to the young bicyclist and continued on his way to the mosque.
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