THE CHANGE HAS COME... By William Fredrick Cooper

THE CHANGE HAS COME…
By William Fredrick Cooper
Dated: December 4th, 2008

In celebration of our newly elected commander-in-chief, a tremendous sense of humility surged through me as I composed my ‘I Am A Black Man In America’ blog. Recalling the many exhibitions of faith, courage and perseverance of our forefathers, my only hope was that the post allowed readers to fully comprehend the depth of the struggle from the African-American male perspective. Venturing to unprecedented heights with the election of Barack Obama, with the uncharted progress came a final look at the resiliency of our past.

Little did I know that my heartfelt missive would serve another purpose, as it became my Statement of purpose submission in connection with possible participation at the 10th annual State Of The Black of Union. While inclusion with the brightest intellectual and business luminaries of my time would be a tremendous, life-altering opportunity, the significance of the moment would be second in precedence to a humble pebble of contribution in the ocean of Black Unity.

In discussion of ‘I Am A Black Man In America’, my only hope is that my brothers lacking confidence in themselves may be uplifted. While visiting 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue these days provides an excellent blueprint for progress, fundamentally speaking, we need more examples of evolution, and simply cannot depend on that accomplishment alone. Brothers need to unite in love of their queens, become better fathers and spouses, and provide shining examples to troubled youth wearing their paints below their waists. While cognizant that Barack Obama will present a chic portrayal of ‘cool’, the definition of such change in many mindsets must be uprooted, redefined, and replanted in positive soil.

While expecting change from our next president in terms of the many ills stateside, Barack Obama expects us to give him aid as well. Further exploration into the depths of his mission shows it’s not asking very much of us men. A change must come in the image of a Black Man In America, and it must start with us looking in the mirror. Then after a ‘check-up from the neck up’ with regards to accountability, we must embrace change within our communities by showing love. Love to our women, so we can alter a negative perception destroying any hopes of emotional harmony from the start. Love to our children by being around them long enough to grow boys to men. Love to ourselves by substituting guns and other forms of violence for hugs and hand pounds.

Brothers today in America can do that if we try. All it takes is a little selflessness, and a lot of love. That’s how we persevered through grinding times of our past, and hopefully, how we’ll progress for a better tomorrow.

It starts with a confident declaration. Remembering our past as we move into a better future, we should say proudly: ‘I Am A Black Man In America’. Remembering our origins defines our past, present and future.

Then, and only then, will the change come.

COMING TOGETHER, ONE WEEK LATER...

COMING TOGETHER, ONE WEEK LATER...
By William Fredrick Cooper
(Inspired by The Beatles ‘Come Together’)
Written: November 12, 2008

A week later, and the instant of shock felt still remains. The earth still trembling as millions are still weeping and sharing euphoric ‘My God’ shrieks, the celebration commencing the arrival of a prince born from imagination and hope continues. Seven days after making an ordinary Election Day anything but, a brand new hum along and dance revelry make us sing our blues away. Somehow, the sobering road ahead, while filled with problematic war-driven potholes and hazardous economic hills to climb, challenges that are the greatest of our and any lifetime, seems as simple to route as the complicated completion of a complex jigsaw puzzle.

If we come together, the President-elect says, we can overcome. And I believe him.

Seven days after echoing Kevin Garnett’s ‘Anything Is Possible’ championship scream from Boston and redefining a global landscape in the process, his humble words about us, not him, have a country in confusion praying for a solution that start, not come, from him. A savior Barack Obama is not: Some guy named “W” left a stench so strong at the 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue residence that even the greatest of air fresheners cannot fumigate completely after four years along with a mandated, project building roach bombing with Raid while we’re all at the movies job that may last….um… forever. (You’ll get that when you get home tonight.) Inheriting an avalanche of problems from an administration constructed in asininity, our next president boldly asks us to put our arms around the chaos and embrace the dilemmas with sacrifice and pain from the get-go. Coming together with the cognizance that a tip-toe through the tulips cannot be done, there is a need to follow the lead of a man with a cool confidence and calculated composure of a man not unlike a Sergio Leone character in one of those spaghetti westerns portrayed by Clint Eastwood.

We’ll see the Good, the Bad and the Ugly while stitching together a country going off in many directions, but if we come together…

The Audacity of How might scare us, but behind him we stand sans the fear to fail. While media skeptics demand immediacy in terms of solutions (hell, was watching a CNN reporter the day after the elections now holding him accountable for another president’s mess. Shaking my head in bewilderment, a grin creased my lips as I simultaneously recalled how Black Men have to always, always be twice as great, and the brilliantly flawless campaign Barack ran with the queen Michelle building him up every chance she got behind the scenes.) all the while holding him to a more critical standard because he’s the first of his kind, the victory under enormous pressure acquired last week with a remarkable coolness punches me in the gut whenever a negative thought begin formation.

Nothing is beyond reach, the blow declares, if a country comes together.

A week later, the voice of victory remains the same. From the mouth of Obama to my ears, the road ahead will be arduous, tough to comprehend at times. His eloquence through speech may endanger me to a deep let-down in action, but the microwave immediacy must be quelled by an understanding patience that bridges constructed in valleys so deep take time to construct. Encouraging signs of aid coming from all over the world, many see that our country needs its nerves settled as we reconfigure a sense of deliverance from its present gloomy state. That alone serves as a benefit.

The detriments are many: Racism not unlike what David Dinkins, a New York Mayor experienced when being called a ‘washroom attendant’, terrorists thinking they can get over like fat rats, and cynical people scarred by the stars and stripes in the land of the free, weary of a negative past and wary of what the future may hold. Islamic terrorists, casting him as another infidel, hover while threatening with more planes, trains, or something into buildings. With each passing day in decline, Wall Street cries out for reassurance.

Leaving our next President no time to rest on his laurels, like him , I take a deep breath and, with a shovel he hands me, dig into the malarkey, knowing that despite all, we’ll be okay if we come together. Fifty-four million people have already, I tell myself as I shovel with Joe Biden, Michelle and others in an effort to find cohesive transparency and unity amongst all Americans. But again my thoughts go back one week, to my moment of change. That magical, memorable moment in time gives me a clue.

At Harlem’s First Corinthian Baptist Church, at almost 11:00 PM, the Praise Team was singing “God, You Are My God…”, a joy unlike no other erupted when the ‘CNN Breaking News’ projection came up. Looking around the place, all I could see is relief, happiness and a emotional euphoria that resulted in about twenty embraces from strangers during my nine-block walk to 125th Street. Hope running anew once more, I received the feeling that many have adopted Malcolm’s ‘By Any Means Necessary’ mantra in an effort to make wrong right, and that a honeymoon with a Chief Executive doing all that he can muster to make America right has full and total support of many that are simply ‘sick and tired of being sick and tired’.

Singing a back- in –day melody from the Beatles, people came together on November 4th, 2008.

What makes you think they still won’t do so after January 20th, 2009?

I AM A BLACK MAN IN AMERICA...

I AM A BLACK MAN IN AMERICA
by William Fredrick Cooper
Written November 5th, 2008

Sometimes I’m up, then too again, I’m down
Sometimes, I’m almost, leveled to the ground,
Lord, I’m tired of being lied on, tired of being stripped and scorned,
How long, will it be?

-Taken from “Tell Me How Long…”

Stripping me of my origins, removing me from my warm climate and the harmony of ancestral bliss, you brought me here, against my wishes. Sometimes in my own vomit and feces but always, always in shackles and chains, many of my brothers never completed this cruel journey, for some were fed to sharks or impaled by long, rusty nails on a wooden bed I never asked to lay my head on.

But God never allowed you to kill my soul, even when forced to live as a Black Man in America.

Working from dawn till dusk upon my arrival, all the while enduring inhumane, harsh realities, you tried to break me. Feeding my brain with illiteracy, incompetency, insecurity and inadequacy, even a glimpse of my inherited strength was cause for confinement in corn cribs and tool sheds, the branding of my skin, or my tongue being slit in two. Worse yet, the savage stripes of 39 lashes on my back at a public flogging, to teach others who looked like me “a lesson.” Alternatively toiling in extreme heat and bone-freezing cold, in plantation fields for your prosperity, or in your house serving your ego, you just loved being called “Massa.” My mouth said such, but the raging fire in my soul was quelled by a voice from Above. Pouring an unspoken truth into me, more of Him became all of me. While I lay bloodied, battered and bruised, it was only through His will that a faint whisper was heard.

You’ll never break my spirit, even as I try to survive as a Black Man in America.

Using me as a mule and a breeder, then separating me from my family while treating me like a leper, I watched in silent horror as you, your family members and owner friends raped the most treasured part of my existence, my queen. Imposing your racism and thrusting your hatred for me within her core, my anger bordered on unspeakable fury as children looking like you were produced.

Lord, please forgive my oppressors, for they know not what they are doing, I cried out with compassion.

Psychologically castrated, emasculated and humiliated, but never devastated, if I were caught trying to escape the insane asylum you called a normal life, you chopped a foot off. However in most cases I stayed and endured your darkness. Seeing the progress for my people as well as stories of faith to share with other brothers in a lurch, God filled my body with the resolve and spirit of Paul when writing that second letter to the Corinthians.

You threw me down, but a Black Man in America will not be destroyed.

After slavery, any time I spoke of equal treatment, you threatened my life and those I loved, then audaciously said with a straight face that it was for my own protection. Foolishly, I sought your approval by heroically fighting in wars emanated from your dissension. Alas, even when representing your country, you were wedded to the notion that I was dishonest, cowardly and inferior. Yet you still needed my assistance for your cause. Loyal, even while segregated in battle, foreigners told me constantly, “This is not your war”, while slaughtering my body with bullets and bayonets. Returning home to your hypocrisy in democracy not as a conquering hero recognized for his bravery and valor, but to continued separatism and unwelcome pariah status, even in uniform, I was maimed and shot at by mobs and local authorities.

Winning Olympics medals for you to discourage Hitler, in your eyes I remained an animal when racing horses just to survive. Knocking out heavyweight hopes in boxing matches to disprove Aryan supremacy, my courage was rewarded with mountainous tax debts despite my generous donations to your military might. Bravely, I spoke up for my family and community, and you burned my churches down. Nary a truth could be voiced against your madness, or the ultimate penalty was suffered. With glee coming from hooded eyes I never saw, somehow I recognized the letters KKK as you fractured my skull, knocked my eyeballs out with sticks, chopped off digits from hands, pulled raw flesh from me, and then mercifully, burned me alive or strung me up on trees. A lynching was a relief to me, for I was going home to a God who stilled loved me.

You tortured and killed the body, but the soul and spirit of a Black Man in America always lives.

With a courage and resolve you find implausible, indestructible and incomprehensible to this day, selflessly, I soldiered on. Innately knowing the risks for the progression, power and peace of millions to follow and fortified with the faith of my Father, still I must endure. That was the reward, I told myself, even when hoses full blast from hating crows named Jim drenched my hope; vicious attacks from dogs ate away at my resolve; milk and paint tossed in my face stained my dreams for better days; and the assassinations of those who believed in change left me weary and wary. Sometimes the way was dark at night, and the load hard to bear, but if I could just lean on a savior named Jesus who was always there and never let my faith waver, I knew everything would be alright.

Even in the deepest valleys, a Black Man in America always sees the top of the mountain.

And today, a Black Man in America, in spite of all obstacles, and with the aid of a helpmate who in her own strength understands that it’s not about competing against each other, but complementing one another while putting God first, will always reach the summit. Even if I endure racial slurs when crossing color lines and ‘Dear Nigger love letters’ when breaking home run records; even when dealing with brothers who aren’t completely down with the struggle; (You know them very well in past and present. Take a bow, Anti-Affirmative Action Activist masquerading as a Supreme Court Justice. A round of applause for all infiltrators of the 1960’s revolutionary movement as per the directive of a cross-dressing racist. Or those in the 21st Century real time polluting our neighborhoods with guns and drugs.) even when saying “I’m sorry” and “I still love you, my queen” with humility to some our own women still angry at our imperfections and waiting to exhale in love; even as I struggle to bridge an emotional chasm built on waters of resentment by becoming a better father to my sons and daughters; even when breaking traditional stereotypes by putting my emotions on public display in an effort to show a masculine completeness never understood; and most importantly, with help from My heavenly father, I, William Fredrick Cooper, a Black Man in America, will always stand tall.

And today, because of our patience, persistence and perseverance for the sake of change, God has given us a blessing. After years of trials and tribulation, there is finally triumph. At 11:00 PM on Tuesday November 4th, 2008, a Black Man in America, Barack Obama became the 44th President of the United States.

“They can keep the 40 acres… A Black Man in America has the keys to the White House!!!!”

A CHANGE IS GONNA COME…TOMORROW!

By William Fredrick Cooper

(Inspired By ‘A Change Is Gonna Come by Sam Cooke)

Written November 3rd, 2008

We were born by rivers and oceans in the motherland, in tents and huts of harmony, and had our culture stripped from us as shackles and chains brought us here. Running ever since, searching for something, grasping at anything to make dark skies of racism blue with unbiased love, through negro hymns we were brave when begging for better days that almost always never came. Hoping for a glimpse of respect and receiving none, somehow my ancestors knew, despite the pain endured in ways a modern day generation forged on sense of entitlement could not possibly fathom, that the persecution would lead to progress.

They knew a change was gonna come.

Oh, I wonder what Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass and W.E.B. Dubois are thinking right about now. Watching Barack Obama near the end of a grueling 21-month odyssey that started with a ‘Barack who?’ and now rests at the brink of what they lived and died for, I look to the heavens at my brothers and sisters. If it rains Tuesday, their tears of joy will heal so many wounds. Knowing the rest of the world will embrace a less fearful, more open society and that our kids will finally see black and white kids rejoicing because prejudice is a non-factor for the first time ever, somehow they knew what Sam Cooke would sing many years later.

A change was gonna come.

Martin, Medgar and Malcolm, none of them afraid to face the bullets from assassin’s rifles after being told “Don’t Hang Around” merely because of skin pigmentation and knowing that love awaited their return to the sky, want to measure the drapes of victory so bad, but are strongly suggested to wait until the final votes are counted, and the finish line crossed by our bronze-colored First Family. Coretta Scott King, Rosa Parks and Betty Shabazz, courageous helpmates of the struggle who maintained the spit and fire of hope decades before rejoining their mates above, will send dozens of red roses from Heaven, with a simple message to Michelle only the strongest bonds of sisterhood could comprehend: Get Em, Gurl!!

Somehow, our queens for the cause knew that a change was gonna come.

My 86 year old friend Norman, in Baltimore, can see the finish line. There were times where I know my elder, while getting drenched from holding the umbrella of “Charlie”, endured many moments where he thought he couldn’t last long enough to see it. Like an African-American Orphan Andy, he could never love tomorrow, for it semmed nowhere near a day away. But Sam Cooke, God rest his soul, told him to carry on and see the day he and so many others thought unforeseeable.

Those with eyes on the prize who couldn’t complete the race are watching CNN and MSNBC every hour right about now in heaven. Helping us so much with their sacrifices, they hear the heartfelt ‘Thank You’ of millions here on earth, for all they have done.

But wisely, they placed a phone call to earthly remnants who witnessed the Montgomery Bus Boycott, Brown vs. The Board of Education, the Movement of Black Panthers and brother Liberation Armies, and unfortunately, the ignorance of recent generations and the refusal to embrace the struggle. During the conversation, an agreement was reach to implore us not to celebrate prematurely, and to pull those curtains closed Tuesday Morning, and give Barack Obama that last wind he needs to blaze down that final straightaway .

The finish line is close, but after all the attacks by Hillary, hate radio voices who treat him as if he were Bin Laden, and many who think of him as a half-a-Commie, he still must face a legion of millions who desperately want to thwart the ordained. They will have a desperate, last-gasp kick, all the while saying ‘Yes’ to archaic tradition just because they simply cannot bring themselves to vote for a black candidate. All tribes stay together, thus, helping us to understand White America’s inaccurate sense of racial grievance.

But something tells me, as well as many millions who want this so bad, that Sam Cooke was right. Tears stream from my eyes as I fight the onslaught of my emotions for just one last, agonizing day. Maligned, ostracized, criticized from all angles, for one day, the image of a African-American man might induce a worldwide smile of love from all.

It’s been a, long… long time coming, but I know that a change is gonna come.

Tomorrow.

THE CLOSING ARGUMENT: Will The Truth Set Us Free?

THE CLOSING ARGUMENT: WILL THE TRUTH SET US FREE?

By William Fredrick Cooper
Written October 28, 2008

Seven long days until a truth is revealed to the world. Seven long days until the beginning of change, or a worsened chaos. Seven long days until a difficult choice between hope and fear is made. For better or worse, the judgment of a whole globe awaits the land of opportunity. Will the flowers that grow on November 5th be rosy red in truth, or wilted in despair? Will the world sing a joyful noise of praise, because America finally got it right; or in the alternative, will the bells toll a continued sorrow?

In this writer’s opinion, it’s a choice that screams common sense. Given the present legacy that has led to two reckless wars (Where are those weapons of mass destruction? Osama Bin Laden – we find him yet?) economic mismanagement (see Government Bailout) and, in my opinion, blatant fraud (Why were gas prices so high in June/July, and so low now?), the light has turned green to forward, yet fundamental change. Out with the cold-war nationalism, the warhorse bullying tactics that transformed allies into adversaries, friends to foes that detest our present chief executive. In with the multi-polar world view and warm universal growth. Out with the argumentative, confrontational guard, for that approach leads to bullets and bombs. In with growth and change that starts within the stars and stripes and illuminates the outer continents. Out with the panic, in with the peace. Out with the infighting Republican Party worried more about the public infighting and the money it spends to dress is Vice-Presidential nominee than solving our fiscal crisis. In with a party demanding that parents focus more on education than MTV, video games and saving as opposed to spending on what cannot be afforded. Out with the spoiled “sense of entitlement” mentality that has crippled our economic core, and in with the hard-working mentality of generations past.

In short translation, Barack Obama should be the next president of the United States over John McCain, and the world is watching America closely, and what we tell our children:

“I’m sorry, son or daughter,” the bronze colored authority figure says to his eight year old, “But you can be anything in this country but it’s chief executive.” Will equal opportunity be exposed as a myth? Will the land of free be truly labeled such if it fails to put the legacy of slavery, segregation and racism in the rearview mirror? Will the rest of the world embrace a country that couldn’t put its own self-preservation ahead of the race element that continues to make such an obvious choice confusing.

There, I said it. The Truth. Dress it up with foreclosures throughout the land, sprinkle in the fluctuating gas prices and other components of a major money crisis, add a pinch of war policies, job layoffs and economic bailouts, add a dash of 9/11 after a couple of rigged elections, and you now have, for your dining pleasure, the perfect recipe for a phony meal disguising the truth about traditional politics.

Is America ready for a person of color to run this country, or do the stars and stripes remain crazily irrational when the subject pertains to race? Ask yourself this: When a candidate like Barack Obama spends close to seven hundred million dollars to emphasize the need for change, does it make sense? To me, it further illustrates the “Twice as Good, to be considered equal” philosophy that can all change on November 5th. When he remains dead-even in states even after providing a logical blueprint for all to see and his opponent spends more time either 1) attempting to publicly humiliate him as opposed to establishing his own agenda – WAS THERE EVER ONE IN PLACE?- and; 2) Dresses up a honey pot named Sarah to distract voters from the ills shaping the country’s fabric?; that should speak volumes.

Strip away all of the pageantry that has you undecided, the political correctness so many hold dear in their minds, and think about the truth. Is the country ready to progress forward in a way of complete change, or in the contrary, will the words of Jack Nicholson from the movie “A Few Good Men” ring a painful truth about the core of the country?

Can we handle the truth?

Seven long days until it is revealed to all.

And I, for one can’t wait.

THE HANDS ARE ON THE PRIZE by William Fredrick Cooper
Written: October 16, 2008

The beauty that sports holds over these nonsensical, contrived reality shows is in the relatable analogies that hold true to everyday life. So many flowed through my mind as I watched last night’s wide-ranging yet telling debate that I couldn’t help but wonder if ESPN had coverage rights.

Having said that, let’s analyze the play-by-play, shall we?

John McCain’s Republican campaign, desperate for a game-changing vehicle to still a nervous national psyche and prove once and for all that he is better suited to lead this country out of its economic fiasco, came blazing all its guns against Democratic hopeful Barack Obama. The first half-hour of the debate resembled a game four, NBA Finals situation where the home team was trying to stave off elimination on its home floor. Fueled by emotional desperation, the GOP forerunner’s last big chance to resuscitate a faltering movement started on the offensive. Initiating lively exchanges by raising pointed, persistent questions about Obama’s associations, political prescriptions and judgment, he seemed determined to impose his will on this encounter.

But you see, he missed something along the way, an old theory about emotional momentum. Usually there comes a time where major energy has been expended, and, because the burst was fueled by emotion, there’s a tide- changing crash. All Barack Obama had to do for the first thirty minutes was weather the storm of some well placed zingers, and the reckless attacks would stop.

About twenty-twenty five minutes into the debate, the cool, placid demeanor that has brought Barack Obama to the doorstep of history began to surface. Displaying the survival skills learned by not only of an entire race, but his own 16 month battle for the democratic nomination, he fought back. By simply stating that “The American people are less interested in our hurt feelings during the course of campaign than addressing the issues than addressing the issues that matter to them so deeply,” the stark reality for John McCain and his legion of dispirited, yet hopeful partisans seemed inevitable. To his dismay, he was up against a man, in quoting legend Bobby Jones when referring to the golf game of Jack Nicklaus and, in turn Nicklaus to another prodigy named Eldrick “Tiger” Woods, “playing a game that was unfamiliar to him.”

Further refuting the associations of William Ayers and ACORN with concise, clear, and candid responses, Barack Obama pressured McCain into unappealing, unpresidential errors; the goofs that alter public opinions, the goofs that he needed Obama to make. For all of his legendary sarcasm, maniacally disturbed grins and frustrated, juvenile gestures bordering on temper tantrums (What can I do to crack the veneer of this guy, McCain had to be wondering.), the last hour of the debate seemed comedic. The Republican Party leader and his staggering, unexplained agenda was futile while bouncing off the walls of an unflustered person of color projecting the aura of change of a president elect. Talking at Obama and to “Joe The Plumber” and CBS Correspondent Bob Schieffer as opposed to the nation, all combative attacks of characters made by the Republican candidate, in this writers mind, could not sway what is increasingly looking like history being made two-and-a-half weeks from now.

By ten-fifteen, on the night of October 15, 2008, the race was all over in my eyes. My personal jury rendering its verdict on John McCain, he lost this election. I knew it. A race that has been through centuries of well documented struggle knows it. White people know it. (Whether they act truthfully on Election Day is beyond me.) Undecided people that exist in readers groups needing attention for their indecisiveness now know it.

It’s All Over.

Further proof lay in the responses of the wives of the presidential candidates. While Cindy McCain seemed tense, did you notice how Michelle Obama clasped her hands in anticipation? She can taste victory, Just like I can.

My 86-year old friend Norman can taste it too, as well as those smiling in the heavens. They all can taste it.

Our hands are on the prize, people. On November 4th, we’ll sip from that fountain that says “all of us are one.”

Thank God Almighty, I’m almost free at last.


WILLIAM’S THOUGHTS: Over the last twenty four months, we’ve had debates in groups large enough to invade Iraq, one-on-one, in swivel chairs sitting around tables, behind podiums, standing in front of contrived town hall meetings, around media pundits and ordinary guys. (Joe The Plumber loved that one.) We’ve compared economic plans, healthcare plans, strategies in terms of getting troops homes, Sarah Palin, Joe Biden, Hillary and Bill; Reverend Wright and William Ayers; ACORN and alleged affairs; swing states and issues of race; Roe versus Wade once more; affordability and availability of proposals and programs, bailouts and government spending, lions, tigers and bears.

Oh My.

Now, in a few days, the ball rests squarely in our court. The cards have all been played, and we know what we must do. If faced with adversity, remember the smile our prince showed last night under the harshest scrutiny ever for us. That winning smile displayed by Barack Obama was of the confidence of Kings and queens long ago, a signal of victory for all those who died, whose dreams fell just short, and those never given a chance simply because of the color of their skins. That smile tells us today that we should say it loud, and be proud of our origins, adversities and progress.

Now, let’s make him proud. Let’s do this. My hands are on the prize.

Are Yours?

“THAT ONE” IS VERY CLOSE… by William Fredrick Cooper
Written October 10th, 2008

We’re almost there. We’re very close.

I wonder what my 86-year old friend, Norman, from Baltimore, is thinking right about now. This was a man who carried umbrellas for “Charlie” as teardrops from heaven screamed 'all men are created equal'. For so long, he thought equal opportunity was a myth.

We’re close to the Holy Grail, old friend.

'That One' is very close.

I wonder what our forefathers looking down upon us, millions whose families were torn apart by the chains of slavery, the fountains of segregation and blatant and covert racism are thinking right about now. Tears forming in their eyes, for so long they thought their sacrifices, things that seemed unimaginable to many of us today, were in vain.

They weren’t, and I for one, am grateful.

We’re close to the end of the fight, Brothers Malcolm and Martin, Dr. Dubois and Booker T.., Mr. Robeson and Marcus Garvey, Huey Newton, Eldridge Cleaver and Stokely Carmichael, Fred Hampton and Mark Clark, Medgar Evers, Frederick Douglass, Jackie Robinson and the Brown Bomber. Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Rosa Parks and Coretta Scott-King, Betty Shabazz and Rachel Robinson, our queens for eternal equality the memo is out: You’ve been waiting to exhale long enough.

'That One' is very close.

Jesse Jackson, who years ago ran a futile race so 'that one' could win, will be forgiven for his refusal to relinquish the shine. After all, we fight so hard for it, sometimes we want to keep the light forever when in truth, God is the beacon of all good things. Michael Eric Dyson and Mark Anthony Neal, bless them both, will fill the air with intellects that cut a pathway through interracial misunderstanding. Breaking it down nicely, even they of intelligent verbiage can truly appreciate the simplicity of the moment at hand.

We’re close, they’re saying. 'That One' is very close.

Periodical columnists begrudgingly see the inevitable. Political correspondents wear the look of resignation while conceding the obvious. Are they that fearful of a Black Planet? And what are the neighbors, the rest of the globe, thinking at this moment?

A CLUE: “The United States had better not screw this up. If the outdated irrationality and coded prejudices over racial preference soils the Stars and Stripes once more…”

With each passing debate, the need for a new order screams louder. Picture this: If this were an NFL Football game, “That One” has a ten point lead midway through the fourth quarter. After another McCain/Palin turnover – AGAIN, YOU MIGHT BE SAYING TO YOURSELF- our star quarterback prince sits squarely at the 50-yard line. Knowing the compassion of our culture, under normal circumstances we would play it conservative, for we have the lead and possession of the ball. Traditionally, that has been our hallmark as a culture that cares.

However, something tells me, while cool and composed, energetic and eloquent, Barack Obama possesses a quality that’s needed to finish this sort of job. Behind the innate, effortless grace, all the articulate, inspirational speeches geared toward the middle class, the earnest yet chic geekiness made to order for the young, old and disenfranchised, and the calm needed to restore normalcy in a country that needs change like a man thirsting for water in the Sahara, lay the killer instinct of a champion knowing he needs to go for the jugular.

'That One' knows he’s close to ultimate victory, but realizes he must close the show by leaving no doubt.

At next week’s debate in the city that won’t sleep on this historic moment, look for an audible from “That One” when looking over the GOP defense. Seeing an all-out blitz from a desperate yet determined Republican candidate, John McCain is coming with the kitchen sink to blast Obama. One mistake with that move, however: he leaves Sarah Palin exposed to her lack of experience in pressure-cooker situations, as well as a party unaccustomed to a brother changing the game they mastered for so long, helpless and hopeless against two receivers running GO routes (Straight Fly patterns ) as 'That One', the quarterback of change, drops backs and stands tall in the pocket.

Someone’s about to get burned on the bomb, y’all.

Looking right, Obama sees the GO route of one receiver is one that represents centuries of progress, inch by inch. That GO route is for all those lashes taken from slaves, those deeply embedded scars by way of Willie Lynch; the strung up broken necks of Jim Crow; those raped sisters of yesteryear that kept families together when their men were mules; those assassinated fighting for what’s right; people of color period.

Palin can’t hang with the speed of that type of emotion, for it’s been restrained by the bump-and-run tactics of injustice for so long.

'That One', cognizant of the game breaker’s fury to his right, could go in that direction, and not be criticized for his decision. Instead, he pump fakes there, freezing the negative safety coverage of CNN and FOX NEWS, and looks left.

Noticing the traditionally cynical and apathetic cornerback of problematic order has fallen down, he lofts a tight spiral to a streaking, ambiguous-colored receiver of change, of progress, of solution. This rookie pass catcher carries a powerful message to the country once “That One” takes residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue: patience, objectivity and assistance. Each blazing step of the rookie’s trail speaks for 'That One' :We must help him by becoming better fathers, mothers and people to one another; as well as show patience as he tackles 1) the issue of restoring peace both home and abroad by bringing troops home from a dumb war, and 2) fixing the economy while battling greed and self-interest.

While still a rookie receiver, somehow Barack Obama trusts him. He needs to, because the superstar on the right is retiring after a well deserved Hall-of-Fame career whose greatness was best in oppressive racial obscurity.

As That One goes, so goes the other guy to the left finding his shine. Give them eight years to do the job.

The ball will nestle in the rookie’s hands soon, as the touchdown will be scored on November 4th, when black people scared of tremendous disappointment will believe. All people in need of change will follow suit, and a world ready to render a harsh, severe judgment on America will instead say “It’s About Time”.

'That One' is thisclose to paydirt.

YOU... (Inspired by YOU, by Jesse Powell)

YOU… (Inspired by Jesse Powell’s YOU)
by William Fredrick Cooper
Written September 16, 2008

Lord Knows, my heart has been wanting to say this for years. Recapturing my nerve after years of tripping over it, I place my heart into your hands, humbly, completely, with sensitivity for all eternity. Baby, you have saved me from myself, and I want thank you for fixing things in my life.

You. Peace is what you brought me by teaching me what love, compatibility and teamwork is all about. For years my soul longed for you to save my future from desolation, seclusion and isolation. Yearning to share dreams our ancestors dreamed with someone special, you appeared. Needing your spirit, you made me realize that a special woman with mighty love makes a man strong in the ways he needs to be. Surfacing majestically, I had so much to give, but my heart was barren, in search of a righteous companion. With you, I feel a completeness unknown before, and I truly hope you’ll always be mines.

From this moment forth, I’m forever yours.

My tongues miss you daily, for the taste of your petals arouse me so much. Visions of strong, solid black love enveloping me, it’s gonna take a couple of lifetimes to empty the reservoir of love restrained for so many years.

From this moment forth, I just want to be yours.

The way you talk and walk, your words and movements are soothing to my soul. Joy screaming from a dormant place within, bursting affection and adoration is yours, for there’s so much to give in my store. Loving the way love moves my hands during a massage, my thoughts are on You. Running baths, preparing meals, the affectionate effort indicates that my heart is yours to keep forever. Making love to you with endless energy and powerful passion, we rock and ride to an anatomically addicting existence, never counting the hours passing by. In every way, a king serves his queen. A lifetime of orgasms past, a lifetime of climactic conclusions present, and an avalanche when the achievement of reaching the mutual apex of two in love our forever brings awaits us in our future as one, the reason is stated simply: You.

Surrendering all the love I can muster with Our Creator at my hearts core, God has steered my ship to you. Wanting to please you in every way imaginable, I pray that each tear of emotional hurt experienced will be washed away with drops of joy, peace and eternal happiness. And there’s only one reason why I would do this.

You.

I love you, baby.

From my heart,
William

SHOWING US THE WAY TO GO...

SHOWING US THE WAY TO GO…

(Michael Jackson turns 50)

September 1, 2008

by William Fredrick Cooper

Whenever Chris Brown captures us with his creativity, you can blame it on the boogie of the gloved one. When Usher grooves to a confession, he won’t stop till’ he gets enough of the inspirations of a moon-walking dancing machine. Every soul-singing youngster pays homage to the blindly gifted 11 year old boy soprano who sang a grown-up ‘I Want You Back’ back when man walked the moon for the first time. From seductive, yet sensitive vocal grace to gritty growls, from smooth falsettos to trademark hiccups and signature catcalls (hee-hee-hee), from the real instruments in the Motown era and dreamy ballads to the Teddy Riley technology-edged New Jack Swing and gospel driven sound of Rodney “Darkchild” Jerkins, from the scintillatingly sensational stage shows to Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Jackie Wilson and James Brown tributes through intricate, physically complicated dance techniques, from paying homage to the past and bridging the gap to our musical future, Michael Jackson was, is, and will be present in our music landscape.

The choreographed art release known as the music video? Michael Jackson helped us cross-over to MTV with complex storylines and unforgettable dance sequences that rivaled The Great White Way. Oh, how soon we forget this when focusing on his idiosyncrasies. Smooth as a criminal with those globalized innovations, we know the date, time and places where we watched his short films. Those boy bands made popular today? Look to Michael and all his brothers (Yes, including Jermaine) and their collectively overwhelming musical gifts as a reference point.

Different vocal tricks? Like a musician playing the strings of a harp, when crooning a ballad or expressing song themes of brotherhood and faith, a breathless feather would escape sensitive lips. Effortless as it is extraordinary, one word captures this tone: Beautiful.

Feeling an edge when hearing the heavy riffs of a metal guitar, he taught us all that he could get aggressive with an arrogant tone or create a paranoid prison lamenting love with a quiver and quake of a chord. That R&B Sound was it though. Creating gulps of emotion and hiccups to align himself sadness, fear, anxiety, joy, rebellion and excitement, from grace to grit, he covered even more territory in those unique, harmonizing backgrounds.

Decades of dancing, with moves ranging from the street to tap dance, are filled with history. Magically mesmerizing, Michael’s group sequences invoke Broadway, music videos and his energetic soul-stirring solo routines invoke his forefathers and future keepers of the flame. Yesterday and tomorrow in every electrifying step he takes, every move he makes, can there really be any comparisons made? Thank goodness for You Tube. Many doubters are left in silent awe when seeing a Young Michael range from the Godfather to Robot to Re-run on the 1970’s Jackson Variety Shows. From stylish dance sets (see 1988 Grammys) to the Bankhead Bounce (1995 MTV Music routine.), he was Another Part Of Me. And of course, there is moonwalk.

Always the moonwalk. Always.

As his 50th birthday passed this past Friday, America was on the heels of a spirit-moving speech of change (Barack Obama), in trepidation over the potential of more lives lost via natural calamity,(Hurricane Gustava) and in preparation of major scrutiny of a Republican Vice-Presidential candidate with checkered credentials. Can I humbly ask you to rid the opinionated specter of cynicism for a tick and remember the time when one of our gifts gave us never-ending joy? Try not to focus on his mistakes and misfortune for a minute, and think of his illuminating brilliance. A dance move. A song. A tear shed. Showing us the way to go as the dominant figure to today’s music, at one point or another in this lifetime, Michael Jackson sure made us smile.

Happy Birthday, Michael.

Always A Fan
William Fredrick Cooper

BARACK OBAMA , OUR NEXT AMERICAN PRESIDENT...

BARACK OBAMA: OUR NEXT AMERICAN PRESIDENT

by William Fredrick Cooper
Written August 29th, 2008

“…with profound gratitude, and great humility, I accept your nomination for Presidency of the United States.”

Those words, spoken in a cutting, uncomplicated tone with power, precision, passion and promise, came from a man of my complexion with direction. Because so many were dangled from nooses, endured fire hoses full blast, were firebombed, horse whipped, or felled by a sniper’s bullet, he stood at that podium on August 28th, 2008 a mile higher than us all.

Conducting a symphony of hope, our next President spoke of individual and mutual responsibility, signing the words with conviction, sealing the envelope with hope for change, and delivering the fantastically flawless address to the doorstep of a Republican candidate whose stale political tactics echo the sentiments of a President who has brought the economy to a fiscal and financial brink only a miracle bailout can save. That Republican candidate agrees with a president who aligns himself with the progressive contentment of Smith Barney over the everyday struggles of Barney Smith. That Republican candidate agrees with a President loathed the world over for worn philosophies, questionable shot-calling and bullying tactics that have backfired in strained foreign relationships.

A master at double talk, this Republican candidate, while selecting a running mate whose experience in foreign diplomacy is the equivalent of a speed date, says that he’ll splinter his party for the good of change, yet remains in alignment with a Commander-in-Chief growing more discredited by the second. John McCain agrees with George Bush 90% of the time. What does that say about judgment, wisdom and experience?

Surprisingly, at least for those who know me, there were no tears when Barack Obama accepted his nomination; in the alternative, only the slightest of smiles escaped me. While he is of my skin pigmentation, I was color blind for forty-plus minutes as our next President launched a plan for renewal of American progression with the restoration of common purpose. Liberally emphasizing the need for compromise in gun laws, same sex relationships and the right of choice, I saw an objective balance between marching into the future with new ideas and a carefully structured maintenance of traditional values. Embodying the spirit of service of John, Robert and Ted Kennedy, the power of eloquence spoken by William Jefferson Clinton, and the dogged determination of Hillary Rodham, the concrete agenda of aid to middle class America seemed reasonable.

But humbly, I ask one thing from this nation of which he spoke so lovingly and which he could not: patience. Cleaning up a catastrophic mess takes time and effort by all, not merely a brother, in the human sense, with blueprint alone. Realistically, he simply can’t do this by himself, nor should we expect him to. Fundamentally speaking, Barack Obama asks us to be our brothers’ and sisters’ keeper.

So, as he attempts to give tax breaks to companies creating jobs in America that won’t be outsourced; create better, affordable healthcare; cut taxes for 95% of all working families; invest money in the pursuit of education while setting a clear goal on eliminating oil dependency from abroad and delivering us from the economic crisis, we must help him by becoming better people to our families and communities.

Teamwork, people. Teamwork.

Periodicals and pundits disguised as political correspondents call him a talented orator with vaporous credentials, inexperienced in the ways of the home of the brave. He must strengthen the U.S. dollar, some say; be more specific in problematic areas, others argue. But my gut tells me on that morning of his inauguration, Barack Obama will begin to find a way to get it done. Innately level-headed, our next President is willing to fight, but only in a way that will uplift our stars and stripes, not break them down with subjective rhetoric.

In my humble opinion, the only question standing in the way of change is fundamental one, but one that’s embedded deep within the fabric of which this country broke ground:

“Is America ready to bid adieu to its subconsciously bias yesterday and entrust the power of the highest office in the world to a person of color?”

Giving that speech on August 28th, our next President looked more like an American to me than ever.

From sea to shining sea, from the Aloha state to this special fundraiser at which we are present tonight, something new is stirring, and in this writer’s opinion, its next destination is the Oval Office.

ONE MORE STEP...

ONE MORE STEP by William Fredrick Cooper
(August 28, 2008)

I will weep at ten o’clock tonight. The tears of joy leaving me will mix with the earth, causing flowers of all sorts to grow. Gratefulness flowing my heart, to say that we give thanks to our forefathers is an understatement, for their labor was not in vain.

Imagine This: There’s a party going on in heaven tonight. My brothers and sisters arriving before The Mayflower are no longer in chains and shackles. Elegantly attired in tuxedos and evening gowns, with humility from yore they offer assistance, but are told by Our Heavenly Father to take a chill pill. They’re free, He reminds them. Those who were raped, whipped and tortured by slave masters throughout America’s Bad Time In History, as well as those who dealt with colored and white water fountains, hoses, cannons, dogs and laws by a racist crow named Jim will be served by others as well, for they too, earned a lifetime of peace.

Frederick Douglass, W.E.B. Dubois and Paul Robeson a re exchanging hugs and hand pounds, and Malcolm X and Huey Newton are arguing over a game of chess nearby. Though their anger has been tempered, their wars against injustice are now reserved for pawns, rooks, bishops and knights. Old habits dying hard, both want to win this match by any means necessary. Harriet Tubman, Shirley Chisolm and Rosa Parks are in their Sunday’s best. Jackie Robinson, Joe Louis and Jesse Owens are well-wishers at the gates to many late arrivals.

Ray Charles and Eubie Blake begin the evening’s entertainment by tickling the ivory in a way where Bojangles Robinson, Sammy Davis Jr and Gregory Hines can get down. After the hoofers complete their scintillating session that brought the house down, Lady Day, Dinah Washington and Phyllis Hyman sang a version of “God Bless The Child” that broke the levies of tear-ducts all over.

After Marvin Gaye made the congregation think with a spirited version of “What’s Going On” , we received ten minute apiece of comedy from Robin Harris, Redd Foxx and Moms Mabley. Many in the audience are in anticipation of Bernie Mac. The reason why is apparent to all that have convened for this very special pay-per-view telecast.

“You’ve heard him speak?” they all ask.

Bernie Mac, shaking his head in amazement, grins.

“He’s personable, friendly and funny, but he takes the business of changing things in America very seriously. Y’all just don’t understand. He ain’t scared of them mutha…

“Shut Yo Mouth,” Isaac Hayes interrupts.

“But I was talking about…”

“We Know,” The million or so voices of African-American History shouted in unison.

Gerald Levert and Luther Vandross would lead a version of “Lift Every Voice and Sing” after the main event, but at present Mahalia Jackson elicited emotions with a jaw-dropping rendition of “Amazing Grace”. Again moved by the magical melody of song, the crowd above roared for the keynote speaker to approach the podium.

He did, to a five minute standing ovation. Picture millions standing and applauding the reverend. Truly a sight to behold. Our Heavenly Father gave Martin Luther King specific instructions in four words: I HAVE A DREAM.

In the same impassioned voice that decided life should be judged by character not color, the heavens vibrated as he began his sermon by giving Abraham Lincoln, John and Robert Kennedy praise. Then, in a measured mixture of force and grace, from start to finish, the minister address the crowd with love. Speaking the same words of hope and unity that he uttered forty-five years ago in the shadows of Lincoln on that Washington lawn, he spoke of children of all races and colors holding hands as a current of history created by all on those in heaven will meet with a new tide of creation on earth, “In America” he emphasized.

“At Ten P.M. Eastern Standard time, we will be one more step away from being free at last,” Martin Luther King announced. “A Black Man will accept the Democratic Nomination for the right to become the 44th President of the United States of America.”

“One More Step! One more Step!” Millions chanted with all the emotion in their hearts, all the power in their voices, all the love in their souls. Then, they all tuned into the speech about to be delivered on earth.

William’s Thoughts: The Dream now one step away, a down payment on the White House will be made tonight in the most important speech given by a person of color in this country to date. The road to victory will not be easy, as Barack Obama will be subjected to a scrutiny unlike no other before him. Many have died for this dream deeply rooted in many fabrics, and we can’t forget that. Conducting creative movements with discipline and determination, we wear the scars of our forefathers as we are nine weeks away from the Promised Land.

Nine Weeks from freedom ringing for four years.

Nine Weeks from singing, if but for a moment, FREE AT LAST!

Nine Weeks.

One More Step.

A PHENOMONAL WOMAN...

A Phenomenal Woman... by William Fredrick Cooper
Written: August 26th, 2008

(A PREFACE: Perhaps Maya Angelou penned it best. She walks into a room, and the wattage of an assured smiled coupled with a confident stride captivates us as we fall into a pleasurable confusion. The fire in her eyes and her sheer grace of her style has us awestruck. Caramel and chocolate colored confidence commanding instant respect, all in attendance want is her attention. Heaven help us if she chooses us. Superwoman strength, scintillating sensitivity, smoldering sensuality at sundown, a phenomenal woman makes a weak man strong, gives a blind man vision and the courage to scale the highest of previously unattainable heights. Her love, strong enough to tame the canine tendencies of wayward men, indicates one thing: all she wants is a good man, and with her backing you, you won’t feel the sting of a society that expects a Black man to fail. A phenomenal woman does it all, and then some.)

A phenomenal woman dressed in blue/green had me captivated Monday night. Making my heart swelling with pride, I was hooked to every word she uttered. Independence and femininity all at once, she sang Stevie Wonder into my soul as she encouraged us to listen to our hopes instead of our fears.

Signed, sealed and spellbound, I was delivered to her majesty for seventeen power-filled minutes. So were the millions who tuned in to the most important speech given by an African-American in our country since we had a dream on that Washington lawn in 1963. Big moments in our history demand greater affirmations, and it seemed fitting that a phenomenal woman would hold it down.

Should we have expected anything less?

Majestically mesmerizing, you could see her determined, unwavering focus as she stepped to the podium. But like an Alvin Ailey dance choreographed by Judith Jamison, our next First Lady effortlessly soared above the clouds. Tears flowing from eyes hopeful of change, I saw my mother who raised six of us on her own, sometimes through work, often times through public assistance. Having a ringside row seat to her struggles, stumbles, then eventual success, at 64 years of age, Ethel Cooper-Meyers is a few credits from getting her B.A. in Psychology.

She was the determined hard-working, Phenomenal Woman I saw in Michelle Obama Monday night.

Phenomenal Women, independent and powerful in their femininity, love men who care about the things that are important to them while realize that Black love takes teamwork not competition. Possessing a fearlessness in her efforts to aid her man trying to catch a shooting star, she is cognizant that monumental success only happens when a queen encourages her king to maximize his potential, and will help him do so in every way imaginable. You see, a real man knows that behind your pushing and prodding, is a Phenomenal Woman longing to say five words to her man:
“I’m proud of you, baby.”

As Michelle Obama lovingly declared her man a father, a husband and our next commander-in-chief, I carefully scanned the eyes of the Democratic National Convention crowd and saw a hope for better days that I had never witnessed before. The legacy of the Civil Rights Movement in safe hands, Blacks and Whites, at the crosscurrents of history and thirsting for change the way one thirsts for water in the Sahara, will tell children of future generations that this time we listened to our hopes instead of cynicism and fear. On November 4th, 2008, the doubting will stop, and the dream will become a reality where color and creed as one, work together for solutions to the American struggle.

A phenomenal woman in sync with the vision of her powerful mate told us so. And I believe it.

After the Phenomenal Woman spoke from her soul, the lady in presidential blue exited to the anthem kings may have sang to their ancestors centuries ago had Stevie blown his harmonica.

Wasn’t this queen lovely? Yes, she was.

A persistent president with a phenomenal woman.

Looks like royalty to me, y’all.

Falling over themselves trying to find flaws, CNN Correspondents David Gergen, Anderson Cooper and the Republican Party cynics had me guffawing, the gales of laughter causing tears of hysteria. Some other fool audaciously said that our future President Obama 'actually began to look like me.' Ignorance mixed with a inbred insecurity, begrudgingly, the reporters in Tuesday’s periodicals gave the phenomenal woman her shine. But like a prizefighter presenting his case to the visual eye after being robbed of a hard-earned victory by judges on the take, the whole country saw the truth!

Lord, please forgive them, for after all this time, they still know not what they do or say.

The phenomenal woman won Monday night. She won for Hillary Clinton and women allowed to vote 88 years ago to the day. She won for the last Kennedy and his hope of change that started with brothers John and Robert, and for a race of people who came across violent seas in bondage, yet broke the chains with the collective strength of a far way country of kings and priests.

A Phenomenal Woman won for America Monday night.

Next up on Thursday: Our prince who will be king.

CONVERSATIONS IN HEAVEN...

CONVERSATIONS IN HEAVEN (A Tribute To Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes)

WRITTEN: AUGUST 10, 2008

As the Love Unlimited Orchestra, headed by Barry White, grooved to 'Satin Soul', suddenly, the arrangement screeched to a halt.

Something just wasn't sounding right. Feeling disenchanted with the music, perhaps taking his expertise for granted, the man that had so much to give needed more.

"I think we practiced this enough," the Maestro declared.

Marvin Gaye, echoing the sentiment, suggested something political. "I love the way you made my jam ‘Inner City Blues’, jump," he hollered. "Let's run through that again."

"Nah, Sugar," a statuesque female uttered. "This is my time baby." The cream- colored queen, with happiness sparkling in her eyes, strutted confidently to the front of the band. This woman, named Phyllis, had finally found the love she never received on Earth. Embraced by the Lord thirteen years ago, she was eager to sing its praises whenever the opportunity arose.

"Chill, Sister Hyman," Luther Vandross said. "Now you know that between you and me, girl, we got this ‘love’ thing covered. The joy and pain, sunshine and rain of it all, the whole gamut. We need something fresh."

Johnny Griffin, the tenor saxophone genius known as the Little Giant, slapped hi-fives with his bee-bopping brother Miles Davis. "Yeah, man," he concurred. Having recently arrived from France last month, he too felt the band needed an infusion of style. "We need a bad mutha."

James Brown and Gerald Levert, exchanging puzzled looks, couldn't for the life of them think of who to summon.

Suddenly barging in the heavenly auditorium was Redd Foxx, Robin Harris and Richard Pryor, breaking up the confused tension with an argument about the new addition to their Kings Of Comedy Tour.

"Ya big Dummy," Fred Sanford screamed. "We could use Bernie up here. He had me in stitches with his Def Jam routines."

Richard Pryor disagreed.

"Nigga, Mac done got Cosby on us with that television show. He got all commercial on us. He don't talk about f***** enough. All comedians talk about f*****. When the president was making speeches, we talked about f*****. Even the coolness of women who like it as much as we do. I remember the Playboy bunny..."

"Nobody's talking about f***** up in here, so shut up, ya test-tube baby!" Leave it to Robin Harris to Bring the pain. "Look at you with your cornrows, Richard. They tied so tight, that I bet you sleep with your eyes open. Remember, you had a T.V. show once too."

Ever the bold one, Robin climbed up the stage stairs and grabbed Phyllis Hyman's hand and rubbed at her smoothness.

"Those aren't press-ons nails," he announced.

Phyllis slapped his hand away. "Shut-your mouth," she said, barely concealing her laughter.

At that instant, the whole room got silent. Humor and harmony becoming one, comedy and composition congregating in a meeting of minds, Richard Pryor and Barry exchanging knowing glances, smiled. Luther and Fred Sanford lowered their heads for a minute, then lifted them. Tears mixed with joy and sadness ran a race to their chins. Gerald, Johnny and Miles gave each other skin, then shared a group hug.

Barry White shook his head.

"Let's call Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes. We sure could use em, up in here." he suggested.

"Sho ya' right," they all shouted in unison.

All, that is, except one.

"Cool," was all brotha Miles stated. "Cool."

William's Thought: Over the weekend, we lost two in the physical spirit. But they remain with us spiritually, in the laughter shared, and the head nod of a cool melody. Give praise to God for allowing us to witness the brilliance of their journeys, as be joyful, for they will give Our Father so much fun in their own special ways.

Rest in Peace, Bernie. God Bless You, Issac. Y'all were some bad mutha...

It' s okay, ya'll can say it to me.

SHUT YO MOUTH!

LOVE IS ALL WE NEED by William Fredrick Cooper
Written August 5, 2008

(Let me preface my statement by saying that if this is misinterpreted as anything more than wisdom, then the message and its heartfelt sincerity was misunderstood. I prayed for guidance in the hopes that I could utter words that might lend objectivity to our issues regarding dating. Here’s what God provided. Hope this helps.)

A couple of days ago, when reading the “25 Things Brothers Should Be Saying To Sisters” and “Top Ten Reasons Why It’s Hard To Date A Black Women” online posts and the follow-up responses in a readers group, tears streamed down my cheeks, much like they did when reading Terry McMillan’s ‘Waiting to Exhale way back in 1992 .

Over a decade and a half later, it still hurts to see the bitterness and pain that exists when speaking of Black Love.

Who’s at fault for all the madness? Brothers, for not being fathers and teaching their sons to respect women and their daughters how to recognize substance? Sisters, for emasculating brothers by broadcasting their deficiencies, while making them feel unappreciated? Brothers, for singing love songs that in words carry passion and depth, but in actions, nothing but misery? Sisters, for using the infamous attitude as a defense mechanism? Brothers, for not recognizing the virtues and strength of Black Women? Sisters, for being so angry they have made emotional nurturing as extinct as the chivalry they so desperately seek from the Kings they covet? Both genders, for not listening to one another and searching for unrealistic images while overlooking what God has provided for you?

As evidenced by the above, the back and forth in-fighting could go on endlessly. A painful indifference in regard to God’s most precious gift and its correlation with Black dating rendered moot by the dissension, empty experiences come and go, further exacerbating the jaded genders. Instead of inspiration and hope, Brothers and Sisters wear armor for combat.

When do we realize that Love is truly all we need? The apostle Paul, in 1 Corinthians 13:13, indicates that we should abide by faith, hope and love when it comes to everything life has to offer, and its relevance to relationships of the heart is a mandate.

“The greatest of these is Love,” the apostle continued.

Love really is all we need.

Given the state of Black Relationships today: its weird dating principles, painful outcomes, and negative in-fighting between the sexes -- do we even truly believe in it? And why not?

Maybe the answers and solutions lie deep within ourselves, provided we conquer the traits that fuel pathological conditions unconsciously affecting our hearts. These pathologies threaten our positive mentality with regards to Love and our helpmate, as it constrains the energy that generates optimistic feelings about the opposite gender. Refusing to let go of the negativity birthed by this affliction only inflames the defense mechanisms that keep the hopeful, faithful and loving spirits we so desperately want to share mired in the darkness of our souls, never to see the light of day.

What is pathological conditioning? It’s Black men and women wailing and weeping in emotional misery, anger and frustration because our distorted view of Black Love has us tied up in knots. Our jaded experiences coupled with pessimistic outlooks on interpersonal relationships have us acting like men and women who don’t need each other. In our refusal to see how entrenched we are in a negative eventuality, our issues and jaded experiences concerning Love become one. WE BECOME OUR ISSUES AS OPPOSED TO MERELY POSSESSING ISSUES. The things that pain and plague our souls concerning matters of the heart usurp our body, disrupt our mindsets and embed themselves within our existence, thereby giving us a cynical view of every aspect of Love and our association with a hopeful mate.

Instead of hope and faith being spoken from our mouths, resentment, cynicism, drama and fear poorly disguised as ‘nuggets of information’ escape angry lips. Periodicals, talk shows, internet posts like the aforementioned and drama related novels carrying nary an uplifting word serve as a negative backdrop to a predetermined failure felt by both genders. Belief systems now slanted in subjectivity, Brothers and Sisters stand on opposite ends of the spectrum without ever moving close to one another to solve problems.

In short, we defeat ourselves with BS before we even suit up and run the race.
Brothers refuse to open up completely. Sisters have their guards up all the time, expecting the shoe to drop. Nobody concedes even an apology. Both sexes give no quarter by way of praise. In the alternative, they rather talk at each other through personal issues and experiences, arguing about who’s right and wrong as opposed to coming together in an effort to bridge acrimonious chasms.

Do you feel me? This is not good. And try as one might to escape the conditioning, we find ourselves engulfed, engrossed and enveloped in this state of mind, sometimes defending its miserable existence with anger and fear by way of preconceived notions, thereby justifying our inability to conquer the detrimental nature of it. And if we do summon the wherewithal to leave the negative cycle, then we think we’ve lost ourselves. Something’s wrong if we slip and give praise to a good Brother or Sister, and heaven forbid we exhibit a glimpse of emotional vulnerability, we think.

Quite the contrary. Overcoming issues and experiences that haunt us presents limitless possibilities to enjoy love as the Apostle Paul spoke of it. We begin to judge each experience as an individual case and are willing to give from the depths of our souls without expectation. Love of any color is about giving, isn’t it? That strange feeling of conquering issues is non-existent, because we have learned agape love, the unconditional devotion that fosters pure, fruitful Black Love.

But how many of us are willing to overcome these fears, put away the litany of excuses and insecure thoughts of the “other shoe dropping”? How many of us not only believe in ourselves enough to escape those fears and insecurities, but in the ancestors who have produced modern day kings and queens yet to touch our hearts? How many of us are willing to let go of the fears that shape, pollute and deter Black Love? How much anger do Brothers and Sisters have to relinquish before the three little words bring tears of joy as opposed to sobs of pain?

How can we ease the pain that exists between Brothers and Sisters?

With Love.

True Love is really all we need, family.

WHERE IS "THE DREAM"? by William Fredrick Cooper
Written July 20, 2008

Reclaiming the Dream was on CNN tonight. AIDS and Our Sisters, Black Leadership and its course a moral leader named Martin spoke of years ago were dissected through discussion. But a question wouldn't escape me, one I should be able to answer easily:

WHERE IS THE DREAM?

Is it a living in a place where pigmentation is irrelevant? Is it on an island of prosperity where colors and cultures hold hands, cashing the check Dr. King articulated almost a half century ago? On this date, is the check still bouncing because of insufficient funds? Why does race still matter in the land of the free? In spite of the progress made, do we possess the security of racial justice? In spite of Obama's historic run, are we truly living on equal ground?

WHERE IS THE DREAM?

Is it standing alone on top of a mountain, sitting alongside a man at the threshold of taking residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?

WHERE IS THE DREAM, and the people searching for it? Are we collectively rowing against the stream of righteousness? Are we still being seated for negative nourishment at unsavory venues, partaking of plates of bitterness and hate? Or are we living in confusion, desperately grasping for the true definition of the vision?

WHERE IS THE DREAM?

Is it being reclaimed after the restoration of a collective aim? Escaping certain uncertainties, have we found a way to bring understanding to it all? From sea to shining sea, are we adamant in our ambition to search for solutions?

OH WHERE, OH WHERE HAS WHAT MARTIN PREACHED GONE... OH WHERE, OH WHERE CAN IT BE?

Has it been replaced by a reality where crime runs rampant? Why are we paying taxes to fight wars that make no sense when foreclosure is at every corner? Why are the high gas rates when innocent kids are dying overseas for oil acquired through their bloodshed? Why aren't affluent African-Americans reaching back as mentors to communities crying for help? They spoke of the six billion dollar black empire tonight. Where is the progress? What's up in the wonderful world of Black Enterprise? Are we walking the walk of the vision and its golden rule of reaching, then teaching each one? Are we giving love to one another? Or will the dream remained mired in mystery, lost in a riddle, buried inside of an unknown enigmatic zone sans sight, social scenery and sound?

WHERE IS THE DREAM?

Is it enslaved in mediocrity in all we do? Whatever happened to the intellectualization of Black Literature, joyous days when Langston Hughes, Ann Petry, James Baldwin and Richard Wright wrote with love, compassion and the motivation to articulate messages through powerful prose? Amiri Baraka, Quincy Troupe and Herb Boyd, when referencing James Baldwin today, spoke of artistic activism being missing within the written word at the Harlem Book Fair. Did the dream sacrifice the life of substance for monetary gain? Does the dream lay blame on the publishers for encouraging works that sell instead of books that matter? Or is it the writer's fault, for focusing on the business end of deadlines and what’s popular as opposed to the message of the story? Is it the readers' fault for wanting to escape a horrid everyday reality with entertainment? Or is it the parents for forgetting to make Alex Haley and the Autobiography of Malcolm X required reading for our youth? Does the dream help Black Writers find the creative balance between business and art and raise that bar? Or in the alternative, is the dream like the benefits and detriments of a contract, in that it stays mired in a complacent land? Is the sole purpose of the dream to get people to read? Or is it about what's being read?

Surely, they'll come a time when the dream will send bells ringing. Making a triumphant return, the dream and its agenda will revisit a place where danger awaits, challenging our core to resume intellectual progress. Decoding, deciphering and re-directing the vision while ending our present nightmare, solutions and answers will come to us all.

Or will they?

(William Fredrick Cooper is the author of the Essence Bestselling novel, THERE'S ALWAYS A REASON.)

KEEP SMILING MISTRESS (An Ode To Writing)

KEEP SMILING MISTRESS (An Ode To Writing) by William Fredrick Cooper
Written July 10th, 2008

KEEP SMILING MISTRESS, FOR YOU GOT ME.
YOU ARE MY WIFE NOW.
SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG.
NOW SMILE AWHILE FOR ME
JUST SMILE..

Peron E. Long,
Having captured my soul in the palm of your hand, reading your touching tribute to that everlasting girlfriend has me humbly asking if I could piggy-back. I hope you don't mind my undying affections for my mistress.

You know, you'd be surprised at the kindred spirits that lay under the surface when it pertains to Our First Love. Despite the genre differences and business agenda that in some ways corrupt that innocent feeling one might have with their first love, after reading your powerful prose, you realize the passion for your ‘boo’ is the same as the love for my mistress. eerily so.

Yes, brother, I too got excited in those formative years when going to the BOOKMOBILE. Taking out all the sports books I can imagine to study history, I would stretch the limits of my library cards by reading… ENCYLOPEDIA BROWN. Kindred Soul, I grinned that youthful grin when I read that. It gets scarier, Peron: Did you enjoy meeting ‘Ralph’, in Judy Blume's Forever? I did, but only after my substitute sixth grade teacher spent the last month of school reading Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret. Ah, the joy of it all. Wanting to have an affair to remember way back when the flirtations of my mistress first tempted me...

And played with my heart. Junior High School brought on the first love letters, to Martha Smith. Too bad she didn't like me, as I wasn't exciting enough (Were bookworms ever exciting in the seventh grade?) But that crush for introduced me to one of my best friends, David McGoy, for we both liked her at the same time. More on David later.

High School had me falling in love again, and more love letters came. So long in fact, that by the time they reached the point of affectionate expression, the apple of my would say the letter took too long saying "I LOVE YOU". That was her fault... damn, mistress. David, who went to a private school, and I used to exchange ten page TOP TEN PROGRESS REPORTS filled with joy and pains of puppy love, fantasies, dirty little secrets and lies. Being a sports junkie simultaneously, I wrote sports stories for the school paper. However it was a mock interview I wrote on a regents exam read to the whole English Department that told the teachers about my mistress. They tried by giving me Hemmingway and Tennessee Williams when others were chasing the Jordache Jeans, but I still didn't get it.

I think the mistress was angry with me for a tick...

Or was she molding me into the husband I couldn't see myself ever being to her? Introducing me to Jawaaza Kunjufu, Haki Madhabuti, Franz Fanon, Carter Woodson and the speeches of Malcolm X and Dr. Benn, her anger at the unjust, social ills of a community spawned militant letters concerning the racial climate, and injected a passion to helping our people that continues to this day.

How would I do it, I asked? My mistress had the answer. Running me through a series of emotional traps while combining this with the love I had for reading, she opened up a new avenue of reading by way of Terry McMillan. While pleasantly refreshed with this new assortment of books, I became frustrated. Arguing with her about the belief systems of African-American Women and negative conditioning that still, to me, are very subjective, I asked her how. How do I show readers that men have the same battles of hope and despair with regards to affairs of the heart?

By showing your life, flaws and all, my mistress said, adding words of caution.

"You will be perceived as having a woe-is me attitude, because it's never been done before. Men don't let women in to see their insecurities up close, so how can they fully understand a brother that cries because he's in touch with his femininity? And because of their issues, they won't see the depth of your strength. And through it all, some will still perceive you as weak, because they simply don’t want to go deeper. Given the struggles of everyday life and the need to escape some of them in books, can you blame the? However, in some places, there will be people hearing that tree fall.”

David McGoy was one of those people. Having a mistress of his own, he shared tips about keeping that other woman happy. Starting sentences with verbs, alliteration, and putting every ounce of emotion in every sentence, he said, you will be different, brother.

Back to the mistress I went with Six Days In January. She loved it, but demanded more.

“You’re a very deep man, who writes from the soul. You won’t be a major bestseller, but your words will linger long after you’re gone. You have to decide how much you love me and make a choice as to our path.”

My proposal to her came in the form of There’s Always A Reason. The reviews received prophetic of her words, sure I mess around on my wife by writing the sexually erotic story. But for the most part the mistress-turned-wife keeps me happy by challenging me with social issues that need addressing, the flaws in all of us that need further examining, and the need of acceptance of people with all the love a writer can muster. My wife has demanded that I keep a foot in the past and remember Baldwin, Wright and Hurston, but study the craft with the efficiency of Eric Jerome Dickey, Timm McCann and Tracy Thompson. Like the Oakland Raiders of my sports affinity, I have made a commitment to excellence that my wife wants.

David McGoy, my editor still demands me to go deeper, as does the email writing tips of Steven Barnes, a man who saw the same thing my mistress saw me; my passionate need to master the craft. But it wasn’t till I read your words, Peron, that I fully understood the love one must have for the captivating creative capsule. Once that girlfriend, mistress and/or wife invades your blood stream and its meditation magically moves from mind to paper, the articulate addiction is awesome. Improving on its improvisational journey with knowledge of every crevice and cranny the craft offers, a finished product brings a fulfillment like no other.

That first love can be something, can’t it, brother?

With all my heart,
William Fredrick Cooper

ON THAT MORNING, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT...

ON THAT MORNING, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT...
(Inspired by Mary Mary's IN THE MORNING) by William Fredrick Cooper
(Written July 3rd, 2008)

On that Wednesday morning in November, we'll be alright. On that morning, the skies will bleed a victorious blue. On that morning, they'll be no clouds blocking what's rightfully ours. The sun will illuminating a heritage with warmth like no other time in history, tears of joy will be shed from graves of slaves who died for our freedom, activists who endured the hoses, brutal lynch mobs and assassinations, and every single discrimination because of skin pigmentation. Heck, even Clarence Thomas will be forgiven for his subjectivity, and Jesse Jackson will be pardoned for his momentary lapse, and realize that he too played a significant part in laying the foundation for a bridge once thought of as inconceivable.

(It's all linked, Reverend. Don't fall for the Wright Gag.)

Years ago, a drop of water had more of a chance in hell than the tantalizing change before us. However on that Wednesday morning in November, Barack Obama will complete the ambition of every person of color in terms of human endeavor. The marathon race for mankind will see him enter the stadium, run that victory lap with his queen Michelle, and finally complete the race that began in chains before the Mayflower.

On That Morning, We'll be alright.

But until then...Buckle all seatbelts in a secure fashion and fortify yourselves with armor for our future First Family. As the picture above indicates, we're in for a dogfight for those remaining acres. We're about to see the whole ball of wax in all its fury. Some of the nonsense will be blatant (Again, See Above), some of it forged from tech savvy, others testing our intelligence and common sense. My advice? See it for what it is, and pray that a country wanting change in all its sincerity will follow suit.

Check it.. This one's not about the interests of a twisted logic called white supremacy, which, by the way, is dressed in many disguises (CNN and FOX-TV pundits, Political games, and periodical covers). This one's about change, one craved for and spoken in many ways throughout time. Singers came in song, poets and writers in their dreams, sculptors, painters and designers in their interpretation of beauty and awe, and scholars with blistering truths.

All were met with doors slammed in their faces.

On that Wednesday morning, however, it'll be no more. No more outcries of agonizing despairs over what can't be done, no more empty dreams for children of color hoping they can be. They will be, because our Prince and his voters sang in unison YES WE CAN. On That Morning, we'll be alright, because the race will have been completed with a village standing tall like the kings, queens and priests of a land far away in place and time, people of strength that built pyramids of clay with their bare hands.

But until then, we must remember that strength as much for Barack Obama as ourselves. We must remember that our village has forgotten about more unfair hardships than many races ever knew. With no signs of hesitance, timidity or intimidation, our strength must remain as cool as the other side of a pillow, yet blazing like a summer afternoon in August. It will carry us through this journey of grinding times, for on that November morning when we awaken to no clouds of cynicism in our sky, we'll know that everything's Kool and The Gang.

Everything will be alright, actually- wink.