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Voting One's Conscience

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As a new presidential election dawns, I would argue that Joe Biden is the worst president of my lifetime, but I could not in good conscience vote for Donald trump.  While Biden offers a semblance of dignity that the office of the President portends, his costly blunders—stumbling out of Afghanistan, failing to secure our southern boarder, and enabling Palestinian genocide— which will stain this country for generations to come—casts him as an incompetent leader in my view.  Trump, on the other hand, strips naked the honor and decency of the presidency.  He is a natural born liar, huckster, and soon to be convicted felon. I would wager all that I hold dear he has not read a single book in 50 years.  Such is the way he comes across—simple minded, inarticulate, and silly.  His saving grace is the fact that he is white; and yet our enemies understand that he is inept enough to risk war without bothering to weigh the consequences. For this they fear him more than Biden, who has a propensity f
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Morning Walk Yields Unexpected Pitfalls

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     A morning walk can unveil unusual things. With a slight knee strain, doc said I must trek thirty minutes a day for the next few weeks before attempting a run.   No worries.     For walkers, the placid, tree-line streets of Savannah offers a curious world unseen by passing cars, or ones zipping through by bike. Retired folk, some rocking lazily on their front porch, wave or nod good mo'nin. Rounding Ogeechee Rd, along the old cemetery pathway, where endless troves of slaves are buried in unmarked graves, I maintain my stride, right over left, paying close attention to my tender right knee.     Up ahead, a patrol man, sitting idle in his car, is pointing a long barrel gun aimed dead at my dome. He doesn't blink nor turn away. For a flicker of an instant, we stare each other down. Thank goodness he's hawking speeders and does not eye me as runaway prey.     I continue my stroll, walking past the cop who bemoans a pretentious hello. He's a man on a mission. I walk
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Book Summary

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Migrating to a foreign land can shape you in ways you hardly expect. Distasteful food, uncertain working conditions, and alien lifestyles that play havoc on the senses.  But nothing compares to the biggest shock of all: returning home.       After immersing himself in Japanese society for two decades, Darrell Gartrell suddenly found himself yanked back to the dog-eat-dog world of the United States .    Shunned by big business, he immediately was overwhelmed by  urban survival, bootstrap self-employment, and the degradation of his once-distinguished family. Now, Gartrell shares his struggle to integrate back into American society; a land as alien to him today as Japan was 20 years before. With gut-punching honesty, he boldly tackles some of America’s most familiar foes: structural racism, police violence, as well as his own unresolved demons. 
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Urban Education

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       Urban Education    It was a typical teaching rotation.  The halls were packed with teenagers traipsing the halls and gyrating in circles while teachers and campus security prodded them toward their 8 am classes.  Profanity, some quite vulgar, was openly used as if no concerned adults were around.  It was like herding cats.    I stood outside my door waiting for the throng of hooligans to find their way inside.  They swarmed like locusts.  Chants of “We got a sub!!!” echoed through the hall while dreams of salvation were fading fast.  A cadre of ruffians were now in my charge.  Or I in theirs.     As they filed right pass, some of them mouthed hip-hop verses that bounced rhythmically to the beats in their heads.  A few greeted me with the standard “wuddup bro” or “OOH OOH!  You know who you look like??"    Some even quizzed me about my racial identity. "Excuse me, but what are you??"   Whatever background I claimed mattered little.  As far as they were
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The Funeral

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The memorial for Aunt Catherine's home going was just around the block but I was running behind. Swerving the lanes on MLK blvd,  I ducked into the Dollar Store on 52nd, rambled through the clothing isle, and dashed away with a pair of black athletic socks—six to a pack. By now, it was twenty past the hour; my tardiness as plain as the shiny new hearse in front of the church.  The double doors to the chapel parted gently.  The red-carpeted isle split the auditorium into halves where I walked towards the front not to making a sound. A few dozen mourners had already gathered.  Perched atop the alter was the pastor—a muscular and stately fellow, who looked like he might have played college football back in his day, if not the semi-pro league.  To his right sat members of the choir—a cadre of middle-aged women and gentlemen deacons—no doubt long time members of the church congregation.  Uncle Fred and Aunt Margaret sat up front.  Next to them were Aunt Rose and her
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Return to America

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There were many challenges to moving back to America after so many years living abroad.  There was first the question of where to live.  The obvious choice was Los Angeles where I was born and raised, still had family–most significantly my mother–and where I owned rental property next to the family homestead.  But LA was ruled out.  After all, it was scarcely the city I knew whilst growing up.  Congestion had gotten so bad that a leisurely drive around town had become a lost art.  What’s more, illegal immigrants had invaded the Southland in biblical proportions.  LA was now Mexico. The logical choice was my late father’s hometown of Savannah, Georgia– a city known for its solidity of colonial structures, mossy cemeteries, and restless ghosts that wonder the cobblestone pathways at night, or so we are told. As history reminds us, Atlanta was reduced to ashes at wars end. General Sherman, on his infamous scorched-earth campaign across the state, was so smitte
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