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Legacy of Greatness

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The story of greatness is not always told by the builders, but by those who took what others built. It is a history where empires crumbled under foreign boots, their treasures hauled away in pickup trucks like the one I drove from L.A. to Savannah. I imagine people sitting atop riches, declaring themselves masters of the universe, and teaching their children that merit, not conquest, brought them to where they are today. This narrative, repeated across generations, is a kind of myth—a myth that Western wealth and development are the natural result of inherent superiority. The truth is that much of what is celebrated as Western advancement was built on the backs of others: from the gold and labor extracted from the Americas and Africa to the philosophies and inventions stolen from civilizations (and individuals) deemed "lesser" in kind. Consider our story. No group has endured more systematic deprivation, sabotage, and oppression than African Americans. Torn from our homeland...
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Cook or Be Cooked

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Here in the American South, I've savored exceptional some meals at more than a handful of celebrated establishments. These restaurants have staying power: steady clientele, predictable hours, consistent quality. As a former restaurant owner, I value knowing the doors will be open and the experience will meet my expectations—every time. Yet I've witnessed another story, too. Many startups burst onto the scene with extraordinary food. Local headlines trumpet “Willie’s Bar-B-Q,” with lines snaking around the block and five-star reviews flooding in. Sadly, these spots are too often undercapitalized, understaffed, and tragically disorganized. Eighteen months later, boarded windows and silence are all that's left on the menu. Although Willie mastered the grill, he knew nothing about ledgers. He left that to his wife, Mable, who, despite her inexperience, tracked the receipts like a champion. Sadly, when their marriage crumbled, so did the business. In Michael Gerber’s acclaimed b...
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Sunday Best in Aisle Three

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One day, while on an overnight layover in San Francisco en route to Osaka, I stepped into a market not far from the hotel. Standing in the checkout line, I happened to overhear an elderly yet graceful gentleman who, for whatever reason, was sharing his résumé with the lady behind the counter. The thirty-something-year-old woman seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say—or at least pretended to be. "I used to be the Executive Vice President of XYZ company, had a zillion people working for me and my name is engraved here and engraved there blah blah blah," went the stately old man matter-of-factly. Shoot. Even I was impressed. Yet there he was, standing in the middle of the supermarket, draped in his Sunday best, trying to convince the lady at the register he was somebody important. I guess what he really wanted was for her to SNAP TO ATTENTION and SALUTE whenever his majesty graced the premises. I also got the distinct impression that, somewhere along the way, he had l...
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Oil and Vinegar in a segregated neighborhood

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To live in Cuyler-Brownsville, an historically African American sector of Savannah’s inner city, is to be on the front lines of change. Because of the rapid influx of residential developers and gentrification, the neighborhood is starting to shed its marginal feel.    But white residents don’t seem to be celebrating.    Most white folks barricade themselves inside their homes or duck inside their vehicles before hightailing away. Some say, “good morning”, when they must, but otherwise seem content to remain ghosts; rarely venturing beyond the sanctity of their own driveways.     Many are new to the area, while others have lived here for years. They are a mix of homeowners and renters and represent a variety of backgrounds.  What’s more, their increasing presence is a siren’s call to would-be investors, students, and even short-term tourists.        Yet for those of us who call Cuyler-Brownsville home, spotting a white...
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Victorian home in Savannah

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                                                                     Managing a home share in Savannah feels like being the keeper of countless untold stories. The mahogany floors creak with history, and antique appointments whisper tales of yesteryear. While some might call it "just another Airbnb," I prefer to think of it as a stage where life's most fascinating dramas unfold, two or three days at a time. For seven years, I've welcomed travelers from across the globe to this slice of Southern history. They come to explore Savannah's infamous historic district, but sometimes they leave me with stories that could fill volumes. It's not always the loud or obvious moments that stick with you – sometimes it's the quiet ones that linger longest in memory. Just today, a striking couple checked in: sh...
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More Than a Hood Store

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In the heart of Savannah's vibrant urban tapestry, an unconventional building stands out – if you can call anything shaped like The Alamo ‘unconventional’.   For the residents of Cuyler-Brownsville, this quirky landmark is as dependable as the afternoon mail, with its doors always open to serve the community.   Welcome to Baby Cakes.  Take a drive along Burroughs to 34th Street to this unassuming fortress where convenience meets necessity.  With its potted exterior, Baby Cakes is more than just a "hood store”, but a testament to the resilience and warmth of this urban surrounding. In the morning the store pulses like a beehive, where the bees wear hard hats and drive school buses. The store's shelves are a carefully curated collection of essentials, where panty hose might share space with glue traps, and pullovers nestle next to detergent. This efficient use of space ensures that every item earns its place. What truly sets Baby Cakes apart is its knack for breaking—a...
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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...
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