Many Inspired by Amazing Grace of Young Brotherhood Advocate Semaj Clark

Advocate for brotherhood Semaj Clark giving thumbs Up GoFundSemajBrotherhood ambassador and advocate for nonviolent conflict resolution Semaj Clark. (photo courtesy of Gofundme)

The cost of the public health crisis of gun violence in America grows more expensive by the day. It has surpassed even the mega-millions of dollars that gun advocates such as members of the National Rifle Association casually spend to counter efforts to implement the most basic sensible forms of responsible gun legislation.

The greater cost is in that of lives lost or irreparably damaged. Sometimes the damage takes the form of psychological trauma experienced by those who have lost loved ones to the violence and for whom monetary compensation does nothing to ease their inconsolable grief. Recent reports on an attempt by Gloria Darden, mother of the late Freddie Gray, to commit suicide, underscores that point. Moreover, it represents only one example.

What happened to Semaj Clark when he chose to speak out against the violence he saw destroying too many young lives represents another deeply troubling instance. Yet his story is one which this compelling millennial crusader for brotherhood refuses to allow to be defined by the word “tragedy.” Considering what doctors have said about the likely results of the gun violence inflicted upon Semaj, his amazing grace is truly inspiring.

To learn about Semaj Clark’s extraordinary story please click the link below:

Millennial on a Mission to Promote Brotherhood



The Last of the Seven

Author Aberjhani enjoying a laugh with his Uncle Len.

Author Aberjhani enjoying a laugh with his Uncle Len.

On the same day that Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died, my Uncle Lendward Griffin, Sr., also left this world for greener spiritual pastures. Once the news of his death sunk all the way in, I thought to myself, Wow, he left this world in some really fantastic company.

Uncle Len was not a public megastar like Fawcett and Jackson but in his own way he was as unique and worthy of celebration as either of them. What made him particularly unique within my extended family was the fact that he was the last of his generation on my mother’s side of the family, born July 18, 1927, the youngest male out of seven offspring born to one Elsie Bell Griffin and John Ernest Carpenter. I knew him while growing up the way many nephews know their uncles while growing up: as an older man who at times passed through town and stopped for a day or two to visit with his sister, WillieMae Griffin Lloyd and share love with her family. I rediscovered him as an adult during the years I served as a caregiver for my mother–and then again earlier this year when attending the funeral of his wife, Aunt Zolar Mae.

It was at Aunt Zolar’s funeral that I learned Uncle Len had been a deacon in his church and saw how highly regarded he was by members of his community. I sat there listening to friends and neighbors speak of how his agreeable demeanor and notable integrity was reflected in the character of his adult children, and of his reputation for being able and willing, “to do anything that needed to be done,” from repairing electrical wiring and installing plumbing to providing wise counsel, on behalf of his fellow church members and acquaintances. Ironically and painfully enough, Uncle Len himself was not at his wife’s funeral because he had suffered a medical setback and been hospitalized the night before due to the Alzheimer’s he’d been battling so determinedly for several years. We had, in fact, shared quite a few conversations about the modern scourge of Alzheimer’s: he spoke of keeping up with his exercises, taking his vitamin B faithfully, and doing everything he could to keep his dignity intact.

Somehow, although he was in a hospital while the rest of his family was at the funeral, I didn’t feel like he was missing this final public goodbye to this wife of 58 years. (No that is not a typo: 58 whole years!) Something told me their souls were in a deep communication beyond physical speech and that each was somehow keeping the other’s company during this time of the ultimate change in their shared life journey. I told myself I would not be surprised if he chose to say his own final good-bye before the day ended as well.

By trade, Uncle Len had been a truck driver for thirty-five years, so it was a little astounding to hear people speak at his wife’s funeral about the different talents that apparently had served so very well the lives of people unknown to me. Yet I had experienced similar revelations when attending the funerals of other loved ones and wondered why “strangers” so often seemed to know our kin better than many family members did. In this instance, I swelled with a bit of joyful pride and with the hope that some of what made this quietly gifted craftsman such a well-regarded wondrously versatile man might have found its way into my genetic design.

I had last seen him early in 2009 when his daughters Maxine and Joanne drove him and Aunt Zolar up from Florida on a “day trip.” I helped him remember several times who I was by pointing out that the last time he saw me had been at his grand-niece’s wedding. Each time, the memory returned just long enough to generate a joy-lit smile and a thrilled exclamation of, “Well how you doing?!” It was beautiful to see him smile past the pain of fading memories and reclaim his sense of self. Such an image stands among the most valuable legacies one could wish for because it is the kind that in personal dark hours shines a light of empowering inspiration to help one move forward. I was suddenly grateful that among their brood of adult offspring and grandchildren there were two strong daughters who thought it important to drive their father across a state line to visit his sister’s children while there was still a chance he might recognize the value of such a visit. And of course I thought of the years I had served as a caregiver for my mother as well as considered how all over the world people of my generation were adjusting their lives to accommodate the lives of the generation before ours.

We need to get this right, I thought, so the ones after us will know how it should be done or become inspired to do it better. We need to demonstrate all the compassion, forgiveness, mercy, intelligence, and love that we can because we likely will one day find ourselves in serious need of the same.

When the time came for them to return to Florida, we stood outside and took the obligatory pictures, which normally I grumpily resist but which in light of the special occasion I shared poses with everyone else. Embracing my uncle and my aunt while cameras clicked, I told myself we were saying good-bye not only to a beloved uncle and aunt but saying good-bye to one major era in our family’s history–and preparing to live through another. We stood for a moment marveling at how beautiful the late afternoon was, 72 degrees with a light breeze, sunshine resting easy against the springtime green of the trees, the rooftop caps of the houses, and the tears fluttering around our eyes.

Whose death I learned about first–Uncle Len’s, Michael Jackson’s, or Farrah Fawcett’s– on June 25, 2009, I don’t recall. I started, either that day or the next, to write an elegy for Uncle Len just as I had for any number of family members over the past decade, but I couldn’t finish it. I started writing this blog, but couldn’t finish it either. By contrast, I went into overdrive writing about Michael Jackson because I think, of his impact on my own creative efforts and my journalistic instincts. I tried to make myself go to Uncle Len’s funeral a week later but could not do that either. I more or less shut down and quietly protested the flying river of good-byes that had been flowing through my life for as long as I could remember. But that wasn’t going to stop his departure or erase the profound fact that he was the last of seven. So I found this blog again, started typing and deleting again, and with love this time I am saying Thank You Sir. And good-bye.

by Aberjhani

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To Walk a Lifetime in Michael Jackson’s Moccasins

Michael Jackson giving it his all in concert around 1995. (photographer unknown)

Michael Jackson giving it his all in concert around 1987. (photo by Neal Preston featured in Oct 12, 1987 People Magazine)

You probably can’t read the words on the note next to the accompanying photo of Michael Jackson, but they were handwritten by the singer himself during the late 1980s when he was constantly on tour and just as constantly a subject of much public ridicule and condemnation. This note was composed on hotel stationery and, complete with original spellings, grammar, and format, reads as follows:

“like the old Indian proverb says do not judge a man until you’ve walked 2 moons in his moccasins.

Most people don’t know me, that is why they write such things in wich most is not true

I cry very very often because it hurts and I worry about the children all my children all over the world, I live for them.

If a man could say nothing against a character but what he can prove, history could not be written.

Animals strike, not from malice, but because they want to live, it is the same with those who criticize, they desire our blood, not our pain. But still I must achieve I must seek truth in all things. I must endure for the power I was sent forth, for the world for the children.

But have mercy, for I’ve been bleeding a long time now.”

M.J. (1987)

It’s hard to think of Michael Joseph Jackson as having been a baby boomer because nothing defined him quite so much as his music, and his music possesses the eternal quality of genius that makes all superior art timeless, ageless, and endlessly compelling. But a baby boomer he was, born August 29, 1958, and now gone so soon to his rest June 25, 2009.

Reporting on Jackson’s death just hours after it was confirmed, NBC News anchorman Lester Holt noted, “We were the same age. I remember being a ten-year-old watching this ten-year-old kid on television.” A familiar feeling. I arrived on the planet one year before either of them but like Holt I also watched the young Michael Jackson on stage on television. My attention was fully captured with no desire to be released because there he was: a cultural mirror image of myself who was not the watermelon-eyed “Buckwheat” (all due respect to the actor who played that role) or a stereotypical barefoot “pickaninny” movie extra in some Gone With the Wind spin-off, but a little black boy musical genius so charged with the lightning of his talent and confidence that he could take the lead singer position with his four brothers behind him and an audience of thousands in front of him–and perform with all the grace, skill, and maturity of someone three times his age. How did that kid do that? Living as I did in a southern region where black skin and a male anatomy often reduced one’s life expectancy by decades, the answer of how that kid did what he did was important to this future author.

Years later I considered the greater scope of what he had achieved. While the vast majority of those in our peer group at age eleven or twelve were at home evenings studying for a quiz in school the next day or building up nerve to steal a first kiss, Michael Jackson was working–working in clubs, working in theaters, working on television, working in concert halls, working working working his ass off. On how many continents, and in how many countries, was that child a stranger in a strange land? Yet one who repeatedly channeled gifts of song and dance and love to bring respites of celebrated joy to the lives of others? His labors as a child played no small role in laying a foundation of lasting wealth for what has been called America’s “preeminent family of pop music.” Later on, those labors would pull a lagging recording industry out of its deathbed slump, and jump-start a new industry art form known as video while trashing racial barriers on TV and radio in the process. Did that make him a saint? No. Does it make his memory one worthy of respect? Most definitely.

Not all “child prodigies” who exhibit the level of talent that Jackson did as a child tend to fulfill the promise of those gifts in their adulthood. He was one of those who did. Once his ambition led him to pursue and establish with phenomenal results a solo career, each year thereafter when birthdays came around (his in August, mine in July) I started studying what he had accomplished to date and would challenge myself to do better in my own career. That’s not to say I ever did, or even that I thought I could or should match him; only that his accomplishments motivated me to reach for some of my own.

The judgments of different critics aside, he outdid himself repeatedly: with the flawless album Off the Wall in 1979; the all-time bestselling Thriller in 1982; Bad in 1987; and Dangerous in 1991. By the time Jackson’s HIStory-Past, Present and Future, Book I was released in 1995, I was managing a multi-media book, video, software and music store, which allowed me to indulge the pleasure of dancing along to the album’s combination of anthology and new music while shelving and selling books. True, I was dancing to his life’s soundtrack rather than my own and another three years would pass before my first book would get published. But: I celebrated this last album (not the last of his career) in particular because it was the first one released after the singer had descended into the tar-thick shadow-side of celebrity-hood: constant hounding by the paparazzi, reportedly “bizarre” behavior bordering on insanity, and allegations of pedophilia. The fact that his fame had become his cross made me less envious that he had achieved it so early.

Yet in the album HIStory, the purity of the music declared that whatever might or might not be the truth behind the scandalous headlines, all had somehow remained well with his soul. Whereas madness attempted to take over his life–and for a time possibly did–he fought and won his battle to turn it into superlative art. The new songs on HIStory presented his defense of himself even while going beyond that to champion the environment and level substantial social criticism of his own. It was around the time of HIStory‘s release that he wrote the above note and the photo that accompanies it was taken (my apologies for failing to track down the exact date or the photographer’s name). When I saw them published in People Magazine, I cut the page out and placed it in a photo album, then said a prayer for this man whose voice had helped awaken my voice.

We human beings tend to demand that our heroes fulfill many fantasies, but one fantasy no hero can fulfill is perfection while in this world. They can make the effort to give as much of themselves to the global community as they can, and then beg forgiveness when the gifting isn’t enough and the less appealing aromas of their humanity dim the air with the funky truth of their flesh and blood limitations. It was good that “the King of Pop” had been tested and learned something about his limitations in one major battle because he would need whatever strength he gained from it for other confrontations down the road. In the end, it was strength he was reaching for once again to begin his journey anew and do the one thing he did better than anybody else.

A lot of tabloids, magazines, websites, radio stations, entertainment personalities, and retail chains made tons of good hard cash peddling before the world what they presented as Michael Jackson’s eccentricities and possible moral failings. Perhaps now that he has left the stage for the last time, they can pay a bit of that forward by leaning in the opposite direction and honoring the brilliance of his dynamic artistry, the beauty of his dazzling creative passion, and the simple sincerity–however wounded it may have been–of his love for his fellow human beings.

by Aberjhani
co-author of Encyclopedia of the Harlem Renaissance
and ELEMENTAL The Power of Illuminated Love