Spell-Checker Rant

To Whom It May Concern,

I am sick and tired of spell-checker, checking my friends' names. We're in the year 2006. Do you not see the purpose in perhaps adding a list of African, Asian and Indian names to your lexicon? Are we not fully globalized? I mean, how many Johns, Rebeccas and Davids do you expect me to know? At some point, you must think outside the biblical box and start including names that are representative of the whole geo-ethnic landscape.

To my friends, I have offered you the ultimate in accommodations. Cyril, Russatta, Karimah, Bolu, Worokya, I have freed you from the bondage of the evil red squiggly line denoting an incorrection. I want you to know once and for all, that you are a known, no longer an unknown. I have gone into Microsoft Word and PowerPoint and my email servers and I have once and for all told those pesky spell-checkers, "This is a human being; this is my friend!!!"

Yes our mothers may have had too many drugs during birth. Yes she got extra ethnic with our names, but does that bear correcting? For heaven sakes, this is MY laptop!! Should I suffer the indignity of having to see my own name with an ugly, squiggly red line under it every time I gloat about myself and talk in third person? I paid a couple thousand dollars for this laptop. Its spell-checker should at least know my name!!

My friends, I am here to let you know that the ethnicity of your name is not a mistake! I have absolved you of indifference in my computer's mind. I ask you to take the next step in liberating your non-Johns, non-Rebeccas and non-Davids from the Spell-checker red line and follow me!!

Signed Crazy, Deranged & Tired of seeing that damned red line under my name,

Jaramogi Adams

Sunlight blew past the window panes into each of the bedrooms below its ceiling. The fresh scent of morning work arose from the ground upwards through the vents. In every room, there was stirring as all the house's inhabitants pushed sight through their slumbering eyes to see what the day would behold.

"Whatch y'all wants for breakfast?"

"Catfish and Grits, Jyoti!!"

Okay, gets ya-selves tagetha, wash-up and come on out to da ketchen when ya done. I'll have breakfast ready directly.

The promise of that good 'ol southern delicacy reminded each person how hungry they really were. The stirring became more of a burr and the burr became chatter. As we all took our turns shuffling into the bathrooms to wash up, the smell of friend catfish edged its way from the kitchen to the rest of the house. Hmmmm. Feels just like home.

"How y'all wants y'all's eggs cooked??!!", Jyoti bellowed through the house.

"Scrambled?"

"Me too?"

"Over-easy?"

"Can I get mine with vegetables?"

The orders all marched through the kitchen entrance one by one.

As the last bit of lotion was wiped on to our faces, we slowly began our ascent toward the dining room table. It was already beginning to get full. Fruit Salad, Grits, whole wheat toast, grape juice, orange juice, catfish and finally the eggs.

In my mind, I knew I was awake, but I tried to wake up again, because this could only be a dream. Why was my apartment in India smelling like my Grandmother's house during Sunday breakfast before church? Why was Jyoti's heavily Hindi tongue sounding southern?

"Jyoti, can you bring out the hot sauce?" The last of the fixins' in place.

This was a treat in more ways than one. Nostalgia was being fed to me with a fork and knife and I could not help but enjoy the meal!!

If Charlie's Angels went Blaxploitation

Here is just one of the many photographs taken during the course of my past two weeks here in India with visitors from the states. I must admit, I had a terrific time sharing my time, space and energy with some of the most genuine and down-to-earth individuals you'd ever want to meet. I could have used a little additional help in the testosterone department to balance out the long and loquacious chatter of the Feline 5, but all and all, I thoroughly enjoyed hearing the rapid fire of English conversation vs. that of the more normal heard Hindi conversation.

This particular picture was taken in Jaipur, a town noted for fabric shopping (no surprise here) and having one of the oldest forts in India called The Amber Fort.

Here's a funny note not previously shared with any of the ladies from the trip: Though it is true that my presence stopped them from being the object of a lot of harassment, the flip-side is that the men would smile at me in a way that would lead another man to believe he is being admired for having so many women at his beck and call. Now truth be told, having to carry a pocketbook here and there, took away from my 'pimptation' (new word; write that down). . .well, that and the fact that they made me leave my velvet cape and platinum drinking chalice at home, but it still goes without saying that if Charlie had nappy hair and the angel's mostly rocked naturals, we could have easily shot the film on location in Jaipur, India.

Memories, don't live like people do - B

I can remember it like it was yesterday. One of my fraternity brothers worked as a lobbyist for Coca-Cola. One July 4th weekend celebration, he was able to get a few of us passes onto the white house lawn for the 4th of July fireworks display. Additionally, there was a speech to be delivered by then President Clinton.

I must admit, more than anything else about that day, I can remember how ridiculously hot it was. But the excitement of being there created a gentle breeze about my body. The little kid from Brooklyn was doing things outside of Brooklyn. All of the correct steps I had taken were now starting to pay off.

I can remember sitting on the lawn with a few of my friends and contemplating what life would be like if I had made that left instead of that right? What if I had gone up instead of down? I kept placing myself in worlds that had become a bit foreign to me; worlds that defy the natural birthright of logic and discernment. Worlds that continuously throw you curveballs and even though you have proven in the past you cannot hit those curveballs, you continue to swing as they come anyway. It was a moment of deep reflection and I needed exactly that moment in time to have them.

As dusk appeared, so did the band. As the band began to play, President Clinton, flanked by Hillary Rodham Clinton and a couple of other really important looking men appeared out of the White House and began waving to the crowd. It was an exciting experience to say the least. I’m not one to get star struck, but this was the President of the United States of America. This man had ultimate governance over my well-being. I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the fact that I was standing a few meters from him.

I must be honest, I cannot recall the exact message he delivered in his speech. I don’t mean to say that to undermine its significance or importance, but it is peripheral information against the backdrop of my story. Upon completion of his speech, President Clinton came down and walked close to a crowd that was hovering by a rope that separated us from him. Sensing the moment, I walked up toward the rope about a meter from where he was standing. As he waved, he began to walk along the rope and shake hands with those in attendance. I couldn’t believe it!!

He was walking in my direction. I didn’t realize he was so tall either. As he came down the line, I can remember being behind about 5 people clustered tightly together. And each of us had our hands extended so that President Clinton could grab hold and give it a shake. It so happens that I am tall as well. And I am black. I’m not sure which of those two physical descriptions had more of an impact, but the next thing I knew, President Clinton reached has hand through the five people separating him and I and grabbed my hand. He looked me straight in the eye and nodded with a smile.

Now, I’m not homosexual, but I must admit, I did have a moment there. It was an exhilarating feeling. The experience coupled with my earlier reflections forged into a story I would not soon forget. Jaramogi Kareem Adams, the boy who grew up in a poor and tough neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York, was shaking the President’s hand in front of his house.

It is from life’s most extemporaneous moments that a person constructs his history. His history, the indelibly etched markers on the calendar’s canvas, ought to ultimately lead to a life story about choices and decisions. As we make decisions each day, we might want to keep in mind the lasting impact these decisions may have. It might not effect what happens to you at the point you make the decision. It might not impact you tomorrow or the next day. But as we live, no part of our lives is ever skipped; it is what separates the man from his biography. Every day could be another story told, but we must be willing to live it. And we must be willing to share it. It is important to live a life worth sharing. If not to all, then to a select few.

I can remember a week later being back home in New Jersey and watching a soccer match on television that was being played at the Rose Bowl in Pascedena, CA. What was remarkable about this game is that in the middle of it, a television camera panned from ground level up to a seat on the mid tier of the stadium. In that seat was President Clinton. Just one week prior, I had shaken his hand in front of the White House. The next week, he was on the other side of America enjoying a US Women’s soccer match.

I love a good story, don’t you?

Let Me In. . .

I chew and I chew and I reach and I soar
I’m not gonna stop ‘til you open that door
And let me inside, I’ve got nothing to hide
For some reason you do so you act out your pride

Don’t do this to me, I’ve worked way to hard
I’ve striven for excellence, I’ve paid for my card
I’ve done what you asked, to get where I am
Yet still you tell lies, and leave me to damn

I know it’s not simple, my mom taught me that
Be fair and persevere, my lessons in tact
When dealing with me, you strip them away
Send me home depleted at the end of each day

I dress in these clothes, to look just like you
Can’t take anymore, the color of lose
And tell me I’m black, in your own little way
With pats on the back, “Maybe next time” you say

Well next time is now! I want what I’m owed
Keep food from a kitten, even he’ll become bold
I’ll snap and I’ll scream, ‘til I get what you mean
And then I woke up, wow, what a weird dream!!

Or is it. . .

I know it lacks consistent flow, but so what!!! Work in progress.

Free Thought, Thought Free

My mind state, like limestone
Crafted into these thoughts, make me feel grown
Leave in the air, they searchin for homes
To my brain they rush back, won't leave me alone

To the sky, I toss the creations of my third eye
Couldn't tell ya if my conscious, would rather live or die
By and by, I construct these messages, when my mind is high
Calculated wonders, are how my thoughts doth rise

At the doorsteps of these elevators
These elevators lead my soul to my co-creators
My co-creators lead my body to this understanding
That man's acknowledgement of this man's penatrators

I sigh, cuz I don't know why these thoughts surround me
I succumb to all they tell me, they want me to be
But I'm dumb, cuz I don't see how its affecting me

To be pulled in directions,
my mind's adolescence
I climbed prepubescence
I shine effervescence,
we shine neglected patience
We dine, off the elixirs, like wine
To the system, I'm bound, to just listen
to time, I can not waste
Sittin my physical body in just one universal place

And you may think I'm crazy, but my thoughts are free
They cost you nothing to read, as they march out of me
Its silly, but this is how my body chooses to breathe
Wouldn't trade my mind's oxygen for anyone's so called sanity