What the common man craves is to live an honorable life.

 

This came to me last night as I was nodding off to sleep. The “Honor” I seek is not that which can be denoted by awards or even recognition, but through a reckoning that I have kept my word, and my faith to the ideals I hold to be dear and necessary for not only myself, but for all to thrive.

 

It becomes increasingly more difficult to say I am living honorably if I continue to deny there is inequity and injustice in the world by turning an indifferent eye to my privilege and the struggle of others. This is what saying “Black Lives Matter” means to me. It means I have left my comfort zone of living with the spoils of imperial colonization and genocide to acknowledge, with as much grace as I can, the worth and value of all people. Especially those who have suffered the most at the hands of those looking and sounding exactly like me.

 

Saying Black Live Matter doesn’t imply they matter more than anyone else’s does. It is not a way of establishing hierarchy.  Quite the opposite. It eliminates the notion that top down listing of whose life is more valuable than any another based on race is fair. A system which by no means is a just and humane way for society to progress. 

 

For a long time I dug into that inescapable corner. Feeling attacked in a way, feeling directly blamed for atrocities committed long before my parents were born. My reticence to flip the script was in and of itself, a symbol of my complicity in a system rigged to favor me to the detriment of others on the bases of skin color.

 

I feel I have been liberated since turning my gaze inward and recognizing my own chain. I have freed myself form the yoke of misconception. With this liberation comes great pain. For I turn to face a mass of people with whom I have shared this planet all my life. Some of whom are my family and once considered me a friend. With still other friends who have always bonded with me and have not changed their opinion of me I see every stage and step of their struggle to live honorably in a dishonorable world.

 

History is fraught with blood and brutality. The present and future are ours to influence. I choose not to ignore my responsibility to that gift. To quote something I came to a long time ago:

 

“Responsibility starts with saying you are cause in the matter. 

 

Responsibility is not burden, fault, praise, blame credit, shame, or guilt. In responsibility, there is no evaluation of good or bad, right or wrong. There is simply what’s so, and your stand.

 

Being responsible starts with the willingness to deal with a situation from the point of view that you are the generator of what you do, what you have and what you are. That is not the truth. It is a place to stand.

 

No one can make you responsible, nor can you impose responsibility on another. It is a grace you give yourself—an empowering context that leaves you with a say in the matter of life.”

 

Though I have always supported and defended the cause for social, moral, and ethical justice, I will admit to being at first taken aback by protests of the national anthem when they began. In those heady moments, I was forced to open my heart, and embrace my own demons with a compassionate and critical eye. Though I may have come late to the practice of speaking my mind and making it clear to all my thoughts and feelings about what needs to happen in order for us to join and move forward, I am no longer on the sidelines of this, the longest and greatest battle we will ever face. It is a battle we cannot afford to lose. It is a battle which will not be won with bloodshed. A clear indicator of failure will be just that.

 

It pains and puzzles me to hear young people accuse those such as myself openly joining this cause of “jumping on the bandwagon.” As if the many millions and millions supporting change in the name of racial justice are only now interested because it has become “trendy.” It would almost seem as if they are creating a hierarchy of who is a better patriot. That the cancel culture is cancelling the very thing they wish to cultivate. It is disturbing to see tactics used by those who oppose what we fight employed by those who believe in justice. My question for all who think along such lines:

 

Is there no way to dismantle systemic racism without creating and installing a new one?

 

Or to put it simply: How do we defeat the racists without becoming them?

 

Thank you for taking the time to read thus far.

 

Love and Peace to all.

Moses P. Cobb

 

I have been a tourist in many NYPD Precincts. I saw this monument to a fellow who hailed from the next big town south and west of Greenville, which is Kinston, North Carolina. The plaque reads:

Patrolman Moses P. Cobb. 1856-1926

Moses P. Cobb was the first African-American to serve a full career as a police officer in new York City.

Born into slavery in Kinston, North Carolina, he walked all the way to New York City in search of a better life. In 1892, Cobb joined the City of Brooklyn Police Department, six years before the consolidation of New York City. He was assigned to the 153rd Precinct in Brooklyn's 9th Ward, an area now covered by the 77th Precinct. Cobb patrolled the streets for 25 years, becoming a highly decorated police officer and a trail blazer for racial equality. 

Black History Month

 The neighborhoods where we lived when I was a child were all mixed in that there were always all kinds and colors of people. I took for granted that the whole world was the same. That we were all just people trying to get along. As I grew, I became aware of the imagined differences between us. And I came to know there were those in denial about strife between black and white, and then there were others hell bent on making sure people always “knew their proper place.” 

 Still others were determined to stand up to hate and injustice. As a child I was given a book of Black Americans of history. I learned about Crispus Attacks, the first American to die in the Revolution, Fredrick Douglas, Althea Gibson, Harriet Tubman, Jackie Robinson, Paul Robson, Rosa Parks, Thurgood Marshall, the list went on, I wish I still had that book today. You may notice many names missing. Shirley Chisholm, Muhammad Ali, James Earl Jones and so many more were all writing history as I read.

 I vividly remember Mrs. Agnes Butts who lived across the street from us when were kids. She looked after my sister and me often. In 1968, she took us to the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade down 5th Avenue, the one, and only time I have ever been to that particular New York City event. It was a long trip from Mariners Harbor on Staten Island to mid-town Manhattan. My sister and I were so little, we sat on the curb, and I got dizzy watching the endless stream of marching legs! I remember the solitary figure of then  Mayor John Lindsey. He looked about ten feet tall.

When Bobby Kennedy strode by bigger than life surrounded by a throng of photographers and reporters, Mrs. Butts nearly burst over the blue police barricades shouting in that unmistakable and totally endearing Staten Island accent “Baw-beee! WE L-UH-V YOU!”  I will never forget the excitement in her voice and the general buzz of the crowd as this comparatively small man walked by. 

In April of that year, the iconic Civil Rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King Jr would fall to an assassin’s bullet. By the end of June, RFK would also be gone.

 As a child I watched the Civil Rights Movement unfold on the nightly news and all around me. I came to recognize that there was nothing more heroic in life than the struggle by an oppressed group of people for basic human decency. Whenever we are fighting for their rights, we are fighting for our own as well.

 

Black History Matters. Black Lives Matter. Always.

Peace.