The nice folks at the American Association of Retired People sent me a brochure about five years ago, which I tossed in the recycling, unopened, chuckling to myself at the blatant inaccuracy of their mailing list.Three years ago I got a large envelope from them in the mail, promising the gift of a roomy insulated travel tote upon the return of their membership postcard. I clucked my tongue as I tossed it in the recycling, bemoaning the waste of paper, ink, and jet fuel necessary to deliver their message to the wrong address.But this year, when the AARP invitation inevitably arrives, I will answer. I will answer “yes”. Yes, please send me the travel tote, and I’ll take the quarterly news mailer and subscribe to the helpful bi-weekly email tips regarding vitamins and annuities and affordable travel adventures. Fine. You got me. You stayed in the same place and I came right to you.You ARE sort of sneaky - just looming there in the future with your discounts and life hacks, as sure of your inevitable relevance as a trusty umbrella, waiting for Spring. I would call it diabolical if it wasn’t just TIME.(Oh, and if you offer an umbrella, I’ll also have one of those.)The Social Security office wrote me this week - reminding me that in two years I could begin to collect payments - but if I waited five years, I would get more money, and if I waited ten years I’d receive even larger payments - albeit with statistically less opportunity to spend it, due to the whole TIME thing again.I have always thought of “retirement” in the same space as “winning the lottery”, a goal where the implied lifestyle was mostly fantasy. Handball, fishing, wine tasting, light carpentry, walking barefoot on a beach with my slacks rolled up. I know a few folks who planned very, very well and are now enjoying the world around them after superior careers in challenging fields - though the world they’ve ended up in isn’t the one they were aiming for. They unknowingly packed warm clothes and optimism for an age of global warming and internet bullying.I never thought retirement would be “stopping” as much as “making a 90 degree turn”. There were rumors of pensions and pretty gold watches. But change moved faster than any career could - buildings I remember seeing constructed were entirely razed, businesses that had thrived for almost a century were casually dissolved, entire industries understood as primary and essential proved wholly unnecessary. So most of us wound up taking those 90 degree turns sooner than we expected, and the future, once a mathematical result of sage calculation, became once again uncertain.But in two years, dependent on the state of democracy, I could receive a payment from the United States government each month, along with a bit of healthcare to stave off the injuries I may incur while playing handball, fishing, or walking barefoot on a beach and mistakenly stepping on a jellyfish. Again, I’m not expecting retirement to mean that I don’t have to work - but that I’ve earned the time to add something other than work to my schedule. I never learned to “take my time”, mostly because (not to be twee) I didn’t really see much time that “belonged to me”. Besides unescapable life function, my every moment was an urgent payment forward, relentlessly thriving or surviving this or that or everything.I’ve given out a great deal of advice over the years, most of it to groups of eager college students or potential entry-level employees. My central theme was to always keep learning. Now, I am going to take my own advice. I have a list of things that I’m going to keep learning. In alphabetical order, they are:* ASL* (the) banjo* bioscience* sleight-of-handGiven that I’m still working everyday, I understand that I will need to make room for these pursuits, so I’m giving up* worrying about things* going out of the house after dark* drinking alcohol (outside of the house (after dark))* doomscrolling* thinking about doing things rather than immediately doing them and then just being done with itOh, and I’m going to sing more. I enjoy it, even if two of our cats do not. I mean, Tom Jones, Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, Barbara Streisand, and Paul McCartney are all 84 years old this year. Five of them have released new albums in the last three years, and Tom Jones is out on tour RIGHT NOW. Inspiring.But the grand dame of it all is Shirley Bassey, best known in the US for singing the James Bond theme “Goldfinger”. She is the first Black artist to sing a Bond theme, the first Welsh singer to have a number one hit, and the first female artist to have a song on the UK top 40 charts in seven consecutive decades. She has released over 40 albums, 20 tv specials, and is 89 years old.Dude. I have a ways to go. Maybe I don’t need that tote bag yet. Oh AARP, don’t be mad at me: I really do appreciate that you are there to greet us as our enlightened sherpa to Creakybone Mountain™. But you just sit tight. I’ll be on my way.In a while. Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

Last week I purchased an empty bottle of mouthwash.It arrived from eBay very well wrapped and protected with paper and another type of paper in a ziplock bag surrounded by bubble wrap, in a box. It was very inexpensive, mostly because it’s an empty bottle of mouthwash.I am writing a series of short essays about the home my grandparents lived in; they bought the house in 1949 and lived there for over 60 years. I knew the house well because we lived in an duplex at the other end of the block and visited at least once a week, most often on Sundays after church. I only lived in my grandparents’ house for one week, the summer my mom had to leave town for a national teacher’s conference.I was seventeen. My grandmother thought it would be most appropriate for me to sleep in my mother’s old room to experience what it was like for her, sleeping in the 1950’s. All I knew about my mother’s childhood room was that, growing up, she hid Ray Bradbury and Issac Asimov books under her pillow - so during that week, I did the same (I believe it was “I Robot”), - just for authenticity.I had a summer job singing at the amusement park; I had to be at work by 10AM and didn’t get back until about 9PM, so out of respect I got up early each day to get ready and have breakfast with my grandparents every morning.Anyway, I bought an empty bottle of mouthwash last week from eBay.I should say that the bottle is “almost” empty, as it does have a little bit of liquid still in it.I am not a linguist, either professionally or as a focused hobby, but I always believed myself to be familiar with common prefixes and suffixes. For instance, I thought that “sol” referred to the sun in some way.It does as a prefix, but as a suffix, sol refers not to “solar” but “solution”, as in AEROSOL, or the product names Pine-Sol™(pine solution), or Lysol™ (the LY refers to the Greek word “lysis” meaning “to break down or dissolve”), or the curious American mouthwash named “Astring-O-Sol™”(astringent solution?) - created in the 1920’s to compete with the Listerine™ brand. Rather than Listerine’s “Fires of Sterilization” flavor, Astring-O-Sol contained zinc chloride and the oils of myrrh and wintergreen.The gimmick was that Astring-O-Sol was highly concentrated, even somewhat dangerously so: potent enough that just three drops in six ounces of water created an potion powerful enough to deliver fresh breath for a full day. That’s how it could be marketed as a clear value, since its smaller packaging allowed more product to be shipped for less money and a bottle would last longer than its competitors due to the fact it was being emptied by only three drops each day.My grandparent’s bathroom was far more of a time machine than my mother’s old bedroom. The tile was vintage, the sink was tiny and low with a sturdy little faucet, and there were products I had never heard of or seen before in the cabinet behind the mirror: soaps and creams and my grandfather’s depilatory powder (which smelled like rotten eggs) and after shave (which smelled like, well, Grandpa) and a bottle of Astring-O-Sol, which I did sample during that summer week in their house.However, being in a hurry, and as there was not a cup in the bathroom, I did not dilute it, but instead sprinkled three drops directly onto my tongue. Those familiar with the effects of wasabi can extrapolate what happened next - a moment of calm, then curiosity, then complete and total panic where I forced my head as far as it would go into the tiny sink, desperately trying to calculate an angle that might allow a few drops of water to get into my mouth. And yes, the freshness did last all day long.Anyway, they don’t sell that stuff anymore in most stores, so I bought an empty bottle, exactly like the one from that bathroom. When I think about my grandparent’s house, it’s not so much architectural details as the experience of being there, and that moment was one of my clearest (if not exactly fondest) memories.My family watched me unwrap it, which took a while, but did not immediately comment when they saw what it was.“Is that old mouthwash?” my wife finally asked.“Yeah.” I replied. “It’s for research.” I was surprised that my answer was good enough for both of them. I was all ready to impress them with the fact that one just like it is in the Smithsonian.https://www.si.edu/object/astring-o-sol-mouthwash-and-gargle%3Anmah_1218694 Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

This is my sixtieth summer. I don’t quite have the hang of it yet.I’ve done all the important research: Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon were fantastic professors, taught me all about beach culture and how to “hang ten” on a surfboard and sing my summer feelings in groovy song. Admittedly, the majority of their wisdom did not effectively translate to my landlocked Kansas City existence. I eventually made the singing part work as a summer job, but the closest I ever got to surfing was skateboarding and watching Point Break.My mother was a schoolteacher, so that cycle of summer vacation seemed natural to me. In fall, winter, and spring there were books to read, reports to write, pencils to mindlessly chew; but in the summer pressures lifted, and I could relax a little (when I wasn’t mowing grass or working at that singing job).Now, nearly 40 years past any kind of educational cycle, it’s still harder for me to wake up and get out of the house in summer than the rest of the year. Surely I should be be-slippered and pajama-ed in front of a television with a huge bowl of colorful breakfast cereal on my lap, re-charging my gentle system from its three-quarters of a calendar year of diligent toil and focus.But no. I put on actual pants and talk to people, nearly every day.My family is in alignment with my seasonal malaise, which is supported most authentically by my high-school age daughter. She loved the first two weeks of summer vacation, but feels the dew has now evaporated from the lily and craves some kind of challenge.Cleaning her room was her first adventure - the frenzy of studying for finals and creating year-end projects begat a creative tornado, whose aftermath was still clearly evident. But three days, a garbage bag, and a couple of strategic bookcases from IKEA later, that task was completed.Even her phone, whose constant fountain of digital distraction had proven an absolute lifesaver against academic stress, now seems a bit much. She looks at it on-and-off during the day, but it is clearly a condiment without a burger to complement or french fries to enhance.I see her particular near-boredom as the edge of true genius - this is when she might pick up her guitar and learn three chords and explode with a bunch of catchy tunes that rail against injustice, inspiring her generation and beginning our retirement plan. That may not happen. For now she’s making art and cooking and writing and starting to read a few books. Her chief complaint is that summer days are LONG. Even her attempts to sleep halfway through them are futile: the hours keep stretching languidly forward toward lazy late evening sunsets.My wife is a casual athlete and should love the summer months, but for days on end we’ve had sweltering weather where it’s beyond impractical to run outside.And she loves running. Outside.So there is no clearer expression of human dissatisfaction than my wife’s face when forced by aggressive weather to workout inside and online, using those pastel colored little weights that I bought her non-ironically.Observe her frustration. She is the lion given tofu for supper. She is an opera fan at a monster truck rally. Her form is strong, her dedication pure, but her effort is disrespected by the Lilliputian stature of her digital instructors, the prison-cell-floor amount of space we have available in our apartment, and of course the Easter basket color of our weights. She is a mighty warrior, sitting on a folding lawn chair.To make things worse, the blazing sun, cause of this discontent, continually mocks her by shining scornfully into the room, creating arrogant reflections on her iPad screen.She is a Michelin star chef, dining at a Cheesecake Factory.Summer time is different than regular time. It’s slower, somehow - weighted down with the responsibility of making crops grow and evenly tanning and supporting the hot dog industry. There is something tangible that relaxes our pace and ever so slightly lowers our shoulders, letting us breathe a bit easier.I think that’s what bothers us now: the break in our relentless pace. I might eventually be able to run a (quarter) marathon, but if there was a nap break in the middle I don’t know if I’d have the wherewithal to finish it. Summer isn’t synonymous with “vacation” anymore: so if I’m not allowed to fully stop, I might as well just keep on going.But time is an action noun, like river or snowstorm, always in motion. Today will not be tomorrow, now isn’t then, and soon enough there will be piles of homework, cool damp mornings to run in, and the darkness of a subterranean lair to wake up to. Ah. Just gotta make it through summer. Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

Hyperthymesia sounds exhausting. It’s exhausting to say, quite honestly.It is the rare ability to accurately remember nearly every day of one’s life in absolute detail - what you wore, ate, saw, said, and did. Every day.Of course there are days that I remember…well, pieces of days. Mostly glimpses: brief sequences - photographs, edits. My memories are clearer and more distinct when associated with an object - a favorite shirt or beloved comic book - but at their strongest when paired with either an odor or sound. I cannot tell you what I was doing 40 years ago today, and there’s probably a photo in our library of what I was doing 25 years ago, but still I do not remember it.But I can tell you, with confidence, exactly what I was doing 54 years ago during the summer of 1972.I was listening to music.The top hits of 1971 lacked... empathy, somehow. And 1973 was too showy - too variety-show-ready.It was 1972 where I absorbed everything that I love about music. Check out a playlist of hits from that year: they are awash with cacophony: rich strings with rhythmic horns with toy pianos with overdubbed harmonies and the occasional cheeky Hammond organ. There is so much MUSIC in this music.And the variety. Lean On Me by Bill Withers, American Pie by Don McLean, Heart Of Gold by Neil Young, The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face by Roberta Flack, The Candy Man by Sammy Davis, Jr, Take It Easy by the Eagles, Song Sung Blue by Neil Diamond, Papa Was A Rolling Stone by the Temptations…For me, these songs are visceral. They are hypnotic, time machines, siren song. And I discovered them all through the combination of Kansas City’s stalwart Soul and Adult Contemporary radio stations and a bright orange Radio Shack™ FlavorRadio™. It was amazing - you could hear music in the yard when you were trimming the sides of the grass, or in your room when you were (supposed to be) cleaning it or AT NIGHT when the world was (supposed to be) asleep. And for FREE. Miracle box. Thus listening to music is what I was doing that summer.The story my Mom tells is that as a tiny baby I was much so much soothed by music that she put a radio in my crib with me (at a safe distance).As a single parent, she couldn’t always “sleep when the baby sleeps”, and no one had yet invented the “let the baby piteously cry itself to sleep” strategy, so the radio solved two problems by allowing her to get me to sleep quickly and then use the time to do the dishes and boil the bottles and get a little sleep of her own. However, it did have one down side.R&B, rock and roll, and classical music all made me MORE awake and volatile, resulting in either fretting or dancing about (in a prone little baby position). The key to relaxation was country music.“Oh, come on little baby, now listen to this…” she would say, tuning to Bach or Smokey Robinson - to no avail: I was calmed only by the twang of a steel guitar. Even if she tried to change it after I’d fallen asleep, I would immediately stir with concern.So a few years later, when she discovered a super-affordable plastic radio WITH AN EARPHONE JACK, it seemed that God had heard her those many nights she lay in bed, unintentionally learning every word of “Coal Miner’s Daughter”, and had offered her a transistor-powered solace.So I listened to every radio station. I kind of knew there was a Black one and then other ones, but I listened anyway.My favorite songs of 1972 were “Let’s Stay Together” by Al Green, “A Horse With No Name” by America (my favorite horse song until “Wildfire” by Michael Martin Murphey (sp) in 1975)……and number one - “Summer Breeze” by Seals and Crofts (not to be confused with Sid and Marty Krofft of H.R. Pufnstuf fame).I liked this one so much that my mom actually bought me the single. I remember listening to it over and over, watching it spin around and around on the record player, trying to work out the lyrics.Even at that young of an age, I knew that most of these songs were about love, which seemed nice, but was a bit confused when lyrics became poetic and metaphorical. (I actually appreciate that now: the 1972 lyric “makin’ love” would be replaced in today’s music with unmistakably graphic step-by-step instruction.)What confused me most about “Summer Breeze” was its referrals to jasmine, mentioned in the song seven times. I had already been confused by Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair” references to “parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme”, which the nuns played on the guitar sometimes during chapel at school. I didn’t understand the “Herb / Love” angle, though it did make Thanksgiving more exciting, since that’s the only time I saw all of those at once.But jasmine notwithstanding, I clearly remember standing at the edge of our console record player, staring at the revolving turntable, singing along with both the lyrics and the strangely satisfying notes of the twangy guitar solo. And I did feel fine.Songs of 1972 Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

We live in a Brooklyn apartment; no basement or attic, so we have to rent a storage unit in one of those huge warehouses that used to be a factory for something. What’s stored there is a point of mild contention - things we thought we might need someday before we actually got to Someday, memorabilia of moments we’ve already forgotten, and tons of books, cds, tapes and tools that have since been replaced by weightless electronic versions.But deep within the melee are the holiday decorations: 12 sturdy plastic boxes of Christmas, 9 of Halloween, 5 of Easter, 2 with combined elements of Valentine’s, Mardi Gras, and St. Patricks, and only 1 for The Fourth of July.Christmas and Yule are all about lights. Tons of them. We have curated the colors somewhat and can no longer tolerate multiple blinkity strings going at the same time, but there are still enough that the room actually heats up a few degrees when we turn them all on.Halloween is EVERYTHING. Early on we discovered that some stores put Halloween items on super-close-out-sale to make swift way for Christmas decorations – if we went at just the right time we could clean up for the next year. This strategy has enabled us to surround ourselves each October with an ever expanding dynamic gallery of curiosities - pumpkin candles and plush screeching cats and REAL science lab equipment and teeny-tiny pirate skeletons and a talking (plastic) crystal ball and strings of orange lights.Easter is mostly plush rabbits. We’ve only bought one each year, but had the audacity to know one other for over three decades, so there are now (un-ironically) quite a LOT of bunnies. In addition, it is now tradition to place one fresh unopened box of yellow Marshmallow Peeps™ in the center of the fireplace mantel, with our light-up Peeps™ garland directly below it.Valentine’s is vintage greeting cards and red lights; Mardi Gras is beads and green, purple, and gold lights, and St. Patrick’s is music - and green lights. Fourth of July is all about fireworks and hot dogs, and we can’t decorate the apartment with either of those. I mean, we shouldn’t decorate the apartment with hot dogs: of course we COULD; that’s a keen example of the very freedoms the holiday represents.Nevertheless, instead of annual decorations of highly processed meats, plastic flags, and strings of red white and blue lights, I have put together over the years a small collection various oddities which at some point a retailer decided were “patriotic” and “desirable for purchase by a consumer”. In most cases, alignment with either or both of these categories was far from achieved, but they warm my heart with their creative enthusiasm.My absolute favorite Fourth of July item used to be our plastic Jell-O™ mold in the shape of the continental US, complete with little state lines. It is 14 inches wide and three and a half inches deep, requiring four boxes of Jell-O™ to fill. We have never attempted to use this item for its intended purpose because none of us are keen to consume twelve full cups of Jell-O™, even in the heat of the summer. Also, the idea of a wobbly USA kind of melting in the heat is a bit matchy-matchy with Right Now - feels more like a piece from the Whitney Biennial. In any case, last weekend it was surpassed by what I honestly consider to be the most fascinating and intriguing representation of national identity I have ever encountered:Two ceramic men, each holding one end of an unfinished cord on which hangs a three letter banner - U, S, and A. The rightmost figure appears of European descent, the other from the African Diaspora. One sports a hat of stars, the other, stripes. Wow, right? What a comment on the true nature of the USA - supported by tension and distance, interdependence on the existence of one another, yet made of a deep inherent fragility that discourages us from coming together. Wow. I told this to my wife, who listened dubiously, but pointed out that while everything I said was true, it was severely undercut by the fact that the figures were actually gnomes. Y’know, like garden gnomes. Tiny patriotic garden gnomes.And one is black. It’s the best 4th of July thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It was made in China. Fantastic. No notes. It makes zero sense and yet I cannot look away, because somebody said “let’s take that gnome machine we use to make December stuff and make some summer cash.” Innovation. Capitalism. MOXIE. That, is America right there. My wife wants the cats to find them. One would think you could classify such an item as “Americana”. Nope. Please do not investigate that term, as even the most perfunctory online search generates a gallery of “African American Collectibles” of a specific sort that ironically has NOTHING AT ALL to do with the word freedom, save to emphasize the overall importance of the concept.That is exactly the kind of imagery my new object negates - its unintentional whimsy stands firmly against crass misrepresentation, allowing my wild imagination to impose all kinds of more positive possible meanings.The most striking is perhaps an homage to the 1958 film “The Defiant Ones”, where Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis portray two escaped convicts on the run in the segregated South - connected by a chain they cannot break, forced to cooperate in order to move forward……except, you know, they’re gnomes. Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

Commencement speeches are engineered to inspire those beginning a new phase of life. They are meant to be epic, a benediction offering direction, courage and motivation, an address to the fresh battalion, a manifesto unique to a specific group of people and moment in time. I’ve been watching a lot of them online recently: movie stars, scientists and comedians dressed in colorful and entirely unearned robes and mortarboards, reading words most likely written by roomfuls of America’s most lauded professionals. O, how the young near-graduates laugh!About three quarters of the way through, these speeches always turn serious, offering heartfelt pleas to “always be yourselves” or “don’t let the b******s get you down” before rising to an inspirational and lightly tearful summit. We get one these speeches the end of high school, maybe a few more if we choose to go to college or graduate school, but that’s it. We deserve more of these. They are admittedly wasted on anxious young people mere minutes away from the freedom to not follow anyone’s advice.That being said, I did not remember who spoke at my own graduation. I had to look it up. It was Stephen J. Gould, zoologist, a very accomplished Harvard professor who wrote numerous books concerning evolution, stood against cultural oppression, spoke five different languages and loved baseball, books and light opera. A leader in science and history, the Library of Congress described him as “a living legend”. I do not remember a single word he said at that ceremony. I also did not remember the then-president of the university’s closing speech (I found a quote online from the school newspaper):“…our experiment in creating a republic of virtue passes to your hands…the civic ideal in America is your conception to grapple with, for better or worse.”Well, I should have paid more attention to that. Though now it seems a bit of a lazy hand-off, a toss of the national car keys with a tepid “…it only takes premium gas and there isn’t a spare tire…but, y’know, good luck with it.” Lest you now believe I am just a fanboy of ceremonial oratory, I must explain that what I’ve sought from these speeches was comforting, useful advice from people older than me, who were “there before me”, in the style of Yoda, or Uncle Ben, or Mr. Miyagi, or any role played by Morgan Freeman.Problem 1 - there are so many fewer people ‘older than me’ now. It’s hard to find anyone on my subway car who might have seen “Gilligan’s Island”.Problem 2 - it’s impossible to have been HERE before me because NOBODY has been HERE before. This time and space is bananas. We live in a combination of Wonderland, The Matrix, and wherever Milo’s car went when he entered The Phantom Tollbooth. At school, I had been carefully prepped to take on the world that existed at that time - at the end of my graduation ceremony I threw a hat in the air and stepped bravely into a whirlwind of what I believed to be predictable instability. What possible advice could anyone have offered on that day that would have successfully charted a course through the internet and smart phones? It would be petty to blame the hyper-genius zoologist, who very likely said something super useful like, “Evolve!”… but I wasn’t paying attention.Now I’m Morgan Freeman. I’m the old person. In a mentor role I speak calmly to expectant faces who look to me for virtual pins to drop in the map app on their metaphorical life-phones: direction, paths through the chaos. I do not have a room filled with WGA writers, so “don’t look down” is the best I’ve got. Back when everyone was taller than me, I used to look up more than I looked down - classroom blackboards, movie screens at the multiplex, the sky outside. I held the books I read in front of my uplifted head, never down at my belly. And I didn’t just look up - I looked out, away from myself, navigating the immediate challenges of physical space rather than the potential dreads of an endless digital universe. Don’t look down. No matter what your life brings, meet it eye to eye. Live where you are. Ok, well, even back then I didn’t pay attention all the time, but at least my head was filled with my own memories and experiences. For instance, once I was stranded on a desert island with a movie star, a professor, and this girl named Mary Ann… Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

They were freebut did not knowBut they were always freeuntil somebody kidnapped themtransported them by seaand took their language, names and historyand held them in captivityuntil December 1865 when that was legallyabolished and prohibitedacross the USAgood news for alllaw of the landpeace in our timeall bonds releasednew national realityno human would be propertybut they did not knowbecause in some remote locationon a profitable plantationsomeone heard this news andsimply did not pass it on.a legislative victory which now seemed doomed to failin areas where words sat stagnant like unopened mailso they were free,but did not knowfor knowing was the keyto unlock rusty shackles of the past two centuriesbut stories spreadword gets aroundand through the sonic undergroundthose last to hear were finally foundgood news for ALLLAW of the landALL BONDS RELEASED Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

Allow me to begin by firmly stating that every day is a “loving day” at our house, a so-pleasant stream of consideration, kind words, pleases and thank yous, and (very often) unsolicited cups of tea. Which is all very nice, but during this exact time of year such Loving shines a bit brighter, as we collectively remember that the legal right for our family to exist in the United States is one and a half years younger than I am.In 1967 the Supreme Court ruled in favor of a married couple, Mildred and Richard Loving, who nine years earlier were arrested in their own house for the crime of being a married couple, which was illegal in the entire state of Virginia (which was their home) between any African-American and European-Based person (which they were, respectively). Punishment for this crime ranged from one to five years in prison, but the Lovings received a light sentence of just a few nights in jail (even though Mildred was pregnant) followed by absolute banishment from the state of Virginia for the next 25 years…so, 1992.But they persevered, and made their case, and nine years later Loving v. Virginia was heard in the Supreme Court, who decided in their favor with a decision that not only made interracial marriage legal in Virginia, but in all the 15 other states in the U.S. with comparable laws. The couple was able to move back home with their children and re-unite with the rest of their families, without fear of further litigation. The Virginia win was particularly symbolic as a law of this kind had been active in that state for over 300 years. So, you know…older than the nation itself.In 2007, Ken Tanabe, child of interracial couple, decided that remembrance of this historic case should be an annual tradition. So every year, on June 12th, a national celebration of the striking down of the legal ban against interracial marriage occurs. It’s called Loving Day, the world’s largest celebration of multicultural families. There are picnics and get-togethers and meet-ups and whatnot all over the country.This year is the 19th celebration, and the 58th year since the verdict. Again, I am older than that court decision, yet live everyday in its glorious benefit.And I in no way take lightly that we got married in 1992, the original date the Loving’s banishment was to finally end - without their fight, our story would never have begun.A smooch on the cheek should not feel comparable to grand larceny, yet Loving Day reminds me and mine of how lucky we are that there were brave and noble warriors who were determined to make “us” possible. In fairy tales, heroes battle for magical rings or enchanted swords that hold the power to move mountains, destroy evil, or transcend time and space. All of the miles that they walk, puzzles they solve, and giant spiders they avoid or defeat (there are always giant spiders) are part of a quest for something ethereal, timeless, and for the most part unobtainable by the normal human/hobbit/wizard/scoundrel.In real life there always seem to be battles going on, and certainly within those battles are heroes, brave and true, but I sometimes find it difficult to identify the ring/sword/key/prize of it all, save the end of the actual battle. So often folks fight for FREEDOM!™, which sounds like a glorious prize demanding a parade of long colorful banners and golden trumpets, but more often represents the protection of our quietest moments – where we sit on a specific spot, or read a book, or hold somebody’s hand.At the end of the day, that’s what’s worth fighting for. Every birthday cake, folded sock, homework assist, and Friday Night Kitchen Dance Party holds deeper weight when I consider that it could just not be there, that the wonderful random circumstance which brought us together could have been swallowed by social madness had not heroes quested - not for riches or for power, but for each another.Thank you, Mildred and Richard. The very idea of ‘Loving’ means more now because of you both. Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

I don’t know if you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster and the theory of Atlantis, but your disbelief can calmly hover regarding the existence of time machines because I have one - and this week, I’ve used it to bring my very first guest to this column: Judge Cordell D. Meeks Sr. : my grandfather.My Time Machine is the cassette tape. Back in The Day we’d use it to curate a completely original 60, 90, or 120 minute experience, then physically hand it to another person to decode privately on their own tape device. The simplicity of its technology allows the cassette tape to capture sound as well as its surrounding context: the background noise and echo of a room, the voice of a DJ coming in at the end of a song recorded from the radio, even the age induced increase of hissing and pops enhance and define the moment captured on tape.In this case, in 1984 my mother assisted my grandfather as he rehearsed a speech written for the Elks Association’s annual convention; she had the idea of recording it, which he did several times. The cassette ended up at our house with all our other tapes, which I (of course) saved in various shoe boxes stuffed in a quite large trunk. Last month, while constructing an archival website about my grandparents, I found the tape and used software to isolate my grandpa’s voice. I could say “…the text of this speech is so relevant thatmy grandfather could have been written it today. “I could say that. It’s actually true. The craft of the writing is crystal clear, classic, still feels contemporary: apart from the specific “current” references, the rest could have been written yesterday. So again, I could say that.But it wouldn’t be entirely accurate, because my grandpa ’s writing style, however superlative, is not the sole reason the piece feels contemporary, for while my grandfather could have written this piece today, it may have less to do with my grandfather and more to do with today. 42 years is a long time. There’s not that many topics one could write a speech about, then just repeat that speech after nearly half a decade. Anybody wanna hear about how I played Tetris on my Tandy 1000 computer?At the time of this recording, my grandfather had retired from the bench; he was enjoying a life of reading and fishing and community service. I would call him exactly a month later to tell him I was going away to college. My grandfather was easygoing, focused, and empathetic, having navigated two World Wars and the entirety of the U.S. civil rights movement.This speech was not in complaint, it was a battle cry. It was a torch being passed down to someone. But SURELY not the audience - men at least as old as himself, most of them also retirees. So who was this supposed to inspire?Time Machine. I believe that the men in that room heard a speech that he had already given, on this cassette tape, to me, as an anchor for a time when the legislation of human dignity, carefully constructed from the experience and will of the public, was in danger of being dismantled. What follows is an excerpt from the 1984 speech “Fight For Right”, from our first guest writer, The Hon. Judge Cordell D. Meeks, Sr.“…as we pause and reflect, we discern that our inventory of rights and freedoms may be dwindling and eroding to an alarming degree…Today, not only are affirmative action programs being challenged in the courts, but the United States Justice Department is joining the challengers… Some of our greatest gains in the Civil Rights Movement have come through the courts. But just recently it has been suggested that the power of the courts be curbed, so that they will be limited, if not prohibited, from making decisions affecting civil rights. If that should happen the cause of human and civil rights could be set back for a century.But we must not let that happen. We must not let that ever happen. We must resist that and all other moves which would set us back. We must not suffer our children or our children’s children to face an uncertain future of re-segregated schools, of discriminatory housing, of unfair employment practice, and the denial of the freedom to register and vote. We shall not slide back into the cesspool of social, political, and economic slavery. Our backs will never again bear the bloody welts of the ugly whip of racism. We shall not sit in the easy rocking chair of complacency and watch our freedoms fade away.To avoid that disaster we know that mere words are not enough. There are those who think that working at our jobs, paying taxes, and obeying all the laws will guarantee our freedom of first class citizenship-but being just a good, honest, law abiding citizen is not enough. Being hard workers in our occupations and proficient in our professions is not enough. So if we are to turn back the tide that attempts to push us back into the place we found ourselves after the Civil War and Reconstruction days, after World War I and World War I!, if we want to keep what we have, recover what we had, and gain what we deserve, we must come together for the common cause of freedom. We must work for the total eradication of the last vestige of second class citizenship.As a prelude to the accomplishment of those goals, we must carefully choose our leaders in both public and private life.We need strong leaders upon whose characters the most stinging envy can find no stain. Leaders who will be bold, fearless, and uncompromising. Leaders tough enough to weather the storm of temptation. Leaders who will ask “What’s in it for us?” and not “What’s in it for me?” Leaders who will fight for right. We must use the powerful weapon of the ballot. We must support those public officials whose records clearly indicate beyond a reasonable doubt that they want freedom for all.If we follow that course, I believe that through our prayers, through our work, through our unselfish dedication to the principles of fair play and freedom and our unfaltering faith in almighty God, we will succeed.” Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe

I realized this week that there is a story I have skipped, a fixed point in my timeline that was seminal to my understanding (such as it is) of the world. Given the “generational grimoire” intent of this column, I will tell it now. Perhaps the telling will reveal the reasons I took so long to tell it. Let’s see.Velcro. I loved it in high school. An engineering miracle. Velcro was a piece of The Future that was part of your wardrobe, like wearing a LASER. The fact that, every so often, the loop side would get stuck in my hair in no way disenchanted my fascination with the stuff. It could fasten a shoe, secure a watch to your wrist, and (most impressively) effectively seal the flap of a waterproof polyester winter coat, like the one my mother sent me freshman year of college.The coat was cranberry red, had a special pocket for a tape cassette Walkman™ and a built-in channel for the headphone cord to travel to the hood without exposure to the elements. SO. COOL.I wore it with pride. It had something like 12 pockets. No one had ever seen anything like it. I called my mom to thank her, and was surprised when she apologized.“I know they must be wearing fancy coats up there…I wish I could get you a camelhair coat.” she said.I didn’t know what that was. There wasn’t an internet for me to look it up on, but what I imagined was more Bedouin than Burberry.My mother has always admired two styles of “formal” coats. One is the trenchcoat, the London Fog™ brand.The other is the camelhair coat, which she finds very fancy.* First of all, it is light colored, which means you have to have the sort of lifestyle where your coat doesn’t come in contact with anything that could possibly put dirt on it.* Then, it isn’t really all that warm, which means you have to have a lifestyle where you go from a hot car directly into a warm building all the time, so no parking and walking… this coat is strictly chauffeur-driven.* Third, it isn’t really waterproof, which means you have to have the sort of lifestyle where if there’s rain outside, you’re not going to come in contact with it.A camelhair coat is not for putting groceries in the car, or shoveling snow, or even getting the mail. In her eyes, a camelhair coat is more than an elegant piece of outerwear, but stands as a clear indicator that one’s lifestyle is quite a few steps above merely comfortable.All that being said, I really, really liked that Velcro coat.In the interest of time we flash forward 10 years. Zoe and I have moved to the east coast - she’s in school in Westchester and I’m sharing a railroad apartment in the East Village while holding down an entry level secretary job in a midtown ad agency. Times being what they were, and salaries what they weren’t, I quickly learned necessary skill sets for survival: dinner at “happy hours” where the purchase of one (discounted) cocktail allowed access to buffets as vast as they were middling. I kept a box of Ziploc™ bags at my work desk, having been inducted into a secret society where, after a sumptuous client meeting, we would each receive a call to hurry to the abandoned conference room and scavenge the leftover lunch items. Filled with the sparkle of youth, I happily walked the 37 blocks to and from work to save on subway fare, and once a week I would get that one slice from the corner pizzeria… no, not that corner, the other one with the really good pizza.A block from that pizza place was the Tile Bar. We just called it that…at the time there wasn’t a sign or anything. Given that my roommate’s financial situation was a great deal more liquid than my own, she frequented the spot, meeting associates from work there, university chums, etc. It was a very small space, but with its golden lighting, large windows and glass door, Tile Bar presented a 1930’s party spirit, where everyone in there was happy.One winter night walking home with my roommate we happened to pass by, and she wanted to stop in and see if anyone she knew was there. I waited outside - peering in the doorway like a Charles Dickens waif, when a gentleman from the far side of the bar saw me and rushed toward me, hands outstretched.I couldn’t possibly owe him money because I didn’t have any to lend, so I didn’t have any idea why he - “…you’re Jd Michaels!”“I am.”He grabbed me by the lapel of my coat (still polyester), pushed me outside the door and slammed me against the bar’s outer wall. “I saw you in school. You did everything.”“I probably should have done less and studied more…” “No, you weren’t afraid of what people thought of you. Were you? WERE YOU?”Again, he had a WWE wrestler grip on my lapels.“No”, I honestly replied (though under considerable duress). “What are you doing now?”I told him - secretary at an ad agency, no money, wife upstate at school… “Are you happy?”“Yeah - but look at you! You look fantastic.”And he did. In fact, he was wearing a camelhair coat. I tried to calm to tone of the conversation.“So, what are YOU doing?” “Wall Street. It’s b******t. We work 20 hours a day but I’m only doing it for the money for 10 years, but they say it’ll take 30 off my lifespan.”“That sounds awesome.” It did not sound awesome. “It’s not.”I did not know who this man was, but I decided, given the circumstances, to be fully transparent. “Dude! I LITERALLY have nothing! I live down that street behind you with the friendly drug dealer on the corner in an eight by ten room! You are the dream. My mother would applaud for 10 minutes straight if you walked off the plane instead of me! Your haircut is worth more than my grocery budget!” “But you’re happy.”“You’re not happy?” “Come here -”Not giving me much of a choice, he let go with one hand and pulled me to the glass door with the other. “See that girl?”“The blonde movie star girl?” This was an accurate description. Her hair was a miracle, her coat entirely impractical, her perfect teeth evident from 50 feet away. “Yeah. She’s my girlfriend.”“Oh, well…that’s cool, right? That’s gotta be nice.” “SHE doesn’t LOVE me…I couldn’t afford to even talk to her if I wasn’t at this job, and I hate this job! Does your wife love you?”Yes, she did. “Yeah, she does.” “Listen to me: you’re happy. You may not understand it now, it seems like you’re poor or whatever, but you’re happy. That’s what happy is. You made good decisions and didn’t go with the crowd or whatever. You’ve got to keep doing that. Promise me! Don’t let this happen to you!”And there on the cold winter street, in his gorgeous yet impractical coat, he started crying. So I gave him a big hug and said,“Ok, man.”I eventually got a better coat, but I can tell you honestly after 30 years, I have rarely had better advice. Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe