Author: Ernie McCray

By Ernie McCray

I hadn’t camped since Nancy died in ’09. But there I was, this past weekend, laying my sleeping bag down on the ground, to spend some time in the wilderness, near Julian, for two days and two nights with some of the most delightful people one could ever meet in life. It would be an understatement to define those moments as nice.

I mean we were living good, just kicking back, underneath a sky that was black as it could be considering that there was a full moon at play, eating meals off the grill, over burning logs we needed to feel cozy in the evening chill.

It had been a while but nothing had changed since the days when Nancy and I and our offspring would get out into the woods. Like back then, no sooner than I stepped out of my car my spiritual nature rose to the fore.

by Ernie McCray

The other night while watching tv I heard interim San Diego Mayor, Todd Gloria, mention that it’s “A new day at City Hall.”

Well, I’ve witnessed many a “new day” in my life and what’s going on today in City Hall doesn’t look anything like any one of those days to me. Instead, it looks like the same old same old to the millionth degree.

Oh, but there was a new day at City Hall. Not too long ago. And it wasn’t like any “new day” I have ever experienced before. It was something to behold. True blue. I mean no mayor, as in none, before Bob Filner, had ever cited visions for our city that coincided with mine, a vision that included people like me, many of us South of 8, activists, artists, performers, non-profit folks and business folks of common means, all trying to meet our community’s needs.

by Ernie McCray

I love getting out into the world and I’m particularly fond of spending time in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico with Maria, mi querida.

That little seaport town and its surroundings compose a world of beaches and bays and mountains and lush jungles and mahogany colored peoples – and kick-ass mosquitos who seem to savor the taste of tall old black men.

This part of the world, as I learn more about it, gives rise to my spiritual nature, granting me a sense of what it must have been like for the Tarascan, Aztec, Toltec, Olmec and Maya peoples who walked this world many yesterdays ago.

In La Chole, just a few miles away from Casa Contenta, our place in Zihua, I looked upon two ancient structures, a pyramid made of bricks and an arena wherein games were played where the victors were killed and the losers enslaved – making winning for these people a welcoming entry to the next sphere one might say.

By Ernie McCray

Prologue: I’ve had so many of what one might call moments in my life. Come from behind victories on playing courts and fields. Ovations on stage. Rich surprises. This list goes on and on. And now I find myself in a wonderful moment in time, enjoying a relationship with an incredible woman when, at one time, such a reality seemed unlikely for me. This is a poem I wrote for her 70th birthday party. Hey, I have a 70 year old foxy squeeze! How cool is that?

Feeling my way around
in a new place in life.
Had been to some dark places
had lost a wife,
my soul-mate, my queen,
in a haze, wondering and wandering,
how to move on to other things.
Looking at the world with tears in my eyes.
Breathing out.
Breathing in.
And there was fluttering
and in came
Maria on the wings of time.
Maria on the wings of time.

By Ernie McCray

I was a bit out of tune the other day from just dealing with whatever tiny bits of frazzle-dazzle life had laid in my path that day and as I’m mumbling to myself over my little “First World Problem”, my cell phone vibrates in my levis pocket and I turn it on and there’s a picture of the dude, my main man, the leader of the band: Lyric. Flashing a smile that says in its very cuteness “Hey, dude, let all that minutiae go, bro.”

And so I did, like the sun melting snow. I just let it slide off my hide. I do that anyway, via my DNA, but my grandson’s smile made me not only stop but pause. Any rose near my nose was going to be smelled.

By Ernie McCray

I don’t know where
the Regular Joe is with games
but I have lived to play all the games.
Hey, what can I say,
starting when I was but a babe,
I spent the greatest part of my childhood age
catching something
or knocking somebody down
or vice-versa,
copping a Heisman Trophy pose
and sidestepping some clown
who’s trying to run you down
so he can knock you down…
Somebody’s going down.

By Ernie McCray

I got a call on my message machine asking for my help regarding a “secular” matter. It was my first such request in all my 75 years so I couldn’t help but wonder, “Why me?” since I don’t, although I’m not religious, necessarily consider myself a secular human being, and also since this particular worldly problem pertained to La Jolla.

I mean when I moved to San Diego in 1962, I was, in and of my 6 foot five black self, a problem in La Jolla, feeling, whenever I visited, about as welcomed as a seal in the Children’s Pool, like an unwashed heathen in a pristine hallowed place.

This lovely hilly seaside community and I, however, over time have come a long way from when we started our relationship so many decades ago, as I have swum and body surfed in its waters and run and walked its shores and rapped with kids in its schools and read scripts on its stages. But I have never weighed in on La Jolla’s affairs, secular or otherwise.

by Ernie McCray

Lyric Allen Anderson arrived on this earth on May 29th, 2013. He’s become the tenth person I can claim as a grandchild and every one of them is dear to me. But this beautiful baby boy is particularly special in that he’s the first to carry within his veins the blood of his Grandma Nancy, who passed away four years ago, and mine. She was my valentine and I welcome Lyric Allen to the world in behalf of both of us.

Oh, I don’t know if I can describe what it felt like holding him in all his raw innocence, for the first time, as what words can convey how one feels when one of the dearest beings in the world to him gives birth to someone equally as cherished? I’ll portray it as simply a wonderful moment in time.

Thoughts on the “Fluency of Light”

By Ernie McCray

As I sit writing as a still new 75 year old, I’m so glad I’ve lived, in spite of how scary our world is at times, to see shreds of promise rise before my eyes, hopeful happenings like Arab Spring, gays marrying, and Occupy. I love anything that keeps hope alive.

By Ernie McCray

Just turned 75.
As I think about being a year older,
my first thought is
I’m so glad to be alive.
No jive.
On my list of priorities,
breathing is most high,
as I want to take all that I’ve seen,
over the years, with these old eyes,
all the bits and pieces of life
that are memorialized
and analyzed
and crystallized into my being’s archives
and use these experiences
in a constant quest
to stay wise –
because I dare to surmise
that there is no point in being 75
if you’re not wise.

by Ernie McCray

Everyone, perhaps, has now seen the picture of Martin Richard, the 8 year old boy who lost his life in Boston, holding a sign that says “No more hurting people – Peace.” Oh, if we, as a society, could live in such a caring way.

And these sentiments, expressed by Mr. Rogers, of children’s television fame, have gone viral in cyberspace: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'”

How true, and I see Martin, even though he has been taken away from us, as one of the “helpers” of the world that Mr. Rogers has painted in our minds as he is already helping me to carry on after the madness at the Boston Marathon.

His sentiments are so simple. So innocent. So child-like. So characteristic, if you will, of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.

Freedom. What a concept, huh? One of the sweetest words in the world’s vocabulary.

I learned a long time ago that the pursuit of freedom will make one do almost anything. Sometimes in the spur of a moment. I used to love to hear my maternal grandfather tell about how he woke up one day on a sharecropper’s plot of land in Hawkinsville, Georgia, thinking to himself, “God, I don’t know what all is out there in this world but I just know You created something better than this.”

At about the same time “big boss man” came riding up on his horse rallying what were supposed to be “free men” to the fields, “yelling and spitting tobacco every which-a-away” my grandfather would say and the next thing he knew he had snatched the man off his horse, gave him the ass-kicking of his life and then ran for that very life until he reached the Gulf of Mexico – to what, he didn’t know. He just knew he had to be free.

I thought of him a little while back at a forum at the Malcolm X Library that featured four of a group of people who stand tall in my mind and soul: The Freedom Riders. Yvette Porter, of the Walter J. Porter Educational & Community Foundation, brought them to town.