Category: Columns

By Ernie McCray

I was in Tucson, my hometown, not too long ago to celebrate scoring a whole lot of points (46) in a basketball game 50 years ago.

And what you might need to know is that after putting on such a show I didn’t celebrate with my teammates later at a popular eatery because old Jim Crow couldn’t care less about the athletic exploits of a half-naked tall skinny Negro.

But such days are long gone back in the Old Pueblo. While in town I was shown around by a dear friend and former student of mine, Debbie Sisco Rich, the CEO of the girl scouts there.

by John Williams

I’m now nearing three months in Saudi Arabia. Much of what I’ve already said remains unchanged.

However, I have learned that the characteristic black outer garment the women here wear is called an abaya, not a burka. I’ve also learned that is only worn when a woman wishes to go out in public. It isn’t worn around the house. Further, it is rather like your mom saying, “Don’t forget your jacket!” Except, of course, in this case the women are not told by their mothers, “Don’t forget your abaya!”, but by their culture.

Additionally, I’ve also learned that how much face a woman shows in public is decided by her husband. Some are allowed to (or is it directed to, I don’t know), show their entire face, quite nun like; others show just the eyes; and others show nothing of their faces at all, black from head to toe.

I’ve also learned that thobes, the characteristic attire for men, can be purchased in subtle pinstripes as well as in solid colors.

There is a belief in some cultures that we choose our parents before we are born and maybe that’s true.

All I can say is I’m glad I ended up with the mother I got. In my way of reminiscing, it seems I can remember our very first moments together with me in her womb all kicked back and relaxed, as I had been for nine months, when unexpectedly, on April 18th, 1938, something gripped me like a cook squeezing chorizo from its hull. And the next thing I knew this woman who had soothed me throughout all those months of the good and cozy life, this woman who had hummed and sung lullabies and spirituals that oozed such gentle soul – this woman was now screaming as though her hair was being snatched from her scalp.

by John Williams

Burkas: Just like Ford’s Model T, you can get a burka in any color you like as long as you like black. Men’s attire ranges from white, through grays, to black, plus shades of brown. None of this traditional attire is patterned; all solid colors.

Lefthandedness: Though statistics would say a certain percentage of people will be lefthanded, I haven’t met a single one here. And, if you extend your left hand to a Saudi or touch them with your’s, they will either draw back or, at the very least, wince.

Saudis don’t complain about their culture or society: In six weeks, I have not spoken to a Saudi female.

When I first heard the expression, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, I remember going: “What the hell? Is Clinton not feeling well?”

Now, of course, Bill must have wished for a little Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell back when he idealized out loud: “Is oral sex really sex?” – to which I felt like writing him a letter saying: “Check this out, Willie. If some liquid flies from your body like a rocket heading to lunar terrain and some of it becomes a news story around the world regarding a dress that it has stained and you are feeling no pain, wearing an expression on your face that’s both serene and insane – you have had sex, my man.”

Having experienced more than my share of discrimination, thanks to old Jim Crow, it’s the “less than” aspects of the deal that gnaws at your soul. It’s the everybody else can do it but you can’t and that quickly grows old and remains old.

by John Williams

Having now been in Saudi Arabia for only thirty-eight days, I have had time to develop no more than a newcomer’s perspective on this significant Gulf Region country. This is my first experience in a kingdom other than Disney’s magic one. While I can hardly help but consider the political basis of this state to be archaic, I am able to recognize that it is but one of the many systems extant on the planet today, and I can also recognize that whether it is the best or worst system currently in existence or is the best system that possibly could be developed are issues I am neither prepared nor qualified to determine, though I could, if pressed, express an opinion thereon.

If pressed, I would have to say it is unlikely that this system is the best possible system which could be created, but then to the limit of my understanding, no system is, and, further this one seems to work for its citizens. Saudis I meet spend no time complaining about their government, culture, or society.

Our children. They have always been our pride and joy. Two girls, Tawny Maya and Nyla Summer and Carlos Biko, our tremendously energetic boy. I can’t adequately express just how much I admire them for how they’ve stood tall in spite of the smothering sadness they’ve endured with their mother no longer in their lives other than in a spiritual sense.

I don’t know how I could have made it without them making sure that we continue hanging out to have a little fun every now and then as we’ve always done as a family.

Hey, guys, I guess you’ll have to “Bear Down” without me. I was looking forward to ambling – or whatever you call the way we 70 plus year old dudes walk now – out to mid court with you at the halftime of the U of A/Washington game while thousands of Wildcat fans look at us, going “You guys played basketball?”

Well, I intended to be there but I lost my wife a few months ago and I find that my energy ebbs and flows. …But, wow, has it really been fifty years since we were tearing it up back in old Bear Down Gym….

The other day, as I pondered the words, “Two aging hippies live here,” the greeting on the welcome mat at the front door of my home, I thought about how lucky I am to have had Nancy in my life for so long.

I wondered how we ever got together. I mean Nancy was raised in Pacific Palisades, in L.A., overlooking the mighty Pacific, across a canyon from Grace Kelly, Walter Matthau and Betty Davis, just to name a few.

by Ernie McCray

My Nancy has been gone for a few months now and I’m slowly getting back up on my feet to continue on the path she and I trod together for thirty-four years.

In spite of the sudden moments of pain that slow me down now and again I will strive to keep my eyes forever on the prize and hope she’s looking down on me with pride as I, more importantly, in the vernacular of the day, try to “keep it real” and not lose sight that changing the world is not the kind of enterprise that should be overly glamorized. Such thinking is based on how we used to laugh at how so many people rave about “The Good Old Days,” remembering events in their lives as, basically, little white lies.

by Ernie McCray

Once upon a time, at the outset of World War II, Japanese American students at CaIifornia State Universities were rounded up and shipped off to internment camps.

Now those Institutions of Higher Learning would like to grant honorary degrees to the students who suffered such indignities.

And I guess that although an honorary degree might not be as profitable as getting a home to replace the one you might have lost or as powerfully emotional as being reconnected with an old pal you were separated from and have never seen again – it’s never the less a nice gesture, a needed touch, perhaps, in making the world a better place.

My mind can’t move away from thoughts of fatherhood ever since I wrote “An Unrequited Wish” for the OB Rag sometime ago wherein I shared my belief that my late soul mate’s dad’s indiscretions with her throughout her childhood led to her taking her life.

Most of my reflecting has been about my own experiences as a dad starting back when I first heard that I was a father to be. The news caught me off guard completely. I mean, in one moment, I was strutting down the halls of Tucson High, wearing my big red “T” for my basketball artistry, All-City, All-State, All-Star, All-Ego, in the flow, high fiving and asking “What’s happening?” of everybody I happened to know, throwing in all the latest dance steps just to diversify the show – and, in the next moment, somewhere in the middle of all the festivities my girlfriend managed to say to me: “I’m pregnant.”