Category: Columns

Back in 1951 my classmates and I at John Spring Jr. High, in Tucson, in our pure innocence, made desegregation work in our part of town.

It was all about love and without it, in heavy doses, many of us black kids wouldn’t have been able to bear the pain and awkwardness that came with the new era. See, there we were on the very first day singing “Hail to John Spring Jr. High” just a summer away from having, for years, sung our “hail to’s” to Paul Laurence Dunbar. At Dunbar Jr. High. Overnight Dunbar’s name was exited from our lives like a word being erased at the blackboard – as though there was no realization that this great poet with pen in hand had captured in his imagery the very essence of our struggles as a people, in black dialect, no less. This man was tied to our very psyche, our sense of self. We couldn’t understand why his name had to go.

Now, I’m not a big fan of “State of” kinds of speeches. Most times they leave me with a feeling of “Now, that was some BS I could have spared myself.” But it was a joy the other night listening to Richard Barrera, the President of the San Diego City Schools Board of Education, share his thoughts on schools being community based in a refreshing non-preachy conversational tone as opposed to the usual empty tome that politicians usually read verbatim at such occasions in coma inducing tones.

His rap resonated with me because as an educator I can say, from having been “part of” creating some fairly dynamic learning environments in my time, that it can’t be done with out tons of input from the “hood.” I mean what is the purpose of education if not to empower communities, the stakeholders?

by John Williams

So far, I’ve commented on Saudi society with the intent of relating how different it is from the US. I haven’t intended to be critical. It hasn’t been my intent to elevate one system over the other. I haven’t wanted to choose. Now, though, I want to say some things about the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia (KSA) that I think are positive.

First, these people walk the walk when it comes to the question of hospitality. For example, as I’ve said, I live in a hotel. One afternoon, I was near the entrance having a smoke when a youthful Saudi man was also in the lobby (you are allowed to smoke inside of buildings here), pacing, apparently deeply in thought. At a point, his route brought him close enough to me for me to remark, “You seem to be thinking very seriously about something.”

by Ernie McCray

A little while ago I was asked if I would be willing to co-emcee a celebration of Helen Chavez’s life and it was one of those requests that make you go “Who, me? Cesar’s sweet Helen? You kiddin’ me? Well, uh, hey, by golly gee. Yessiree.” Talking about being honored. Whoo! Whee!

I mean, how could I not leap upon the opportunity to share a stage with a woman who took care of a man I loved, enabling him to stretch his wings as he heeded Gandhi and Martin’s call, understanding innately at deep soulful levels the “Why” of it all – as she, too, could not resist the call to change a world.

by Ernie McCray

Nothing has helped me get back into the swing of things more, after losing my sweetheart, than getting up on stage and giving life to a delightful old goofy character named Wilmer in a play called “Funny Little Thing.”

Wilmer, like I have been in real life, is crazy about his wife, Paula, and she feels the same about him as my Nancy loved me – in spite of the little “things” that come along in a marriage, the irrelevant minutia that Wilmer and Paula, like Nancy and I did, zip by with healthy “Don’t sweat the small stuff” attitudes.

What a fun role and it was just what I needed to discover if I could ever, again, focus my attention, for any reasonable length of time, on something other than the nagging emotional pain that for so long was caught up in my heart and soul like a cat entangled in a sack full of yarn.

My wife, Nancy, and I, have lived in Golden Hill since the early 70’s, drawn by it’s mixture of people who were of all the human colors and who were rich and poor and gay and straight and artistic and politically and civically activistic, if you will – a community of people contributing, in so many ways, to the making of a better world.

Then along came the Big Kitchen with open arms and we were inspired by how, under proprietor Judy-the-Beauty-On-Duty’s leadership and guidance, this now iconic cafe immediately blended in with our neighborhoods’ vibrant hopeful energy – making it, for us, and many others, from the very start, a place more of the heart and soul than a business enterprise. It was love at first sight.

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.