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Mychal Bell
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Short Takes

 1. Sharpton, Westward Ho, And Questions Who Let Her Out of Jail.  Hope That's a Refundable Ticket

 2. Obama and Tony Who?

 3. BET Goes to the Land of the Rising Sun, A Damn Dark Day

 4. Judge Blows Off 10-Year Sentence for Oral Sex

Most mornings I walk with my son to the bus stop to wait for the bus that takes him to school.  But before you label me a "helicopter parent" let me be very clear, he's doing me a huge favor by acting as the external motivation for my sagging self motivation. After all the miles I've run, swum and biked, occasionally, I need a kick in the rear. Mojo, my four- legged, foot-tall, eleven-pound protector and I keep walking for another 5 miles after I leave my son at the bus stop.  Some mornings Jonathan and I walk in silence. Some mornings we toss a ball back and forth or kick a soccer ball to one another.  The biggest disruption is the laughter and finger-pointing about who let the ball roll into rush hour traffic.  As my son's 12^th birthday is fast approaching at the end of this month, I know my morning time with him may be coming to a close.  After all, junior high school awaits in September and no matter how good looking a boy's mother is, he just doesn't want to be seen with her--as it should be.  I've spent the better portion of my life working out, staying physically fit for those very moments five mornings a week when the only thing between him and me is an abbreviated test of athletic prowess.  But I'm running out of time.

When he was just learning to walk, it seemed that all of his steps led to my outstretched arms; chubby legs gaining confidence and unseen mental determination being formed with each step.  At some point after so many steps had been accomplished, as I expected, my son eschewed the safety of my arms and was able to start to navigate in the real world.  From the first time he rode the bus by himself at eight years old to now getting lost for brief periods after school.  Just long enough to flex his independence muscles but not allow me to worry too long.  I'm proud of the way he has handled his steps toward independence.  I'm thankful that he still allows our morning testosterone-driven play or just the silence of a spring morning.  Gone are the days when he used to look for my outstretched hand to guide him cross the street and protect him from the hazards that lurked there. That simple act of love and parenting has always fascinated me. I still love to see the innate and intimate choreography between children and parents just standing on the corner, waiting.  Then two hands meet, giving love and receiving it. Jonathan always seems to be walking in front of me now, as it should be.  I watch his long legs, his footwork around a soccer ball and I'm thankful that the genetics came together so perfectly and allows his body to work so effortlessly.

Just up 16^th Street about a half mile in the other direction from where my son and I walk to the bus stop is Walter Reed Army Medical Hospital.  In that place there are sons and daughters of other mothers who will not see their children play soccer, shoot hoops or walk anywhere.  In that place are men and women who have served their country and who are trying desperately to put their lives and bodies back together again, men and women whose own children will only know bionic hugs and handholding. They wear the replacement body parts of people who have sacrificed much for this country.

On May 29^th Cindy Sheehan announced her withdrawal from the anti-war movement.  Her son Casey was killed in Iraq in 2004.  He fought the good fight.  As have they all in Iraq, Afghanistan and Walter Reed.  Perhaps it could be said that Sheehan herself, also fought the good fight. She sacrificed much in an effort to insure that her son and thousands of other didn't and will not die in vain.  I can't say whether she allowed herself to be used by the Democrats, by Chavez or by Castro.  But what do you say of a cause for which even a mother who has lost so much is no longer willing to fight.

On the front page of the Outlook section of The Washington Post, on Sunday May 27th, there was an article titled "I Lost My Son to a War I Oppose.  We Were Both Doing Our Duty" by Andrew J. Bacevich.  Mr. Bacevich's son Andrew died on May 13^th , which this year was also Mother's Day.  In my last commentary I shared with readers the "confluence" of events that day holds for me.  Only in my most cruel nightmares would my son's death be added to that date which has become so significant to me.

Mr. Bacevich teaches history and international relations at Boston University.  He has also been an outspoken critic of the US Government's instigation and continued role in the war in Iraq.  He writes about people who "endorse" President Bush's "crusade to spread democracy across the Muslim world and to eliminate tyranny from the face of the Earth.  They insist not only that his decision to invade Iraq in 2003 was correct but that the war there can still be won.  Some--the members of the-surge-is-already-working school of  thought--even profess to see victory just over the horizon." He continues, "I believe that such notions are dead wrong and doomed to fail.  In books, articles and op-ed pieces, in talks to audiences large and small, I have said as much."

Mr. Bacevich's continuous outspoken criticism of the war has earned him accusatory letters after his son's death.  The poison pen wielding authors accused Mr. Bacevich of contributing to his son's death.  How absolutely disgusting.

I am saddened and sorry for Cindy Sheehan and Andrew Bacevich.  Two out of millions of parents and ordinary Americans who last September thought that their insistent voices and votes meant change was on its way. 

Shortly before the Memorial Day recess, over on Capital Hill, there was an accounting, a tally, yes a vote.  The American people lost.  After all the hoopla and histrionics for Democrats to take over the House and Senate during the mid-term elections--most specifically, so that they could end the Iraq nightmare--this is what the American people got in a losing effort.  The Senate voted 80-14 and the House voted 280-142.  The funding bill for the Iraq war was passed without a timeline for troops to start to return home. Nancy Pelosi for all her hundred-hour bluster upon taking office and the great photo op with the kids at the Speaker of the House podium and Harry Reid failed the American people and failed my son.  They cast their limp and spineless votes and left town leaving behind George Bush looking like a great politician. 

I challenge Speaker Pelosi to look into the eyes of those young children on the podium when she took office and tell them that in a few short years they will have to head off to a place where they will be used as nothing more than targets for angry people who don't want them in their country.  Wait, what am I thinking.  Madame Speaker's children and grandchildren will be safe along with all the other children of congressmen and senators or children from wealthy Texas oil families.

I guess the term "public servant" is outmoded and quite ridiculous to use in this day and time given the way public servants have taken to lining  their pockets even in this post-Jack Abramoff era.  Need a more recent example?  Try William Jefferson (D-Louisiana) making illegal deals in the House dining room.  And, no, I won't entertain any notion of trumped up charges and the White man trying to keep a brother down. $90,000 grand stashed in the freezer has a certain illegal feel about it. And, yes, I still believe in innocent until proven guilty. But whoever those people are over on Capital Hill and whatever you chose to call them, Democrats particularly, disappointed, angered, caused my outrage and tears.

But what is the mother of a soon-to-be 12-year old to do?  What can I do right now to save my son from possible death and dismemberment?  Sounds rather dramatic doesn't it?  But what if he and I were there on 16^th Street and I see the angry, growling grill of a car barreling toward those long, precious legs of my too-soon-to-be 12 year old son?  Would I just watch as the car knocks him out of his shoes, rips an arm from his shoulder, makes his legs no longer usable or takes the very breath and life out of his body?  Or would I muster every ounce of strength, courage and remaining elasticity in my body to push, pull, yank or tackle him out of harm's way.  And as the car goes whizzing past, smashing and exploding against a tree or something more expendable than my son's life, I would breathe deeply and pray, giving thanks that this was not the day he left me.

In the Nation's Capital last weekend, at a street fair, a car driven by a woman who was allegedly coked or cracked up, steered her car into a large group of people leaving the afternoon's festivities.  The group included extended families, friends and neighbors walking with children and pushing strollers after what should have been a good time at an annual neighborhood event.  The aftermath in words and pictures told the parent's stories, one after another, about pushing startled and frightened children or strollers with sleeping children out of harm's way.  The street was littered with flattened and mangled strollers. Fortunately, the casualties were mostly bumps and bruises instead of horrific deaths. 

Right now, today, if each parent could look into the eyes of their young sons and daughters and literally see their future, going off to war and returning without limbs or humanity. Would they sit by and let it happen.  Don't we owe it to our children to prepare them to live their best life possible?  Aren't we investing in our children's future when we teach them to read? Aren't we investing in our children's future when we save for their college education?  Aren't we investing in our children's future when we tell today's politicians, "No, not our children"?

Back to my morning reverie--I watch my son's liquid motions, quick smile and attempts to outdo me as we throw balls or exchange snappy one-liners.  In six years my son will be eighteen years old.  For several days last week I tried to imagine my son in six years with a swagger that hasn't been earned yet and full of himself and the belief that he can conquer the world. Will Iraq and Afghanistan still be raging?  Will North Korea or Pakistan or Palestine be the responsibility of the United States?  Right now the education system is failing too many children, too many Americans are hungry and homeless and those who thought that they had climbed another rung up on the ladder to home ownership are losing those homes to sub-prime mortgage failures. Louisiana hasn't been rebuilt, but somebody walked away from that financial disaster area with billions and the lack of health care for every person in this land of plenty is an abomination.  Perhaps the world would look a bit kinder on our fat American asses and interference in other countries' affairs if our own house was in order.  We all know it's not.

Several years ago two African American representatives, Charles Rangel (D-New York) and John Conyers, Jr. (D-Michigan), sponsored legislation for compulsory national service.  It failed 402-2 in the House. What does that say about the commitment to the war effort?  In 2001, African-Americans made up about 22.3 percent of the Army, compared with 14.5 percent in 2005.  Given the lack of support for the war in Iraq in the African American community, what were these two Congressmen thinking?  This community that has been plagued by Black men's high rates of unemployment, incarceration, and public health issues, should now be sent to war?  Well at least we'd get them off the streets here and earning a paycheck, right?

Sometimes, for a mom, children's lives are remembered by developmental milestones:  first step, first word, first day of school. Their young lives are filled with "firsts." Maybe my tears that day, when the House and Senate failed me, were for my son's "will never be" moments should the US government decide to continue its role as the world police.  For my son and thousands of others who are at risk if this civil war in Iraq continues or if another acronym like GWOT is brandished by the Department of Defense and Homeland Security to gain and keep control of the masses, just like those damn terror alert colors.  Many of my son's "firsts" may never be in just six years.  Consider this:  The youngest of the troops serving in Iraq right now, the 18 year olds, were in high school last year; four years earlier they were in junior high.  That just doesn't seem right to me.

Sometimes, after I part ways with my son, I walk the other way on 16^th Street, north toward Walter Reed.  I slow and occasionally pause at the gated entrance.  I watch the irony of people running the track on the hospital grounds. I think about the mothers and families who are fighting, still, within those walls, trying to help make their sons and daughters whole again.  Sometimes it's very clear that becoming whole again will be a struggle for just for the mind, soul and spirit because IEDs took parts of their bodies which have been left in the desert a long way from home.

As Americans, are we really willing to leave the fate of our children in the hands of people who take the money and run and who don't have our collective backs?  Cindy, I'm sorry that the struggle was more than you could continue to bear.  Andrew, your question was not only appropriate but necessary, "What exactly is a father's duty when his son is sent into harm's way?" I'm sorry that some hawk-at-any-cost has tried to blame you for your son's death.  But now it's my son's life that is in danger and just as if an out of control car were careening toward him, I will do whatever is necessary to save his life.  As it should be.

See ya next time,
Sunny

Short Takes

 1.Time Magazine's Most Influential People Actually Found Interesting People of Color

 2. Mormons in the 'Hood, And After the Black Soul

 3. Oprah, President Maker? NewsMax Says Maybe

 4. Palestinian Moms, They Too Can Blow Themselves Up for God

--  Chicago Tribune, Hey, Is This An Anti-war Rally or An Obama '08 Rally, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

--  The Washington Post, Carter Blasts Bush with his Nobel Peace Prize-winning-former-president-with-a-successful-track record-of-diplomacy death ray!

--  Jena, Louisiana's Racial Demons.  Don't Worry This is the US of A, Those Pesky Little Things Never Go Away

--  Talk About Talk Radio

--  The Economist, Zimbabwe In the Dark, Still Wishing Mugabe Was in the Wind

--  International Herald Tribune, Africa's Colleges Teaching Who?

--  The Land of Milk and Honey is Just a Bus Ride from Haiti

--  Chicago's Schools Hip Hop Workshops

--  Editor & Publisher, Spike Lee Puts Money Where His Mouth Is, Film at 11

--  The Last Words from August Wilson

--  Who Ate Chocolate City?

--  For the Musically Stuck in a Rut:  Macy Gray & Me, Doin' Something!

--  Blatant Self Promotion for--what was supposed to be video and is now audio--New Feature, Sunny's Washington and More Blatant Self Promotion, The ABW T-Shirt!

See ya next time,
Sunny!

May 13^th is here again.  I was married on that date in 1989. In between then and now, I have celebrated fifteen Mother's Days, which sometimes fell on May 13^th, which was my wedding anniversary. And at the Superior Court in Washington, DC, I appeared before a judge who proclaimed me divorced.  It was May 13, 2006.  My marriage license and divorce decree are dated May 13^th.  For me the role of wife and mother comes to a bittersweet confluence on May 13^th.

I have often questioned my ability as a mother, at no time more arduously than after I filed for divorce.  Was I failing my daughter and son by acting on my long-term unhappiness?  Was I being selfish?  Was I depriving them and maybe even myself of a better life if I had just swallowed hard and stayed?  It was the fall of 2001, and Washington, DC; New York; and Pennsylvania burned with the hatred of people in a far-off place.  On September 11th I was strictly a mother.  As I sped to each of my children's schools, I hoped that the administration of Sidwell Friends and Maret had delivered the news in an age-appropriate fashion.  I was shopping along Rockville Pike when I heard it. Looking back on it later, I realized how shopping helped to fill the hole that had grown in my heart over the years of my marriage.  I ran out to my car and drove first to my son's school. I don't really remember driving, just crying.  I dried my tears and popped my son in his car seat and made my way to my daughter's school.  She had been told of the events of the day.  We rode home in silence, Joanna knowing and Jonathan oblivious.  As I pulled into my driveway I breathed deeply.  I had gotten all of us home and not encountered anything blowing up or anyone else dying. I had never been so happy to see their six- and ten-year-old faces.  If anything else was going to happen that day--another plane, a bomb--I wanted all of us together.  What I did not do was call my husband.  I knew then that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life living the life I was leading.  Two months later, I filed for a separation.  As any reader who can count has now figured out it took five years to undo my marriage.  A friend, currently in therapy, relayed my story to his therapist.  Apparently, mine was not the only marriage that failed that day in September.

Joanna and Jonathan are fifteen and eleven now.  Their father has remarried.  I have not.  I spent ten years as a stay-at-home mother and while I feel like the world is continuing to move forward, I am stuck in place, trying to find my place.  I always knew that I wanted to raise my children and not leave them in someone else's care. I consider myself unbelievably blessed to have spent that time with them.  When I was married and we started to reap the benefits of a successful start-up company, the time finally came and I kissed my 9-to-5 goodbye.  I traded it in for a 24/7--earlier dinners, playtime, carpool lines, regular trips to Toys R Us, Sesame Street, Blues Clues, and lots of face time at the children's schools.  There weren't any Mocha Moms. The private schools that the kids attended, and their friends' mothers and fathers, never warmed to minority parents. Our presence was simply to be tolerated in the interest of creating a diverse student body.  It was a lonely existence in which I never gave full consideration to what comes after.  But I never once questioned whether I was doing the right thing.

I am no longer a wife.  I will always be a mother.  But who am I as a person?  Prior to 2003 I hadn't worked outside the home for ten years.  My kids are closer to adolescence and adulthood now and I've learned to gradually loosen the tether that connects us to one another. Of late, out of emotional necessity and because of the void that has been created over the last fifteen years, I question more and more whether my motherhood defines me and how do I get to the woman that I'm supposed to be, because this can't be it. 

The last several years have been the most difficult of my life, doubly so because the upheaval has been played out in the presence of my children.  I've lost, given up, pawned, sold, bartered, and had repossessed just about all of my previous married existence and more than a few things from my now single life.  There is no sign left of my married self--except my children.  I've chosen to look at the casting off as something that was necessary and perhaps even from God--an exercise in living more honestly and regaining some part of my soul that had been lost while I tried to fill it up with material things.  Last month, I took my remaining Hermes scarves to the pawn shop to pay the last of my daughter's tuition for this school year--a responsibility that is solely mine because of shoddy legal representation.  While I was there the woman behind the counter asked if the mesh bracelet I was wearing was a Tiffany.  I didn't trip at the suggestion that it could have been a knock off; she didn't know me.  I sold that too.  And so it continues.

In the Sunday, April 15^th Book World of The Washington Post, Rachel Hartigan Shea reviewed The Feminine Mistake: Are We Giving Up Too Much? by Leslie Bennetts.  I haven't read the book yet, but I intend to.  What struck me was that the facts, as detailed by the author, resembled my life--no, were my life. 

From time to time I give a talk for Phoenix Group Seminars titled "A Smart Woman's Marriage: What to Do before and after Saying 'I Do.'"  I have told many times over the stories from my marriage and given advice on how to avoid the pitfalls that I stumbled into.  But nothing speaks to me louder than the facts and figures contained in The Feminine Mistake.

Men tend to benefit financially from divorce, while their ex-wives usually see their standard of living sink by more than a third.

After a divorce, a woman's standard of living drops 36 percent.  A man's rises 28 percent.

Only 74 percent of stay-at-home mothers who want to return to work land jobs; of these, only 40 percent are able to find full-time, professional employment.  And that's after being out of work for an average of just 2.2 years.

Mothers are 44 percent less likely to be hired than nonmothers with the same experience.

Employers offer mothers an average of $11,000 less in starting salary than nonmothers with the same qualifications.

Women lose 37 percent of their earning power after three years at home.

These are sad statistics.  Statistics that I wish more women--particularly young women would pay attention to.  There is more thought put into buying shoes and getting nails done than creating a plan for managing their marriages. It's so easy to say, "It won't happen to me." But with nearly half the marriages in America ending in divorce, it's happening to lots of people. It is no wonder that as of late, looking for something more than just a job, and believing that the skills represented on my resume are top notch and that I've got something great to offer an employer, apparently, what prospective employers are seeing, overwhelmingly, is that I'm a mother trying to return to the traditional workforce.

I have been complemented on my children's manners, intelligence, and integrity.  I am proud that I guided my children through the lean and fat times.  We have weathered some ferocious storms collectively and independently, as it should be with kids who are starting to make their own way in the world.

In the last day or so, while I alternated between dreading and looking forward to writing this piece, Joanna coincidentally reminisced about a flower that I planted annually in a garden we don't own any longer. The flower bloomed with delicate, pendulous red or pink blossoms. I had planted it when times were different--I've learned not to say better. I was rather surprised by her remembering the name of the flower.  She always seemed to be ignoring my attempts to get her involved in my gardening. There along a shady part of the path leading to the side of the house, I planted bleeding hearts.  As a mother, my heart will always bleed and ache and burst with pride for the children that I've brought into the world.

As a woman trying to find her way, my heart, my spirit, my soul, questions: What do I do now? Is it my turn?  Will I find a way to fulfill my dreams and fight against what seem to be insurmountable statistics?

I am a writer. It's taken me fifteen years, two kids, and one divorce to find my voice.  I am proud of it and proud of my efforts to live the rest of my life genuine and true and always listening.  Perhaps, I can flip the script a bit, and one day the kids will be proud of me.

So, on Sunday May 13^th I will think about the children's father and forgive him for not loving me the way I deserved and needed to be loved.  And I am starting to forgive myself for losing so much of myself for so long.  I will celebrate Mother's Day, my wedding anniversary, and the date of my divorce.  All three events helped to shape who I am and who I am to become.

So what! CBS cut Don Imus loose. It doesn't mean that we won't have to suffer his brand of "humor" or "journalism" ever again.  I have grown weary of hearing other media types describe his show as entertainment.  As if that justifies the bigotry.  These are the days in which any thing can be said and accepted by the masses as long as it wears the "humor" or rap music label.  The list is long of like-minded organizations that exist in the mainstream and on the fringe, major networks included, who will be more than willing to find a place for Don Imus and his very special brand of racism, sexism and misanthropy.  Don Imus's fall to earth will be gentle, trust me!  He received millions each year for his particular brand of "humor."  His firing will not pose a hardship.  Somewhere an executive is furiously trying to contact Imus's agent to sign him to a new big fat contract.

After a week of television and radio networks and civil rights groups posturing, the fallout from this mess is still sending ripples across the public opinion pond.  But I hope there isn't anyone who believes that first GE, the parent company of NBC and MSNBC, and then CBS looked into their individual and collective psyches, moved a few cobwebs out of the way, found a door with a rusted lock, opened it and discovered the right thing to do just lying about amongst the clutter and litter.  Noooo!  What CBS and MSNBC found was that advertisers rule.  And in the mist of its own self destructive bender for the last six months GE/NBC didn't want to add empty advertising coffers to its long list of problems. Don Imus had been allowed to run amok and unchecked for over thirty years. The decision made by Steve Capus and Jeff Zucker of NBC and Les Moonves at CBS was a financial one, not one intended to stand up to the cultural cesspool that some media outlets have been for years or to exhibit a whit of social responsibility.

While some folks think that the firing took too long coming, the delay in doing the right thing gave civil rights organizations and anyone else who thought they could impact the situation an opportunity to rally their forces, get press releases written, and get lots of face time doing what seems to be the ever increasing list of morning news shows.  So I for one am very happy that CBS and MSNBC paused and looked over their shoulders to see if anyone was paying attention before firing Mr. Imus. 

I remember when I first heard the news.  I had just returned from a trip to North Carolina that I thought would be the topic of my next commentary.  Trying to catch up after being unplugged for a few days, I was greeted by the Don Imus story leading the evening news.

I've waited to see how the media would handle one of their own and I especially wanted to see how civil rights groups would proceed.  I wanted to pick up the phone right then at 7:30 p.m. and ask Rev. Jackson and the Urban League and the NAACP what are "we" going to do.  I wanted to see who would come to the defense of Black women. I didn't want to wear my journalist's objectivity.  This was personal on many levels. 

I am an athlete; I have a 15 year old daughter who is a strong, capable and still-developing athlete.  I'm an African American woman who on most days doesn't have a hair issue, but have friends who do. Finally, I have worked in broadcasting throughout my career, most recently at NBC News' Washington Bureau. I know the mentality of that field of work all too well.

So there I sat on my sofa, mouth agape, outrage and anger building in me so quickly and so hot that my breathing quickened and nervous sweat stained the armpits of my t-shirt.  I thought about the time when I was 8 years old, playing kickball in the back of my grandmothers' house with my cousins and the last little white boy in the neighborhood whose family hadn't fled to the suburbs. He was angry that his face had, accidentally, been used to stop one of my ferocious kicks.  He called me a nigger.  I snapped. Very quietly I went to get a knife from my grandmother's kitchen.  He didn't know that I was fresh from Boston, that I had lived with Ella Collins, Malcolm X's half sister, that I had the benefit of young impressionable ears which had listened to Malcolm X many times over and that my heart still ached for him.  I was not going to tolerate being called a nigger by this white devil.  Fortunately, my cousin stopped me before I eviscerated that boy.  But, that's the ancient-I-don't-want-to-feel-this-crap-ever-again anger that Don Imus stirred up in me on April 4, 2007.

I thought of all the advancements that Title IX had bestowed on female athletes.  While the law itself has been the source of much debate and litigation, what cannot be refuted is that the number of female athletes skyrocketed since its enactment.  While not specifically designed to benefit athletes, that has been the most obvious result.  The Tennessee and Rutgers women's basketball teams are the continuation of women's commitment to themselves and their futures.  The players are at the apex of their physicality, reveling in their journey to the NCAA Basketball Final. They are walking in the footsteps of so many women who have come before and after Title IX's 1972 enactment and excelled beyond belief. To have their efforts, their passion, their legacy, soiled and sullied by a networked-sanctioned bigot is outrageous.

Just a reminder of some who came after 1972: 

1980 - Mary Decker becomes the first woman to run a mile in under 4 and a half minutes in Philadelphia on Jan. 25.

1982 - The first NCAA college basketball championship for women is held. Louisiana Tech defeated Cheyney State 76-62.

1984 - Georgeann Wells-Blackwell, a 6'7" center for West Virginia, is the first woman to dunk a basketball in a collegiate game against Charleston on Dec. 21.

1986 - Debi Thomas becomes the first black woman to win the US figure skating singles championship.

1987 - Jackie Joyner-Kersee becomes the first woman athlete to be featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated (aside from the swimsuit edition)

1988 - Picabo Street, age 16, wins the national junior downhill and Super G skiing titles.

1989 - By the end of the decade, the number of women playing tennis had risen from 4 to 11 million.

1991 - The US Women's Soccer team wins the first-ever women's world championship, beating Norway.

1997 - The NBA hires two female referees, Dee Kantner and Violet Palmer, the first to work regular-season games in a major men's pro sports league.

The list of women is long and illustrious who have kicked down doors, pushed the limits of their mental and physical endurance, tested their mettle and left a trail for other girls and women to follow, like my daughter.  Last year my daughter decided she wanted to wrestle.  My daughter's school does not have a girls wrestling team.  So she competed, the only girl, on the boy's team.  Damn, did she get strong!  She gained confidence in her own body's ability and started to understand the importance of a "don't mess with mess with me" persona that will prove invaluable later in life.

Don Imus did not just strike at female athletes, he struck a blow at Black women's image of themselves and how the world sees all of us.  I thought about these talented African American athletes that to him were not just "hos," they were "nappy headed."  And as the interminable wait in any hairdresser's shop on a Saturday can attest, Black women and their hair have issues.  If there is any one word that stabs personally and emotionally and still ties us to our slave history, it is "nappy headed."  Having "good hair" went hand in hand with being fair skinned and being more acceptable to the black and white world.  The world where the possibility of attaining a better life through good hair and lighter skin is part and parcel of the collective yoke and amnesia that we as women still want to bear and wallow in along with the jar of Nadinola bleaching cream. Recently, I worked with a woman at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.  Ms. J. very clearly had a weave.  But not just a track or two.  Can you say Barbaro.  This was a mane down her back that would make Barbie jealous. And when it went bad it also went ugly--tracks and thread visible at five hundred paces.  The only thing it wasn't was blonde and I was rather surprised by that.  So much effort and money is spent in the pursuit of a perceived ideal that is artificial at best and denigrating and self defeating at its worst.  How could we not be defensive about a duplicitous psychology in which we have been complicit for several hundred years?

Jason Whitlock, a columnist from Kansas City, suggested recently on the Today Show that the women of Rutgers should not feel offended by Imus's remarks.  Perhaps if it had been a blow that landed in the middle of his overly ample male form, we would see what issues bubble up from his psyche.

India Arie sings "I Am Not My Hair." I guess it's just a song with a nice beat that's easy to dance to because by the looks of the ever increasing numbers of Black women who have succumbed to the weave we're still not comfortable with our own hair or in our own skin.

As news organizations pay lip service manuvering this ordeal to its quiet and nothing's-really-changed ending, I thought about my time at NBC News' Washington Bureau.  The number of minority correspondents, producers, writers and even desk assistants was miniscule.  I often, quietly--yes, just to myself--questioned the vision and the corporate culture of an organization that could not see that the world was changing.  The world is becoming more brown--and that perspective needed to be represented. NBC seemed to be ignoring all of the signposts that would have successfully and gracefully pulled it into the new millennium.   It was always amazing to me how many of my daily conversations with other minorities at the bureau centered on race.  Minority correspondents would pitch stories that were DOA or they were left with stories that had no legs. Joe Johns, Suzanne Malveaux and Gwen Ifill (whose appearance on Meet the Press this morning made me proud) are talented correspondents who have moved on quickly from NBC News and in most instances moved on to enjoy professional success at CNN and public television and in ways that NBC simply did not have the vision to allow. And just to give credit where it's due, it was the one African American correspondent at the bureau who believed in  me and encouraged my efforts to work in radio.  Recently when I was on XM, I called on him for an interview--he didn't hesitate.

Minority producers were openly undermined by prima donna correspondents who dictated, quite specifically, that they would not work with the few minority producers on staff at the bureau. Minority producers are a rarity at the bureau these days.  If correspondents are the face and voice of a news piece, producers are the heart and soul.  They know how and where to get information and how to turn it into a well-rounded story.  And, yes, it is ok and right that the perspective, while always objective, come from a person of color. There were at most five minority producers in the bureau several years ago.  Checking with friends and colleagues in the last several days and who have survived the cutbacks, that number has dwindled due to NBC's latest round of buyouts, cutbacks and layoffs.  In training are desk assistants, the next generation of broadcasters, mostly blonde, blue-eyed women who learn the ropes in the same subtle and unbelievably racially charged atmosphere.  Their reality continues to be that the world looks like them and that world is monochromatic.

Recently, on Meet the Press, Tim Russert presented separate graphics of the Democrats and the Republicans who have appeared on Imus's show.  What would have been more honest would have been an accounting of the number of times he and other NBC News correspondents had appeared on Imus's show.  Don Imus was on NBC's payroll, spewing garbage and until the last week it didn't seem to bother anyone at the network enough to stay away from the garbage heap. 

Ask the vice president, bureau chief and moderator of Meet the Press, about the minority producers, correspondents or researchers he has working on his show or The Chris Matthews Show, The Today Show or NBC Nightly News.

Meet the Press has been on the air for 60 years. Its first year on the air, 1947, was the same year Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in major league baseball.  Soon, the National Association of Broadcasters Hall of Fame will celebrate the Meet the Press achievement with an award ceremony.  But what has changed for minorities in broadcasting in those same 60 years?  Hopefully, the civil rights groups that garnered so much face time on the news in the last week will continue their efforts while the networks plead mea maxima culpa.  Let's see what happens after the cameras are turned off and the phones stop ringing.  Let's see who will step up to insure that television starts to look more like the real world.  How long can the hypocrisy of using Black culture to sell cars, liquor, cell phones or athletic shoes continue?

So goodbye and