The Year in Review--Numbers 4, 3 and 2

Here are the number 2, 3 and 4 most read stories and postings on At the Well this year. Let me say a word about each of them.

Miss California was written in response to the hoopla over Miss California saying that marriage should be between a man and a woman during the Miss USA pageant.

Soweto Freedom Song is a video produced by my husband, John W. Fountain. It chronicles his travels to South Africa in 2006 with Rev. Jesse Jackson. This video has been viewed more than 29,000 times on YouTube.

Baggie Books is about me reading to my son's first grade class last year and (somewhat to my surprise) really struck a chord.

Enjoy and share with a friend.

4. Miss California

3. Soweto Freedom Song

2. Baggie Books

The Year in Review--Numbers 7, 6 and 5

Here are number 5 to 7 of the most viewed stories on At the Well from 2009. Two of them are written by my husband--author, journalist, professor--John W. Fountain.

Enjoy for the first time, or again, and share with a friend.

7. Still Searching

6. A Cut Connects Father and Son

5. Service vs. Status

The Year in Review--Numbers 10, 9 and 8

Starting today, I will repost the 10 most viewed posts on At the Well for 2009. If you missed them the first time around, I hope you enjoy them this go round. If you read them the first time, I hope you enjoy them again and share them with a friend.

I will repost three a day and on New Year's Eve I will post the most read story on At the Well for the year and ask you for your comments and votes for which ones are your top choices to be included in an upcoming book.

10. Stuff vs. Substance

9. Plow in Season

8. Thank You, Mamie

The Greatest Gift

"On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold and of incense and of myrrh." Matthew 2:11

As we celebrate Christmas, we can become overwhelmed with cooking, decorating and shopping for the perfect gift. I love seeing the presents under the tree. I remember the anticipation of seeing what Santa left under the tree when I was a child.

Now the excitement comes from seeing the faces of my children as they discover what Santa has left and open the other gifts from family and friends.

But with all the emphasis on buying gifts for others, sometimes, we lose sight of the greatest gift of all.

This Christmas, my prayer is that we will give our "gifts" of worship to the greatest gift of all--God's gift of love, His Son Jesus Christ. The wise men brought Jesus presents fit for a king. May we give him our presence and sit and His feet and learn of Him and praise and worship Him for who He is--the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. May He be the treasure that we cherish and may we be His hands, feet and heart to a dying world.

I pray that this Christmas season, you will treasure the priceless gifts of family and friendship. I pray that you will know and experience the presence of the precious gift of our Savior this Christmas, New Year, new decade and forever.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

P.S.--Last November, I started this blog because of the encouragement of my husband. It was a gift to me. He designed the site and got me started blogging. I thank him for that present. I hope that this year something was written that encouraged, edified or enlightened you.

After Christmas, I will be reposting some of the most viewed entries of At the Well--a sort of year in review. After I have posted the top 10 I will be asking you to vote for your favorites which I hope to include in an upcoming book.

Thank you for your prayers and support of At the Well.

Dancing with the Stars

“Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life—in order that I may boast on the day of Christ that I did not run or labor for nothing.” Philippians 2: 14-16

I love watching the television program “Dancing with the Stars.” When the “stars” are announced every season, I choose my favorites and those who I believe will make it to the finale and those who will get the boot early.

The transformation of some of the celebrities is truly amazing. Sometimes celebrities who I thought would be utter failures turn out to be fantastic dancers. (Sorry, I ever doubted you Warren Sapp. Who would have known that a 300-something pound defensive tackle would be so light on his feet?) Some of the celebrities perform as expected. (Tom DeLay, why did you stay so long?)

But it’s really wonderful to see celebrities who really weren’t dancers transformed into professional ballroom dancers. (Gilles, you were robbed last season). This season, Kelly Osbourne has had a metamorphosis. Before the show, she said she was miserable, depressed and wore a size 10. During the weeks of training and dancing, her life and body have been transformed. Now she says that she is happy, confident and wears a size 2.

The key to success is to trust the professional partner. They know what they’re doing. They are the pros.

It takes a lot of hard work and pain sometimes. They have to practice for hours. Sometimes the dancers are injured. Sometimes it seems as if the pros are asking the celebrities to do the impossible. They have to face sometimes brutal criticism from the judges. But if they trust in their professional partner, learn the dances, practice and stop complaining and arguing with the pro, they usually get a very good result.

God is the perfect partner. If we follow His lead, we will make it to the finals and win the prize (Philippians 3:14). We can’t go at our own pace or do our own choreography and expect to win in this life. Sometimes we have to press pass the pain and the injuries that life deals us. We have to practice what we preach and perfect our steps in His Word. We need to be in step with the One who knows what He’s doing. We have to trust God.

As Paul writes in Philippians, if we continue to “work out our salvation with fear and trembling” God will work in us to will and to act according to his good purpose (Philippians 2: 12-13). God has a purpose for us. He wants us all to be stars. He wants us all to reflect his glorious light. He wants our light to shine so bright that men will see our good works and glorify our Father in heaven. But if we are always complaining and arguing and sin is in our lives, our lights become dim.

We need to shine like stars in this dark, depraved world. People will see the transformation in us from the time we have spent dancing with the perfect partner.

The Ugly Side of Anonymity

When my father was growing up in Louisiana in the 1930s, the Ku Klux Klan would harass and hang black men. They wore their Klan cloaks to hide their faces and came in the night to do their damage. My grandfather told my father, “Real men sleep on sheets. They don’t wear them.”

Now in our technologically advanced days, people are still wearing sheets of anonymity to do damage. Only their cloak is anonymity on the Internet. They use this anonymity to spew hate-filled, nasty comments.

They are not interested in engaging in a meaningful, intellectual discussion. They just want to spout their often racist or hateful perspectives for the world to see, but they don’t want the world to see who they are. They are like a person who throws a brick through and window and then runs away or the Klansman who hides behind a mask and does his dirt in the dark. They are only interested in exercising their power to inflict damage.

I have stopped reading the comments at the end of many stories, especially if it’s about President Obama or the First Lady. One web site allowed a comment to be posted in which the person called the president’s daughter a whore. Others allow commenters to call the First Lady a gorilla. During the campaign, some media sites had to take down the comment sections because they were so filled with racist, nasty, negative comments about Obama.

When my husband wrote an essay that was published in the Chicago Tribune about the homeless this summer, I was disappointed by all the mean-spirited comments directed at the homeless. People were not interested in dealing with the issue, but just wanted to put people down.

But it’s even worse when it becomes a matter of life and death. There have been online bullying cases where young people have committed suicide because of the abuse. Reputations have been ruined because of what some anonymous person posted for the world to see.

When you do not put your name on something you do not take ownership of the remarks and feel like you can say whatever you want to say with no repercussions. They say things they wouldn’t have the nerve to say in person because they have the cloak of anonymity. But there are repercussions, even if it is poisoning the atmosphere with your hate or negativity.

Anonymity has its place.

It’s important sometimes for people to be able to tell what’s going on with the assurance of anonymity in some situations. Whistleblowers have made a positive difference by coming forward. People who have something relevant to share but because of the delicate or embarrassing nature don’t want to use their names should have some anonymity. If someone witnesses a crime or knows of misconduct in a corporation or institution, they should have anonymity in some cases so that a greater good can happen or an evil can be stopped.

But anonymity should not be used for ugliness.

As a journalism student, I was taught to be very careful and wary of using anonymous sources. Are they reliable? Why do they need to be anonymous? Are they credible?

I had my own recent brush with the ugliness of anonymity.

I wrote a blog about reading baggie books to my son’s first grade class and mentioned that I was Time Magazine College Student of the Year. I received a response that there was no such award and the anonymous invective, “That’s a lie.”

Well, dear anonymous reader, should you happen to be reading this, in 1989 I was one of about 20 (not sure the exact number so don’t call me a lie) college students from around the country to receive the Time College Achievement Award. I shortened it to College Student of the Year in the blog because the point wasn’t about my accomplishments.

The point of the column was that if it had not been for my mother sitting at the table and taking time with me in first grade, all those later accomplishments would not have been possible. The point was that if we take the time to read and spend time with our children, we can make a difference.

If the person had cared to leave their name I could have clarified the matter personally. I could have even sent them a picture of the award or the full-page ad with my photo that ran in Time Magazine. But from the tone of their response they weren’t about that anyway.

It’s the same with the health care debate this summer. People aren’t really interested in clarification or having a civil conversation. Like Congressman Joe Wilson, they just throw rocks and say, “You lie.” Even though, they are the ones who don’t have all of their facts straight.

Weebles Wobble But They Don't Fall Down

“Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Savior, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and forever. Amen.” Jude 24, 25

When I was a child I had some little toys called weebles. Do you remember weebles? If you don’t remember the toy maybe you remember the commercial with the little song, “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.”

I used to love playing with the little characters that were shaped like eggs. You could push them down but they would wobble and come right back up. They never completely fell over.

The origin of these toys was the Romper Room punching clown. The little weebles were fashioned after the large punching bag clown on Romper Room, a show for preschoolers. The toddlers would punch and push the inflatable clown and it would always come back up with a smile on its face. I had one of those clowns too that I loved to punch around.

I also used to wait with anticipation for the end of Romper Room show when the lady would look through her “magic mirror” (actually an open hoop with a handle) and name all of the children that she saw in television land. “I see Mary and Scott and Julie and Johnny.”

I was always disappointed because she never said my name.

Sometimes we feel like a weeble. Sometimes our faith is a little wobbly. We doubt. We are full of fear. The circumstances of life knock us down. Disappointments, fear and failure punch us in the face and it’s hard to get up. We feel like we are down for the count.

I’m not sure about the science of it all, but I think that what makes the weeble able to spring back upright is its shape and that it’s heavier on the bottom than the top. All of its weight is at the bottom.

If we believe in Jesus Christ, we ought to have something down deep in us that’s heavier than the world around us.

“For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.” 2 Corinthians 4:17

We have the weight of glory—God’s glory. We have God’s presence and power. And we have this treasure in earthen weebly wobbly vessels so that the power is not from us but from God when we get back up.

Just like the weebles were patterned after the Romper Room clown, we were made in God’s image. And if you really want to know what God looks like, all you have to do is look at Jesus, “who is the image of the invisible God, the first-born of every creature.” Colossians 1:15.

Jesus was harassed and ridiculed. He was mocked and scorned. He was berated and hated. But he kept getting back up. He was rejected by family and abandoned by his closest friends. He felt pain, but he didn't let it keep him down. He was a man of sorrow, acquainted with grief. But he didn’t fall over. He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities. But he didn’t stay down.

And then they nailed him to a cross. It looked like Satan had finally delivered the knock-out punch. It was finished. Over. Done. They laid him in a tomb. And he was down Friday night. He was down all day Saturday. It looked like he was down for the count Saturday night.

But early Sunday morning, he got up.

And because he got up, I can get up. Even when life throws us a sucker punch, we can get up. We just have to remember the weight that is within us, the power that God has given us and the pattern that Jesus set before us.

I was always disappointed because the Romper Room lady never said my name or saw me, a little black girl in Kankakee, through her magic mirror. I would be standing in front of the t.v. saying, “Say, Monica. Say, Monica.” But she never did.

But I’m so glad, He knows my name and He sees me. He calls me by my name. When I wobble, He lets me know He is able to keep me from falling.

Roots

Chris Rock's documentary "Good Hair" opens in theaters in major markets on Friday, Oct. 9th and nationwide on Oct. 23rd. The film explores black folks preoccupation with "good hair" or straight hair and the billion dollar black hair care industry which is primarily controlled by whites and Asians.

Seeing Rock on Oprah and other media outlets, made me laugh and shake my head at the same time. It also reminded me of an essay entitled "Roots" that I wrote almost exactly eight years ago for a creative writing class. The essay explores my own journey with the question of "good hair."

October 4, 2001

I am addicted to perm. That is permanent relaxer, the chemical mixture Black women have been using for years to make our naturally curly hair super straight. I can’t tell you exactly when I had my first hit. It was some time before puberty, around the age of eight or nine. It was some time when my mother got tired of wrestling with me and hearing my moans and groans as she tried to straighten my hair with the hot comb on the kitchen stove.

This whole pressing process usually took place on a Saturday. I remember the freedom of a Saturday afternoon in the basement pretending to be a “Soul Train” dancer, whipping around my luxurious locks, a mane of un-straightened hair. And then it was time for the comb. My unruly super-Afro would be tamed into silky shiny strands of ponytails. The shampoo part was fun for the most part, although bending your head over the sink could get a little uncomfortable after a while. But it was the smell of the burning hair and grease, the pressing part that was always a pain. More than once my ear felt the wrath of my wiggling and was seared by the hot comb.

Finally, my mother tired of the struggle and she turned to the perm. What else was a mother to do? Your hair can’t be nappy. Everyone else’s hair is straight. Straight is pretty. Nappy is bad.

So my first trip was made into the dark, dank basement where a bright beauty shop awaited behind a door. It was Annie and Mariah’s shop. They were members of my father’s Baptist church. One time, when my mother had to leave town suddenly to attend to her ailing father, Mariah came to my house to do my hair for school. My father had made a feeble attempt, but had plaited my hair like he probably used to braid the mule’s tail when he was growing up on the farm in the South. I took one look at my hair in the mirror and started to cry. I couldn’t go to school like that. The kids would call me Kizzy, Kunta Kinte’s daughter, with all those little braids sticking out of my head like Medusa, or maybe I would be christened Buckwheat for the rest of my life. Mariah came to the rescue and did my hair in a presentable style of barrettes and ponytails.

At eight or nine, it was time to leave the press and curl behind and go to the next level, the perm. The white cream was applied to the roots of my hair and when the process was over my hair was silky smooth and straight. I still had to endure the curling process, but my hair would be straight, at least for six weeks when the “touch-up” was required. At times, if you had scratched your head before the “touch-up,” your scalp would burn as if it were on fire and you would be almost running to the shampoo bowl to rinse the perm out. But such was the sacrifice for straight hair.

This addiction to straight hair has other inconveniences. Swimming is a hassle. If you don’t wash the chlorine our right away, your hair will break out. And who wants to go through all the hassle of shampooing, blow drying and curling your hair? The first agenda when you enter a new city is to find a good Black hairdresser, which is sometimes easier said than done. It’s not easy finding a person who knows what to do with Black hair in England or Spain.

At times I have considered opting for a more natural style. I love Lauryn Hill’s locks and Venus and Serena’s braids. Then the fear of change comes. I would have to start from scratch to grow locks. How would I look with an almost bald head? What would I do while it is growing out? Is my head shaped funny? How will I look? How will people react? Will I have the styling versatility that my “unnatural” hair provides?

Then there are the questions that go beyond the physical. Am I trying to live up to some European standard of beauty? Can you be an enlightened Black woman and down for the cause without dreadlocks or an Afro? Isn’t my blackness contained in more than just the way I wear my hair? In New York City last summer I saw sisters with straight hair, nappy hair, bald heads, dreadlocks and braids. They were all beautiful and their styles were as beautiful and varied as their skin tones.

When I add up the costs of this addiction, it really makes me want to cut my hair off and declare myself perm free. It costs almost $40 to visit the hair dresser every two weeks and almost $60 for a touch up. My mother’s oldest sister recently gave up the perm and cut her hair in a flattering, short Afro. Everyone was surprised. I think to myself if she can do it in her 60s, surely I can do it in my 30s. But as my hair starts to revert around the edges and the comb becomes harder to pull through, the perm calls. I give in to the familiar and call for an appointment for a touch up. “Maybe next time,” I think to myself.

My daughter is five. I tried to press her hair once a few years ago. My mother gave me the hot comb as if to say, “It’s time.” I took a tiny strand in the front of her soft, fluffy brown hair and applied the comb. The smell of burnt hair wafted in the air. The comb was too hot. I put the comb in the drawer and have never used it again. My daughter wears her hair with braids and beads, barrettes and ponytails. It is not super straight, but has a slight natural curly wave. Someday I may succumb to the comb and press her hair so that she can wear cute little Shirley Temple curls or maybe I will blow dry it. But I will know in a few days or weeks it will return to its natural state and I will not be responsible for giving her an addiction to perm.

She is free to be natural and the choice will be hers one day if she chooses to chemically alter her hair. I’ll let her know she’s beautiful no matter how she chooses to wear her hair and that her beauty does not come from the mane on her head, but from her heart.

A School That Works

The conversation usually goes the same way. Whenever I’m with a group of parents the question comes up. It may take different forms but it deals with the same dilemma.

“Where’s your daughter going to high school?” they ask me. Or my question to them may be, “How is the high school?” if I know they have children attending a local high school.

Now the question even encompasses junior high school and even fourth grade as anxious parents ponder what school their child will attend and the school’s scores on national tests. The angst arises from the fear that many parents in my community have of what lies beyond the safety and success of our local elementary school to the horror stories that we have heard about the junior high and high schools in our south suburban school system.

You hear the stories about children being hijacked for their homework. Parents who have children who have graduated or who still attend the local high schools roll their eyes toward the heavens when you ask them about the high schools. Some assure you that this one is better than that one or if your child is in the gifted program, they will do just fine. If they’re an athlete they might have some insulation from the less than desirable elements. Others tell tales of children beating on desk and rapping while the teacher stands powerless before them. You hear about the parade of principals who have gone through the schools, low test scores, lack of discipline and even guns brought to school.

Some pay for private schools. This is an option that is less than desirable when I look at my property tax bill. Then there are other considerations. I suspect some of the parents who have decided to send their child to the nearby Catholic high school have made that decision as a way to get away from the black and brown children who have taken over the public schools rather than just seeking a better education. Will my brown babies really receive a good education in such an environment? We hear the horror stories of young black men who have been harassed and mistreated at the private school. Will my children as my husband says be “culturally” safe?

Our dilemma is not as severe as others. At least we can contemplate sending our child to a private school. And even with its shortcomings, our south suburban system's problems pale in comparison to the plethora of problems in many school districts, especially in urban communities, across this country where schools have failed and many just don’t work.

Given the dilemma, we contemplate driving our children to the West Side of Chicago to a school that works.

On the West Side of Chicago, Providence-St. Mel has been educating children for years and doing an incredible job. All of their graduates, 100 percent, go to college, many to top-tier colleges. St. Mel does this, not in the suburbs, but in the heart of the city. In a place where folks said green grass wouldn’t grow, St. Mel sits on a lush green lawn and raises black and brown children to reach academic heights.

Providence-St. Mel is my husband’s alma mater and it is a school that I would love for my own children to attend.

Here is an article that my husband John wrote about St. Mel and its impact that appears in the September 4, 2009 issue of the Chicago Sun-Times: Here by God's Grace and St. Mel's

A feature-length documentary titled “The Providence Effect” about the wonderful work done at St. Mel will be released in September in theaters across the country. To see a trailer of the movie, click here: The Providence Effect. A listing of theaters where the movie will be shown is also listed. On Sept. 25, it will open at the theater in Country Club Hills for my south suburban readers. It will also play in theaters in New York City, New Jersey, Los Angeles and Washington D.C.