I spend almost three days walking around aimlessly trying to come up with serious blog material for this week, despite the temptation to start recording some of my sister's hilarious stories about growing up as the youngest in our family, material that will be presented in upcoming weeks either here or in the MoMoirs.Feeling some added pressure due to the fact that I'm up to a weekly average of 9.7 readers and setting myself up for a nice bonus, I become stuck, fixated, furious with Duane “Dog the Bounty Hunter” Chapman, who, as you may or may not know, was nabbed by his estranged and embittered son last week. The crime? A taped private telephone conversation reveals that Dog pulled an Imus in his I’m-not-a-racist-but-we-call-some-black-folk------ tirade in regard to his son's African-American girlfriend. Dog, his mullet and leathery skin under the lights of prime time, chokes his chain as tight as he could, but no tears surface when he asks--make that begs--Larry “The Rabbi” King for forgiveness.
Then, I’m fairly sure I hear Dog say, “I’m getting flogged.”
Yes, he uses the word FLOGGED. What's worse is that Larry responds not by saying, “Get over yourself, Dog” or “Where, former prison inmate, are the marks, wounds, black and blues from such lashings?”
Larry King responds by saying, “Is this worldwide?”
I laugh and moan, “Oh, come on, Larry!” ala the charming and arrogant Jerry Seinfeld. Then I have to replay the entire painful interview so I can hear Dog reply with: “Yes, sir.”
Within hours, Dog continues to flog all right; flog as in its second, lesser known-definition: to sell, especially aggressively or vigorously, to promote & publicize. Later in the day, the AP reports that Dog has made arrangements to be buried at a historic slave burial ground near George Washington's Mount Vernon home.
I stay up til 2 a.m. attempting to concoct a story about how irritating it is for the media to jump like scavengers on an entrapment story, sold to and broken by the National Enquirer. Has journalism gotten so pathetic that we’ve officially put up the white flag on this one, too, as yet another sign that we are admitting, with alarming frequency, that if we can’t beat ‘em, we must join ‘em? And even more troublesome is what message this sends to the public who, unlike those of us who went to J-School, don't care or are just growing more accustomed to divisive, non-newsworthy stories that promote a culture of fear and disillusionment in America. This story reveals a white man reeling with a defense that he finally has realized that he is not cool enough to use the N word, even during a private conversation, which gives African Americans even more fodder to say, “It just shows racism is still out there.”
Here's what I'm not afraid to admit: I have an uncle or two who will spew out the occasional, totally inappropriate racist remark during the holidays, the type of comment that sickens me to the point where if I don’t say something directly, I pelt that relative with darts shot directly from my eyes.
One uncle, after hearing about a friend who might be dating a black guy, said, “Why does she have to lower herself to that level?” By the time I could even catch my breath to respond, my sister was mid-attack, and he shut up quickly. My parents never uttered the N word. My brothers—both in law enforcement—have never said the N word, at least in my presence, and if they did, my sister and I would make a citizen’s arrest. Furthermore, my friends – not even while intoxicated – have never spewed such filth.
Is race a problem in the United States? Agreed, indisputably, as long as you accept the oldest adage in the book: It’s not white verses black because it’s always about green.
This Dog Catcher story broke in the same week that Imus, recovering from a nice severance package and extended vacation, returned to the air. The story broke about a month after a jury ruled in favor of Anucha Browne Sanders’ testimony against a billionaire and celebrity coach at Madison Square Garden, which included Isiah Thomas repeatedly, for months, calling her a bitch, f----- ho and motherf-----.
So there I am irritated that all the men in these cases are gainfully employed millionaires, who are not only attacking African Americans—they’re attacking African-American women, and I’m growing wary of who’s really sticking up for whom. Oprah didn’t call Browne Sanders. Maybe it's because she's tied up in Africa, in that unfortunate mess involving young African girls. I consider calling Jesse and Al, and tell them that I’m on board for that March on Madison Square Garden, but then I remember there’s no such thing. I'm thinking they're not there because if they did protest, they might have to give up courtside seats, probably given to them for free. Or they're busy, working for days on end bogged down by thoughts of an Internet course in American history called Race Relations 101: Respect the Double Standard. They might want to schedule Dog as the guest speaker who repeats his statement: “I thought I was cool enough to use the N word, but I’m not.”
I tell myself that I will stop my habit of rolling out of bed and checking CNN headlines every morning. I hold my own writer's strike and start walking in circles in my bedroom. I start chants refusing the glorify bigots, I get dizzy, I need air. And food and coffee. I go out on a wet, cold fall day, and stop to get my regular grande at Starbucks. As I pay for my coffee, unable to believe that no one else is in line, I look over my shoulder. For some reason, I break from my tunnel vision for just long enough to notice the sad and stressed eyes of a woman walking up behind me. I notice that she’s carrying more weight than the average cold, miserable, stressed New Yorker. No small feat.
I’m on my way out, but something won’t let me go.
Behind the woman in Starbucks stands a tall African-American woman bundled up in a hood and jacket. As I get a closer look, I see that it is Good Morning America’s Robin Roberts. I have read about Robin’s recent breast cancer diagnosis, and how she had surgery and is doing well as she undergoes chemotherapy and radiation.
On my list of things to do this fall is: “Write Robin Roberts.”
It is cold, wet and windy. Robin is tired. It’s safe to say that all she wants is some fresh air and a cup of Joe, and I don’t blame her. In two seconds I have to decide if I am going to stop and wish her well or walk by, saying nothing at all.
My mother never would have walked by Robin, or any friend or family member who’s carrying the weight of seeing her through what has to be the toughest challenge she has faced in her entire life.
So I stopped and with great humility, I say, “Hi, Robin.” I quickly re-introduce myself and add that a few years back when I was peddling my girls’ sports books, she called me and wanted to do a segment. The segment never panned out, but I say that her efforts meant a lot to me, and I appreciate all she's done for women and girls in sports. Ever so gracious, she smiles, and unable to filter my thoughts, I say, “How are you?”
“I’m doing … okay.”
Living in the chaos of New York, as a public figure, out on a cold, wet day, trying to deal with a fan who knows you’re sick and nauseous and tired from treatments, and Robin Roberts finds it in her to end her honest answer with a smile.
On the walk home, the air no longer feels as cold, nor do I find the rain and wind as annoying. For hours I cannot stop thinking of Robin Roberts. During this time, I smile as I think of my neighbor--a white man--who was her biggest fan: Great Uncle Harry, Our Favorite Uncle.
Great Uncle Harry Flanigan is not my uncle. As for the adjective and tag reserved for royalty, Great Uncle Harry Our Favorite Uncle, though no older than my parents, perceives himself to be a wise old man. For years, as I shot hoops in his driveway, he’d come out to his car, clap for the ball, take a shot from downtown, airball, make up a funny cheer or noise or hurrah that he would somehow turn into a pearl of wisdom that often made little sense until he decoded it for you.
One day a long time ago, when I was either in my senior year in high school or during one break during college, while watching a sporting event on TV in our living room, Great Uncle Harry pointed to the television and said, “What do you think of Robin Roberts?”
I said, “Who?”
He took off his glasses and said, “You don’t know who Robin Roberts is?”
He pointed to the television, and feeling embarrassed and ignorant, I said, “Oh, yeah.”
“You have no idea how much she’s doing for you girls,” he said.
I saw Robin Roberts interview President Clinton after the U.S. women’s soccer team won the 1999 World Cup. I’ve watched her for years sit in the booth and as a former college basketball player from Southeastern Louisiana University, she held her own and always seemed to be having a good time. Never up as early as Robin—for I’m usually going to bed about the time she gets up—I read about her moving accounts of her return to see her high school destroyed by Hurricane Katrina for Good Morning America. Then I read a moving sentence about how Diane Sawyer, showed up in her driveway to attend her father’s funeral.
Robin Roberts is going to fight, hang tough, get well, and smile. She will always outshine those few miserable and ignorant souls who spend their entire lives sleeping though one wake-up call after another, while the rest of us can rely on a hard-working, honest and gracious professional to get America out of bed and on its feet in the morning.
