Wednesday, January 23, 2019

We're All Blind

So, by now we've all processed the run-in on the National Mall by the MAGA hat wearing high schoolers from Covington Catholic High School and Black Hebrew Israelites and Native American marchers. The initial 20 second clip was all it took to jump to conclusions about what happened. A lot of people rushed to judgement. I did. But, like everything else in 2019 America, the truth wasn't as clear cut as it first look. I apologized for jumping the gun and piling on the young men from Cov Cath. Upon further review, it seems as if there was a lot of blame to go around from a lot of different people that day. Just because I regret piling on, doesn't mean that I think those young men were without culpability. Again, everyone saw and still sees what they want to see.

America doesn't mean the same to everyone. Every group has had a different experience in America depending on its collective experience. Native Americans have been subjected to certain circumstances. So have African-Americans. Just like the German, Irish British and Dutch Americans as well. The same could be said for Asian Americans. Each group's relation with America begins with how they were introduced to the America. That's what makes the African-American legacy in America wholly and completely unique. While other groups willfully immigrated to America, the majority of black Americans can trace their lineage back to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, i.e. kidnapping.

I'm 41 years old. My parents were born and raised in pre Civil Rights Era America. The story of America that I was taught at home was far different than what was being sold to me at school and in media. In the 1980s, when the country was looking wistfully back at the 1950s, my dad told me that the good old days weren't good for everybody. The sanitized, watered down version of yesteryear that was being peddled, and to some extent still is, was dramatically different than the first hand stories I heard from family members. So, the lessons that I and most of my black friends and schoolmates were taught were quite different from those of our peers. It wasn't due to hatred of America, the lessons were about survival in a land that has been historically hostile to black people.

My father was born in 1937. The first major legislative success of the Civil Rights Movement was the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Among other things, the Act guaranteed black people the right to vote. My father was 27. After the murder of Martin Luther King, Jr., the Civil Rights Act of 1968 was passed. This Act provided protection for fair housing, forcing neighborhoods to integrate. My father was 31. My brothers turned 8. In your own life, think of how much of a person you are by the time you turn 31. Imagine 31 years of living in a country, your homeland, and being denied the basic rights that everyone else seemed to be getting. Those are the lessons I and the the other black kids of my generation were taught. Those are the things that color our perception.





To be clear, my parents were not anti-white. In fact, my mother and father went out of their way to point out that the abolition of slavery and the end of Jim Crow could not have happened without a lot of good white people that sacrificed everything they had, up to and including their lives, to make sure that America was a better place for all. Individually, they'd say, we are all God's children and you should love everyone for the person on the inside, not what their outside looks like. That was a lesson I was also taught. That being said, systemic racism is real and must be defeated.

In 1973, my father, James N. Brown, Sr. and Shelby Lanier sued the Louisville
Police Department for discrimination. Their case was based on the lack of promotion opportunities for black officers and their general treatment. They were fired. My parents had to make financial sacrifices and were harassed while the case worked its way through the courts. Eventually, in 1974, the Federal Equal Employment Opportunity Council took over the case and won, which forced the city of Louisville to change the way it handled all city employees. When I asked my father why he would take such a stand, he responded with the same answer he gave when I asked him why he would join the US Navy in 1954 when he couldn't even sit at a lunch counter: "You do things not to benefit yourself, you have to do things to make things easier for the next man."

I have said for a long time that the biggest reason that race relations are in their current state is because my parents' generation was basically told by America to "get over it." Even in the 1980s, when I was growing up, talking about the Civil Rights Era was always chalked up to that period being in the past. No reason to talk about it because some laws got passed and now we're all good. That's not how this works at all. Sometimes the only way to move forward is to acknowledge past mistakes and have a dialogue about what's next. And that it what's missing.

We're living in a time where there's a need to "both sides" an issue, as if there's a flip side to every situation worth discussing. Not only does it happen with current events, many people look backward on past events and apply the same logic. The most often logic is when a historical person is said to be "a product of their time." To be clear, there are some absolutes: Driving Native people off their land was wrong, as was American chattel slavery, as was denying women the right to vote as was rounding up all Japanese Americans during World War 2. Those events were wrong in real time, no need to rethink or examine anything further.

There's also a need to saddle every criticism as being a part of outrage culture. Are there frivolous things that people get mad online about? Sure. I assure you that black people didn't wake up on President Trump's inauguration day and decide to be upset about Confederate Monuments. That fire has been burning for a long time. it's just what then most of the monuments and statues were being built, that was also the time period where thousands of blacks were being lynched, hung from trees as some sort of spectacle. The time period was not conducive to protesting statues. The difference is now that marginalized groups that had no voice in the American marketplace of ideas now has found their voice. That's the inclusive America we should all want.

As the world is changing and everyone now has a voice, it is incumbent on all of us to listen to people different from us. It is important to listen with open ears, open hearts and open minds. To know better should also mean we should do better. Just as we no longer dump our waste into the city streets, as was once customary, we must grow and learn and do better. That means admitting our own biases and changing our own behavior. My high school mascot was the Redskins and we did the Tomahawk Chop at sporting events. It wasn't until we had a Native American come speak to the school that I understood just how offensive that was to him and his people. I stopped doing it and haven't done it since. It shouldn't be hard to do the right thing.

I'm still not perfect. I'll read a story on the internet and jump to conclusions. I will see a 20 second clip and make decisions based on my own experiences. The key to individual growth and real systemic change is that we collectively re-examine ourselves and our own biases. We all have them. Whether it's race or class or area of the country, we all have preconceived notions about our fellow Americans. The key is understanding our biases and learning how to change them. Like it or not, we're all in this thing together.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Depression and Mental Illness: You Are Worth It

Depression is a thief. It does nothing, but take. It takes your time. It takes your spirit, making you less you. It takes fathers from their kids, wives from their husbands, friends from each other. It does nothing, but take. Worst of all, Depression steals your joy.

And I hate it.

I hate taking medication daily. I hate going to therapy. I hate coping strategies. I hate analyzing every thought. I hate having to convince my mind to convince my body to get out of bed. I hate getting lost in my own thoughts. I hate feeling like a burden. I hate forcing myself to be present. I hate enjoying the good days because I know that there's a bad day coming. I hate always having this feeling of dread.

I hate having to convince myself that I'm worth it.

When I was first diagnosed with clinical depression in 2014, I attacked it like you would a broken leg. I tried to fix it, so I could move on to other things. I wanted a cure and like most Americans, I wanted it yesterday. But that's not how this works. Depression doesn't just go away after so many therapy sessions. Medication, while extremely helpful, isn't a cure-all. My fix it quick approach was only making my depression worse. Depression, like other forms of mental and physical illness, is something that I will always have to deal with. It's taken me awhile, but I finally have accepted that.

This process hasn't been easy. But it's been worth it. And that's the challenge of dealing with mental illness, telling yourself that you are worth it. It's hard to reach out for help when you don't think you're worth it. You are.

I'm worth it. You're worth it. We are all worth it.

National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255


Thursday, December 21, 2017

Christmastime Is Here

My dad loved Christmas. He loved decorating. He loved putting up the tree. He loved buying presents. And, to be honest, he loved "complaining" about doing all of it. James Brown, Sr. made sure that our house was the family hub around Christmas time. He was responsible for picking my mom's dad up from the Greybound bus station every Christmas Eve, so my granddad could share Christmas with his baby girl and her family. For years, my dad would force me and my brothers to get into a car on Christmas morning and drive around to visit family and friends. It wasn't our favorite thing to do, but no one was going to tell James Brown no, least of all his three boys.



But, as life tends to do, things changed.

My older brother, the middle boy, Kenneth Brown passed away in March of 1999 at 38 . My oldest brother, James, Jr (Jimmy) joined him in September of 2000 at 40. Within 18 months our family had been through more heartache than I would wish on anyone. Christmas 2000 was the worst. The tree didn't go up that year. It wasn't just Christmas, Kenneth's birthday is December 14 and Jimmy's birthday is January 4, so the period that was once filled with great joy was soon full of nothing but memories.

Eventually, I got married and had two girls of my own and my dad's enthusiasm for Christmas returned. The lights went back up. The dancing Santa Claus came back out. And, as he put it, Santa had nothing on Granddad. One year, we got my girls a hair salon/beauty parlor playset and my dad, the 30 year police vet, the old navy man and the toughest man I've ever met let my girls put rollers in his hair and put pretend makeup on him.

And, life, as it is wont to do, changed again.

My father was diagnosed with early onset dementia in 2013. Our last Christmas was 2014 and that evil, destructive disease had taken away a lot of what made my dad, well, my dad. But he still played with the girls and he helped in the kitchen and he told me that one of his greatest regrets was letting me attend the University of Kentucky. He passed away in July 2015 and this will be the second Christmas without him.

My mom doesn't decorate like we used to, every Christmas decoration just a painful reminder that the man that purchased it is no longer here. We don't hear my dad singing along with the Temptation's silent night. And I'm going to try to stumble my way through carving up the turkey for dinner. Christmas just isn't quite the same. But, I remember of the words my dad told me Christmas morning 2000.

He said to me that life never ever stays the same. And sometimes, you have to say goodbye to those that you love the most. He looked me in the eye and said that he believed that he would see my brothers again. He believed that they would be reunited in Heaven and that everyday would be like Christmas. He challenged me to live my life in such a way that the reunion wasn't just a probability, but a certainty.

I'm putting the finishing touches on my daughters' presents. I'm making sure that my mother is taken care of. And I know that I haven't lived up to the charge my father left me, but I'm certainly trying. The holiday season is rough because it is and should be about family. It's rough because there's no quick and easy guide on how to keep celebrating family when there are empty spots at the table and empty spots in your heart. Sometimes you move forward because you have no other choice.

I'm looking forward to Christmas because my dad, James N. Brown, Sr. loved Christmas.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Live Like You Were Dying

The last year has been a year of my life has been one of profound loss and extreme personal growth. I buried my father in July of 2015 and my 12 year marriage ended in January. Death and divorce came calling on me in rapid succession. And as I've shared before, I battle clinical depression so for a bit of time, I was in a very bad place.


But, unlike other times in my life, I reached out and asked for help. I moved in with my mom. I spent time with friends that I had been neglecting and became closer with people that I hadn't been before. As a result, I've been able to endure the toughest time in my life and I have come out of the other side... better. I have found that when you share your burden with a few close friends that it's not nearly has heavy as it is when you try to carry it yourself. There are people that care, you just have to give them the opportunity.

Whenever someone asks how I've been able to handle everything, I have to say that it's been through the love and support of my friends and family that I've pulled through. And I'll be eternally grateful for every call, text, email and visit that folks have offered me over the last six months especially. It is infinitely easier to tell that voice in the back of your head that says you aren't worth it, that "yes I am!" when you've got people going out of their way to help you out and make sure you are alright.

Here I sit, nearing the one year anniversary of my father's passing and nearing the completion of my divorce. The question I've been asking myself is: What's next? How do I now define who Terry is? I know I want to be the best father that I can be to my two girls, but what else? One day, I heard that old Tim McGraw song Live Like You Were Dying come on the radio one day and I was reminded of something my dad said to be until the day he died: "Be Better."

He would say, "Son, whenever you think you're great is when you stop trying to be better. You owe it to yourself to be better than you were the day before. If you're not improving yourself, then why even get out of bed?" With that in mind, I want to be better. I want to be a better father. I want to be the father that my girls will know that I love them and will do anything and everything for them. I want them to know that although their mother and I are no longer together, we will always be a family and we will always be joined in love.

I want to be a better son. My mother has buried both of my brothers and now my father. I want to be the son she needs on those dark days when she gets overwhelmed with her grief. I want to be the son I probably should have been for my first 38 years, but will aspire to be for the next 38. I want to be the son that she deserves for everything she has done for me and continues to do. I'm a mama's boy and I'm proud of it.

I want to be a better friend. I want to be the friend that doesn't lose contact and only reaches out when they need something. I want to be the friend that supports as I've been supported and loves as I have been loved. I want to be the friend that I'd like to have.

As vague as it sounds, I want to be a better person. Muhammad Ali said "The service you do for others is the rent you pay for your room here on Earth." And right now, my rent is passed due. I'm going to do more, be more active in my community. I'm not going to see wrongs in the world, shake my head and move on. I'm going to speak out against wrong. I'm going to give a voice to those without a voice. I'm going to be a better citizen, a better neighbor.



Hopefully, I'll be able to find love again. I'm not looking at the moment, but I hope that I get my happily ever after. I can look back and take some of the lessons I've learned and I can be a better husband.

We only get a short time on this Earth. We have just a little while to make an impact on others. When my time comes to once again meet up with my father and brothers, I want people to say "Terry Brown wasn't perfect, but the world is a better place because he was in it."

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Being Reborn

March 3, is my second birthday. While I was born on August 5, March 3 is the day where my life changed for the better. On March 3, 2014, I sat in my car in my garage with the engine running. Thankfully, that suicide attempt failed. Thankfully, I was given another shot at life. Thankfully, I'm still here today.


I'm here, two years later, dealing with things I could never have anticipated on that fateful March day. This past July, I buried my father after his battle against dementia and Alzheimer's. And now, I'm dealing with possibly the worst thing to ever happen in my life. After 12 years of marriage, my wife has filed for divorce.

It's taken a bit of time, but I'm ok with it. As Bonnie Raitt sang "I can't make you love me if you don't; you can't make your heart feel something it won." Love isn't enough sometimes. And not every love story has a happy ending. Although it's probably for the best, I'll regret that I wasn't able to fulfill my vow of til death do us part. I'll be the first to admit that there are some things I should have done has a husband and some things that I shouldn't have done. But since my oldest child was born, I knew what I was put on Earth to do: be a father.


Part of the divorce proceedings, unfortunately, is to figure out who will get custody of the children. In my case, that means that the Jefferson County Circuit Court Family Division will determine where my two girls will live and how visitations will be administered. Because this is America and we still believe in Maternal Infallibility, I have to prove myself to be a fit parent in the eyes of the court.

I now have to prove to a judge, whom I've never met, and lawyers to whom I and my family are just another case, that I am a loving father. I have to tell them that despite my clinical depression, I'm not a danger to my children. I have to convince them that although I'm no longer in love with their mother, my love for my girls grows daily.

No, these court officials weren't there as I was when my daughters took their first breaths and I watched them get wrapped up in blankets in the delivery room. They weren't there when I made bottles and changed diapers. They weren't there for those times when I rocked my daughters to sleep and chased the boogeyman away.


I've seen my girls for a total two hours since January and not by my choice. I miss them terribly and I'm sure... I know... they miss me. I miss the way Sarah furrows her brown when she reads. I miss Lauren's smile and the way she laughs at her own jokes. I miss goodnight kisses and I miss good morning hugs. I've lost grandparents, both brothers and my hero, my father. But nothing has broken my heart like being away from my girls.

A couple of weeks ago, I told Lauren that I've been a daddy without his daughters and she told me that they've been daughters without their daddy. If there's any lasting legacy that I will leave it will be my daughters. Even at this young age, they are as loving and as compassionate as I could have ever hoped. I know their future is bright. I just want to be a part of it.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

In a Crowded Room, Feeling Lonely

Like most sons, I suppose, my dad was my rock. I was able to get advice from him, even if it was unsolicited, about all sorts of things. The best part about my dad is that he would listen. And he would listen without judgement.

No matter what situation I found myself in, most of my own doing, my dad would always listen to me. No matter how erroneous, he would listen to my point of view and in his often direct kind of way, he would respond with some wise words. What he never ever did, and what I try to never do to my girls, is minimize my feelings. Yes, the person in jail did some horrible stuff, but does that mean that he or she stops being human? That their feelings are somehow rendered meaningless?

Too often when we deal with our friends and family, we look at their behavior in terms of the impact on ourselves. We never take the time to really wonder what the root cause is. We see the surface, pass judgement and move on.

The worst feeling in the world is being in a crowded room and not feeling a connection to any person in it. When you feel like you can't share your true feelings, your true self, it's a solitary confinement that's more secure than Alcatraz.

Opening up to people doesn't usually come easy to people that have a mental illness. First, there's the stigma that is still associated with "being crazy." What's worse is trying to explain your thoughts to someone that won't or can't understand. So you're stuck with these thoughts that you can either deal with or lock away. You tell yourself you're alright and you know you're not because it's easier. It's easier to lie to yourself to get through the day. It's easier to put on a mask and be "happy" because that's the way you should be. And after you lie to yourself to fake your happiness for a long, it's much easier to lie to other people, even the ones you love.

As I continue my own journey and that dark voice tells me that no one cares, I'll probably agree... to a point. Even if no one else cares, I care enough about myself to keep fighting. Even if I'm the only person in my corner, that's enough.

Monday, January 4, 2016

2016: New Beginnings and TB 2.0

This has nothing to do with New Year's, but probably everything to do with it. It's the time for folks to make Resolutions, determined to change their lives for the better. And so I find myself sitting here at the lowest point that I've ever been. Like everyone else, I'm trying to turn my life around for the better.

2015 was a tough year. The first part of the year, I watched my dad succumb to the dementia that he had been fighting for years. He finally just got tired of fighting. Not to say that he gave up, but he reached the point where he was ok with the inevitable: there's a time for all of us to exit the stage. The night he passed away, my wife and I were in his room, trying to keep him comfortable. All at once, he sat up and looked at me before laying back down. I walked over and whispered to him that it was ok for him to go, that his baby boy would be alright. I went home to relax and within 3 hours I received that phone call that you never want to receive.

2015 was also rough because I've had to face and confront my own demons, which is never easy and never fun. After getting an official diagnosis of Clinical Depression in 2014, I've tried to beat it. Like a broken leg or the flu, I put all my effort into beating depression and moving on with my life. But that's not how this works. Not at all. Depression is an every day struggle. Depression means monitoring medications and talking to mental professionals and honest evaluation. It's not easy, but it's necessary.

I haven't been fair to a lot of people in my life, specifically my wife and my children. They've paid the biggest price for my own selfish, "I can handle it" attitude. While I can't turn back the clock and erase past mistakes (of which there are plenty),  I can work hard toward a brighter and better tomorrow. I owe it to myself, my girls and my friends and family to be better in 2016.... so, TB 2.0 it is.