A Funny Thing Happened On My Way To A Job Fair...

Well, as my undergraduate career comes to a close, I'm working as an editorial intern for a local magazine. But, this time it's a paid internship; which is nice because I'm finally getting paid to do what I do best, write....although it is internship wages. Unfortunately, because of the current economy, (I'm going to assume that it's the economy and not my writing skills...okay), like so many other industries, the publishing business is hurting too, and as a result, it doesn't look as though I will get hired. Although I plan to be in graduate school this fall, I still must work. And, while I'd love to be working in the publishing business, instead of waiting and hoping for the "right" job, I am looking for the "right now" job.

Since I last HAD to look for a job, job hunting has changed a little. When I first came to the Atlanta area I was amazed at the fact that there were actual "Help Wanted" signs displayed all over the place. Of course, that was about 18 years ago. I've always prided myself on being able to find jobs rather easily, but now...whew! I have filled out at least 40 applications and have gotten ZERO responses. That's scary for someone who has worked all her life. The funny thing is, I've filled out all of these applications online. You can't just walk into a business now days, with your interview suit on and your honest face and apply for a job. The problem with Internet applications is that you literally become just another number, and you have no idea what happens to your application once it it delivered into the web sphere.

Then, there are the job fairs, which implies that it will be a free-for-all, fun, carnival-like, career grab bag, with enough jobs for everyone to leave with three. Lately though, they've become just another local tv news story, (along with apartment fires and shootings), looking more and more like cattle in their best outfits, all with a bag full of cookie-cutter resumes, being lead into perpetual lines wrapped around some convention center from hell. Everyone, it seems, is looking for a job; and the smiling recruiters with strong hand shakes who get paid to go from city to city to build up people's hopes seem suspiciously in on the conspiracy to make people actually believe that they will leave with a fulfilling and rewarding career.

So, I went to one such job fair that was actually called a "Career Fair," because of course, I don't want just a "job," I want a CAREER. And, that it was a CAREER fair for my school, made me feel like I might of really had a chance. Well, about a quarter of the recruiters were government entities, (I am too old to be a DEA agent or a Secret Service agent.) Then, there were the companies who wanted you to become a Manager Trainee. Another quarter of the companies were looking for interns, unpaid. And of course, no one was actually hiring, and in fact, if you wanted to apply, most suggested that you simply go to the website. A few actually collected resumes, but then what?

So my question this week has been: "Do you personally know someone who actually got a job as a result of a job fair?" I mean a REAL, pay the bills, the car note and buy groceries, job. Of course, if you don't have a job, you've got to go to these things when you can, because if you're hopeful, (like me), there's always that one, one hundredth of a chance that the job you want is there waiting for you, right?

A Wave of Feel Good

Don't you feel it? It's more than a moment. The world knows it. Can't you feel that we're living at a very special time in history? If you don't then you must not be living in the "now". I invite you to come from under your rock, because it is indeed the beginning of a new time, a new era. And regardless of what our personal issues are right now, we must be still and acknowledge that this is an awesome time to be alive. It is the Age of Obama.

Even more than the significance of a Black man coming to power in a country that could easily be conceived as the architect of racism, it feels like a collective confirmation of the humanity of us all. And while there are those who contend that President Obama is "bi-racial" or "mixed"; he is either a Black man by the very definition of those who determined from the beginning of this country what "Black" is, or we are all, every American, "mixed".

Witnessing President Obama's success, his self-possession and sureness, has conveyed a sense of the same in us all. It was there all along, we knew it. And now he is the collective validation of our individual faith. Moreover, the image of his strong black (and some white) family, reminds us of what has been important for us all along. His very public displays of affection for Michelle, Sasha and Malia endears us to him, and places the black family prominently in the forefront.

So in spite of labels, political, racial, or otherwise, and in spite of your fears, BE HERE NOW. This is a time to celebrate humanity, community and family. Use this historical momentum to propel your own goals and dreams. The energy is in the air, harness it in order to inspire your own ideas or motivate others. Let's ride this wave of "feel good" for as long as we can.

Contemplating My Non-Traditional Time

Though this semester was supposed to be a little less stressful in order to have more time to work on my thesis, I’ve managed to incorporate History Society meetings, a fitness class three days a week, Sigma Tau Delta, and a hour between classes, twice a week, for elliptical and treadmill. My victory for the last few weeks though is that I have managed to stay consistent in my workouts. (And I’ve even lost a few inches and a few pounds!)

But, I sometimes feel like a bit of a fraud. Classmates and colleagues seem to think I have it all together, but as a non-traditional student I have to work really hard to maintain some kind of orderliness in my life. And let me tell you, even though I invested in a really good planner this semester and keep my vacuum cleaner in a visible spot, the truth is, I’m not that good when it comes to organization; that is, organizing my time, activities, studies, etc. I’m more spontaneous, and I tend to handle things as they come; is that bad? I work on class assignments according to what’s due next. And if I can get in a little house cleaning, do a couple loads of laundry, cook a meal, I feel like I’ve had a productive day. But then there are those little jobs I’ve been meaning to get to, but just haven’t had the time, like taking all my photos out of old shoe boxes and buying some of those cute little photo storage boxes to file them in.

In a recent lecture on How to Write a Research Paper, there were two words that stood out for me: Time Management. Does that mean scheduling everything? Does it include learning that in the middle of your thesis that your hard drive is dying? Does that include having to wait a half hour before someone takes an hour and a half to install a new hard drive? Does Time Management include standing in those long lines at Wal-Mart to buy a frozen dinner when you don’t have time to cook? How about chatting with your spouse about how his day at work went? How about when the garage door opener stops working?
Alas, this is the life of a non-traditional student.

Of Historical Proportions

No matter how you slice it, it's just plain Historical; that a black man is accepting the nomination of a major politcal party to possibly become the president of the United States of America. I have to admit, I didn't think he'd get this far. Now, I believe that it just might happen. But, I just wonder though: remember how your grandmother or auntie used to have the photographs of Martin, John and Jesus hanging on the wall like members of the family? Will a new generation add Obama's portrait?

A Lot of Music in a Tiny Box

So, I didn't make a resolution, but I starting working out and eating less back in October in anticipation of graduating in December a size 8. (Hey, it's possible!) And, for small weight loss milestones I'm trying to reward myself with something other than food. For example, instead of a slice of cheesecake, I give myself a nice, hot bubble bath, or a CD, or a new blouse, right? So, today I rewarded myself with an iPod Shuffle; it's like the iPod Nano for those of us who can't afford the $150 bucks for the Nano. Which is fine. It holds 250 songs and that's just enough to fuel my workout. I spent the evening loading it up with my first workout playlist, (which was no small feat if you're over 40).

Once done, I got a pretty good workout in my kitchen. (No carpet there, so I slide a lot easier in my socks!) Now, I consider my music taste to be relatively diverse, but for a workout, I downloaded some good old fashion party music. I start off kinda mellow, and crank it up and then cool it down. Check out my playlist:

1) Private Party by India Irie

2) Diamond in da Ruff by Jaheim

3) I Am Not My Hair by India Irie

4) How to Survive in South Central by Ice Cube (yeah, that's right!)

5) Home Alone by R. Kelly & Keith Murray

6) Work That by Mary J. Blige

7) Wanna Be Startin' Something by Michael Jackson

8) Pressure by Sounds of Blackness

9) Just Fine by Mary J. Blige

10) Atomic Dog by Parliament Funkadelic

11) Represente by Orishas

12) There's Hope by India Irie

Untitled

There was a young man sitting at a table at the entrance of a book store in the mall today. And, usually when I'm in a mall it is for a specific purpose, and I tend to have blinders on; only searching for that thing that I went for, and nothing else. So, the first time I walked past, I just knew that I wasn't in the market for books right now, at least not any that doesn't pertain to one of my classes, and so I didn't pay much attention to him. But, once I'd passed the store, I realized that he had books on the table, and I thought.."he must be doing a book signing".

So, leaving Sears (after having purchased a couple of articles for in-laws in Trinidad), I decided to stop by the table afterall. The young man lit up, "Well, I see you decided to come back." He sounded enthusiastic, and right away I was beginning to feel a little bad. You see, right away I noticed the brightly colored cover of his books, with big, silver bold letters, and I just knew it wasn't something I'd be interested in reading. "What type of writing do you do?" The answer I already knew, "Urban fiction."

To make a long story just a little shorter, he was self published, no use for agents or publishers..."get yourself a distributor" and do-it-yourself. Inside, I cringed. I thought, see Persistence, your turning into one of those literary snobs that Marlon James and Matt Johnson talked about.

It's All In the Bag...(but, not really)

So, you want to carry a really nice handbag to impress your friends, right? But, you can't afford to buy the latest Prada, or Dolce and Gabbana, or

Vintage Hermes. Well, as if we don't have enough stuff to indulge our consumer jones, the website, Bag, Borrow or Steal is here to solve all your needs when it comes to your expensive, (and ridiculous) taste in handbags.

For the low monthly price of $5 bucks, or an annual fee of about $60, you can rent the handbag of your dreams.

Now, like the next female, I like a nice, fashionable but practical, well-made handbag. But, I generally like to carry a purse that doesn't cost more money than I have in it; or one that I don't have to take out a small loan to purchase, or one that I'd have to rent, with a monthly bill attached to it, (no matter how small they make it seem). But, hey, if Burberry is your thing, (and you have absolutely nothing else to do with your money), this might just be the website for you!

Semester Reflection

Virginia WoolfThe Thanksgiving holiday is a good time to begin reflecting over the current school semester. It’s the point where you’ve become progressively sick of school, but still schizophrenically looking forward to a fresh start in the coming semester. It’s also a good time to catch up on upcoming assignments, journaling, housecleaning, and oh yeah… blogging.

Now that I’m looking forward to my trip to London next May, I’ve been thinking a lot about the British Literature classes I’ve taken and the Brit Lit that I’ve read, including the Postcolonial stuff. I wasn’t expecting to like Shakespeare, or Milton, or Emily Bronte, but I’m really enjoying the wonderful connections and segues into early American Literature (for example the John Locke stuff), the similarities in subject matter and issues of the Victorian era on both sides of the pond, particularly in terms of the value of women and Africans in society. I love imagining that Bronte might of had a different ending in mind in Wuthering Heights where Catherine didn’t have to redeem herself by acquiescing to the idea of an “angel in the house”. And I’m totally into that scattered, fragmented narrative that Virginia Woolf uses in Mrs. Dalloway to reflect the alienation of individuals in a society that can’t talk to the people closest to them, and that delicate line of “Proportion” between the sane and the insane. Mrs. Dalloway uses that "stream of consciousness narrative technique" that is indicative of twentieth century literature; a quintessential Modernist work.

But, there’s this guy in my class…we’ll call him Jerry. Jerry absolutely doesn’t get it. He doesn’t like fiction, regarding it as “just a bunch of made up stuff that doesn’t make sense”. He only took the class to fill an English requirement, and Brit Lit was the only thing that fit into his schedule. I guess I should point out that Jer’ is some kind of technical major, and in a way I understand. I felt a similar isolation in a math class involving assigning equations to lines on a graph…((ugh)). But, I think Jer’ needs an attitude adjustment. I think literature, fiction can teach us a lot about societies and eras in our history through the lives of ordinary people. I don’t think it matters whether the character in the story is “a real person” or not. All of the values, beliefs, ideas, desires, dreams, etc. of the person who wrote the story are reflected in every aspect of a narrative; even if it’s not autobiographical. And that is real.

So Jer’, free your mind; consider the possibilities, breath…breath…breath…

New York Times Obituaries: The Last Fifteen Minutes of Fame

When someone inevitably ask, “So, what’cha gonna do with a degree in English, teach?” I always feel compelled to tell them that yes, teaching is actually my plan B. With an English degree I intend to become a working, well-compensated, literary author and eccentric, traveling the world for the best vegetarian cuisine, collecting rare books and personalities, participating in Voodoo rituals in Haiti, an occasional fish fry back home in St. Louis with my sisters lying about the good old days, and who will inevitably, upon my death, having done something so wildly fascinating that I land a spot in the New York Times obituaries. Unlike your average, everyday, run of the mill obituaries, the NYT obit is like a biography/tribute in a nutshell. And while not just anybody lands a coveted NYT obituary, according to the obituaries editor, Bill McDonald, they do sometimes approach people before they die, “directly but also delicately” to compose a future obituary. (Which is why I’m working on mine now.)

I like how the NYT eulogizes not people who are simply famous. Some of the entries are about people we might not recognize, but who might have done something truly fascinating. Like Kelsie B. Harder,

"whose ruminations about why his parents gave him what sounded like a girl’s name
provoked such enthrallment with proper nouns that he became a leading
onomastician — a student of names and their origins — died on April 12 at his
home in Potsdam, N.Y. He was 84.”

(Me, I can't even pronounce onomastician.) Then there is Harold Max Mayer who died on April 20th. The

“former chairman of Oscar Mayer and Company, he invented the popular Smokie
Link, a spicy hot dog, and took an active role in acquiring and managing the
Claussen Pickle Company and the Louis Rich Company.”

(Who knew?) And, even though I claim to be a little jazz savvy, I didn’t know about Andrew Hill, who worked with the likes of

“Dinah Washington, Johnny Hartman and Dakota Staton. He got a chance to play
with Charlie Parker at the Greystone Ballroom in Detroit in 1954. A job with
Roland Kirk brought him to New York in the early 1960s.”

NYT also pays tribute to the famous and infamous, sometimes adding an extra tidbit about them that we might not know. Like the burly, provincial politician, Boris Yeltsin, who became a Soviet-era reformer. In his autobiography, Yeltsin recalled that as a child, he and his family lived in a hut for 10 years,

“winter was worst of all,” he wrote. “There was nowhere to hide from the cold.
Since we had no warm clothes, we would huddle up to the nanny goat to keep warm.
We children survived on her milk.”

Well, I’m a city girl, so I don’t know anything about huddling up to a nanny goat, but maybe something in my life and work will garner a final nod from the NYT obituaries. “Hey Bill, I’m working on that biography now!”

That word, that word,
Like a Signifying Monkey we
Claimed that word for ourselves to prove
Your barefaced use of a sign which you created just for us
No longer had the power it once possessed.
But we were wrong.
The word, subtly evoking seeds of self loathing,
The word that defiled hip-hop,
Has gained the momentum of a backhand slap
Descending from, it seemed, the highest point in a
Civil rights kitchen, to the fleshy jawbone
Of the youthful mouth from which
It scarcely materialized.
We have given that word more power than before,
For now they blame us for that word,
And they use that word, expressing their own defilement,
To reclaim the power they once possessed
Over our souls.
That word, on the brink of their psyche, at the tip of their tongues,
Like a stallion at the gate, eyes bulging, teeth exposed,
Recalling for them their glorious, colonial dream,
Salvaging the politically repressed rage of tormented souls,
And wounded egos.
More powerful than we knew,
That word.

~sbnl

Last Rites

Having grown up in Baptist and Pentecostal churches, I have attended funeral services that are spirited, to say the least, and most often animated. Although there is a start time, the end time is often unpredictable and sometimes determined by how many people pass out from having the Holy Ghost descend upon them. A soloist wails a gutsy, bluesy rendition of “Precious Lord”, and the choir rock and sway to a thunderous bass line whose vibrations jolt the most solemn of mourners. So watching more reserved tributes to the deceased, such as that of a president, seem a little surreal in its execution.

Nevertheless, I am always taken aback by the formality of white Americans and Europeans, whether it is the funeral services of former presidents, popes or even the marriage of Prince Charles and Diana. No matter what we think of these individuals living or not, the grandeur of these ceremonies is arresting, and commands the awe and attention of the world (and, they cost a lot more than passing the collection plate will ever pay for when the deceased couldn’t afford insurance). There is always a prevailing sense of being in the midst of something historical and memorable. The pomp and circumstance regarded in these universal customs of death and marriage, (although Europeans seem to evoke a little more pomp that Americans), takes on a remote, timeless and enduring quality. In short, white people sure can put on a show. And, whether the program is done in a day, or whether it plays out over the course of a week, I find myself glued to the television and internet until it is over.

The funeral rites of the Pope, with its Sistine Chapel backdrop, the coordinated flow of red Cardinal robes, and the colorful regalia of the Swiss Guards revealed the splendor and mysteries of hundreds of years. A ceremony that, until the death of Pope John Paul II, had only been witnessed by a small fraction of the worlds’ population. And, while the tribute to Gerald Ford was not as over-the-top as Ronald Reagan, it still was a performance for American record books. No matter how scruffy and disheveled American soldiers look in the field, when they put on those dress blues, marching with deadly precision, making a coffin appear to float on air, they bring a degree of dignity to any program, regardless of what people may think of the dead person.

Still there is something more satisfying in watching a sad, New Orleans dirge break into an upbeat, jazzy “O When The Saints, Go Marching In”; people dancing in the street with their ushering uniforms/Mardi Gras costumes on. You haven’t had a good send off unless Sister Jackson does her infamous hoochie, coochie shout down the isle, or the preacher, with his adenoidal lament, attest to your faithfulness in tithing. The image of M.C. Hammer wiggling and gliding on the stage at James Brown’s funeral service in Augusta, Georgia, although unnerving, somehow just feels right. And, as usual, the funerals of others always propels me to think of how I myself would liked to be eulogized, and how I’d like my life to be celebrated when I leave this earth. For starters, I know I want a lot of good music; I’d like some African drumming and dancing, and that New Orleans vibe sounds good. There’s got to be a lot of good food and fellowshipping. And, I want to be remembered for my persistence, my never-give-upness, and maybe my mouth watering Curried, Vegetarian Fish and rice, my words and…

Eliminating Hunger

Growing up in a working-class family with three siblings, we didn’t have a lot. We weren’t poor, because we had what we needed. There were times I wished my mother had been a little less frugal. For example, it would have been nice to have the rich, expensive Chip Ahoy! Chocolate Chip Cookies sometimes, instead of the 3-packs of cookies for a dollar. You know the ones: the cute little star cookies with that hardened (I guess strawberry) jelly in the center, the hard, oatmeal cookies with the crispy, white icing on top, and my favorite, the almond, windmill cookies with maybe two pieces of a slithered almond glued to it. We weren’t even on welfare, but my mama shopped generic long before it became popular. I used to envy my friends whose moms splurged on Frankenberry, Coco Puffs, and Lucky Charms; for our sugary breakfast cereals consisted of Corn Flakes…and when we were lucky…Rice Krispies…not the frosted ones…just Rice Krispies. But, although we didn’t always get what we wanted, food was never an issue. I always had the privilege of being able to go to our kitchen and satisfy my hunger.

The U.S. Department of Agriculture says that there are 35 million Americans who don’t have that option. But, their effort to eliminate hunger doesn’t involve making sure people have food to eat. Their idea of eliminating hunger involves eliminating the word hunger from the description of people who don’t have the luxury of just opening the fridge for glass of milk. However, to clear up the distinction about whose more uhm, hungry than others, they’ve revamped the whole hungry thing, and gave it some nice, new, shiny labels. So now, if you eat pork chops instead of range-free chicken, fried in lard as opposed to baked in extra-virgin olive oil, you have “low food security”. But, if you lay away at night wishing like Hell you had those pork chops, fried in lard, then you have “very low food security”.

I keep thinking about the autobiography of Richard Wright, Black Boy. He was raised on “lard mush and greens”, and went hungry so often that later, when his job at the U.S. Postal Service was dependent on him passing a physical examination, he was so under nourished, and weighed so little that he lost the job. And as a little boy, whenever there was an opportunity, he would stash food in his pockets for fear of not having anything to eat later.

Mark Nord, the lead author of a report that the Agriculture Department issues every year measuring Americans' access to food, said "hungry" is "not a scientifically accurate term for the specific phenomenon being measured in the food security survey." Maybe it’s just me…but, there’s something about the word hungry that just sounds perfect if you have “very low food security”. Where I come from, if it really gets bad we say hōn’gree. And, smacking a fancy-schmancy label on such a condition to make one feel better about having “high food security” (the label for people who have regular access to steak and caviar), doesn’t eliminate the feeling of having to learn algebra on an empty stomach. Something tells me Mark Nord has never been hōn’gree. But then again, people with “very low food security” probably don’t care what we call it.

Defense for Andrew Young

I don’t know about you, but, I grew up in a neighborhood that, although it was not as bad as it has become since I’ve moved away, it still was not nearly as rosy as Wisteria Lane. Before we were “urban contemporary”, we were “the Northside” or “Southside”.

“Where you from?”
“Penrose.”
“Walnut Park.”
“Westside.”
“Pruit-Igoe.”
“Bluemyer”
“Eastside.”

For the most part, these neighborhoods were beginning to integrate in the early to mid-sixties and most if not all of the neighborhood stores (we used to call them Confectionaries) were owned by someone, or someone’s parents who had freely immigrated from somewhere else. In my neighborhood there was Finnigers, whose owners were not surprisingly German, being that my area, Walnut Park, was a popular residential destination for Germans in the late 1800s. And, there was Union Market, whose proprietors were Jewish. As a child, I didn’t think very much about who the owners were. In the early sixties it was not uncommon to see Caucasians minding a store or running a business. Not since those days have I heard anybody’s mother tell them,

“Baby, run up to de corner store and get Mama a halfa stick ‘o butter for my pie.”

Or

“Mr. Finniger, can I get fifty cent wortha boloney.”

Or, hogshead cheese, and a stale box of vanilla wafers, ten cent sodas, or the classic,

“Go get Uncle Petey five cigarettes from Union Market. Make that three. And, a coupla matches.”

And, it was only as I began to grow older, more perceptive and often having traveled or socialized to some of those previously mentioned neighborhoods that I, my friends and family would sometimes jokingly testify about regularly observing rodents in some of these fine establishments. It was a known fact, and perhaps sadly accepted, that in some of these local grocers that bread, out of date long before we learned what those colorful little twist ties were for, sat for weeks on the shelves until…well Hell, until somebody who didn’t have a car to go way across town to a supermarket, bought it.

Even now, as an adult, I am conscious when I step into neighborhood convenience stores or gas stations or beauty supply shops or Dunkin Donuts. It’s not just me. I know eyes follow my every move. I have been followed through isles. I have had change casually tossed on the counter to me. I have been overcharged. I have been ignored. I have been treated with disdain. I wouldn’t dare buy vegetables or bread. I don’t eat meat, but if I did, humph.

African-Americans are the poster children for racism. We can sniff it out like a bomb search dog. Racism is not the same thing as recognizing that the men who hijacked the airplanes on September 11th were of Arab descent. Racism is using that information to suggest that all Arabs are terrorists, and as a result, restrict the movements of every Arab, or detain as many Arabs as you can, or hate all Arabs and not let them learn to read, or go to school, or get a job, or live in your neighborhoods and eat at your lunch counters. The mistake Andrew Young made was that he was Andrew Young; civil rights icon, former Atlanta mayor, former U.S. Ambassador. Had he been Percy Washington in Chicago, no one would’ve blinked an eye. Did Andrew Young say he didn’t like Jews, Koreans or Arabs because of the color of their skin? Did he say something, or make an accusation that at some time or another was not true? And, while we understand that not all people from other places who find themselves earning a living in our neighborhoods are bad people, the truth is that we’ve all been in that grocery store with the stale bread and the wilted vegetables. That ain’t racism. That’s just the truth.

'Fenna Ain't A Word

As Americans who’ve survived and descended from those who were torn away from our own languages, and who under duress, was compelled to learn the language of our captors, it is a miracle that we speak English as well as we do. My colleagues often laugh when they are witness to my relatively consistent use of the word ‘fenna’, (‘fena’, ‘finna’, ‘fina’, spelling notwithstanding), a word I use unashamedly, despite my dogged pursuit of a bachelors degree in English. It is a word that I claim for myself to declare or emphasize my intention and determination; “I’m ‘fenna get me a degree in English, if it’s the last thing I do,” or “I’m ‘fenna get me something to eat,” or the ever popular, “I’m ‘fenna go.” When those around me enthusiastically race to remind me that I am an English major, I have a ready-made explanation that I pontificate, half serious, half joking. I tell them that in order to be qualified to employ a word such as ‘fenna (or, fixin’depending on what part of the south your folks come from, or ain’t, or y’all, or whatseneva, etc., etc.), you must already have a thorough knowledge and an intimate understanding of the English language as taught by the descendents of England and her profiteers, entrepreneurs and settlers in this country. You can’t use the word ‘fenna without understanding the implications of being ‘about to do something’, having the strength of will, as in “I’m ‘fenna get my freedom.” Or, when your Mama says you “ain’t gone get no peach cobbla ‘til you clean up that mess,” she means you won’t even be able to smell it until you do what she says. And when a double negative is used, (“ain’t gone get no”) you know she means it, so you commence to cleaning.
On an old Oprah Winfry show, there was a discussion about the use of what is now commonly called, Ebonics. (I marvel because the spell check on my computer only forms a squiggly red line under Ebonics when I don’t use a capital E.) However, I don’t prefer the term ‘Ebonics’, because that seems to imply that it is something other than English. It is a vernacular, an English ‘Creole’ of sorts, and I simply prefer African-American English. A gentleman in the audience reminded everyone about the historical flexibility, adaptability and versatility of African-Americans when he said, “…We can speak Ebonics, we can speak the king’s English, we can parlais vous Français if we need to…” affirming that we are a strong people, capable of changing in whatever ways necessary to survive.