To My Pops
by Lloyd Bowser
 I guess you could say it all started 36 years ago with the introduction into the world of another some would say "mouth to feed". That was Christmas of 1963. Dr. Martin Luther King was still alive and preaching and showing us the ways of Gandhi. Robert Kennedy would later run for President of the U.S. and possibly win, but he would be cut down by an assassins bullets in 68 his brother having been dead six years since. John F. Kennedy was making a mark on the world but would never live to see 64'.
In a small community in Baltimore I was born black, small and frail. The mother was black as coffee strong as silk and gentle as a falling star. Her strength long ago dictated by her spiritual upbringing and like most dark women sacred intuition held the family,in latter years, together. You can't pick your parents any more then you can predict which leaf will fall from a tree. And not far from the tree I like my dad am cast in his image. Not just a physical image but a mental one as well. As would befit the middle son of three I am looking back and writing the story of the strength of a black man-my father.
A lot can be said about the black family today. Its disintegration, lack of family structure and support-grandparents left to raise there children's children. But if you peer deeply into and through the veils of despair at the reports of the "black family" you see something else altogether different, and no less tragic. You see brothers warring an internal struggle for mom, dad or the affection of the street. You see hatreds spreading like a cancer as we as a community peer into our own mirrors and refuse to like what we see. We reflect that hatred back out at others and so this virus spreads.
My dad was born in Baltimore right before WW2. He too born black in a time that some of us can now only imagine in the discussions of those who survived it. Another era where it wasn't unusual to lynch black man and eat a sandwich in the same setting. It wasn't unusual to be denied the right to shop, and vote in the same community in which you paid taxes and lived and died in poverty-this was very usual.
My dad was the oldest and the oldest male of all his siblings and as such had to maintain a cool and level demeanor. While "Leave It to Beaver" was the average show on TV at the time depicting a Hollywood glamorized version of a lily white American society where blacks played the fringe roles, but in their TV town were not at all represented-music was the key to survival in the black community.
 My dad loves music just look at his collection i.e. The Jazz Messengers, Art Blakely, Thelonius Monk, Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Pear Bailey and Ella Fitzgerald. This music was the heart and soul of my dads world. My earliest remembrances were of a strong figure lifting me high into the sky and smiling so broad the teeth so white. He has passed through so many levels of society trying to teach me right from wrong and succeeding at every turn. Not giving quarter to my childhood protests about feeling "to sick to go to church today" sermonizing I was so good at way back when.
And now having fought on all levels to level the playing field my dad has to fight for his life. Cancer which has ravaged many families in this country takes a special toll on black folks who are the last to be identified with a major illness and as a result seek treatment in the latter stages. Through this he remains resolute and up beat. Taking time not to worry about himself, but as to how my brothers and I fare.
Black as coffee. Brave as Hell. I am proud to walk in my fathers shadow. He has passed the torch to his generations and has touched us all. By the grace of God that I might enjoy his company for many years to come. Love to my Pops.
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