Archive for Brunswick Georgia

Come Sunday In Brunswick Georgia

Posted in Theater, Travels in the New South with tags , , on December 16, 2009 by playthell

A Church For The High and Mighty!

 I had only arrived a little over twenty four hours ago; slipping into town with the rising sun, 7: o-clock on Saturday morning, when the sleepy little town of Brunswick Georgia was fast asleep.   My senior daughter Sandra met me at the bus stop and at my request we drove down to the waterfront to watch the shrimping trawlers steaming out into the Atlantic Ocean, “the biggety blue,” as the old salty dogs I once sailed out of the port of Philadelphia with called the ocean seas.  I looked around and suspected the sea food would be good…and I was right.

Although Brunswick lacks the sheer beauty of St. Augustine Florida, in some ways it reminded me of the nation’s oldest city, which lies perched on the Atlantic coast just 108 miles due south.   It was not only the white washed wooden trawlers, or docks made of faded gray weather beaten wood, that evoked memories of my boyhood home; the gray Spanish moss that drapes the many live oak trees filled me with bitter/sweet nostalgia.  And the quiet ambience of the city compelled me to reflect upon the virtues of small town southern life.  After all, the best things about my own character were forged in one.

The religious passions I had encountered elsewhere in the south were also percolating in Brunswick, and it didn’t take long to recognize that the battle against Satan was in full force.  The spirit of the lord seemed to be everywhere, infecting the believers with a sublime joy.  I first noticed it in the farmers market, where those hawking their wares were certain that the lord had personally blessed them with the bounty of the land.  This was true even among those farmers who seemed threadbare and quietly desperate.  Perhaps they felt that, like Job, the lord was simply testing their faith with hard times.

But one cheery lady, another white haired alabaster Georgia peach, seemed especially animated by the spirit of Christ as she related a yarn about how she was moved by the spirit of Christian charity to give a homeless man a jar of her famous fig preserves and a home made biscuit.  Everyone repeatedly thanked the lord for the beautiful morning, and for sparing them to see it.  They acknowledged each other as Christian solders – especially my daughter and the cheery Ms. Figgie – and they testified that the works of the Lord are good and righteous in all their manifestations.  I had hardly been in town an hour before I was engulfed in a gale of religious passion, and it was only Saturday; Sunday would be a different story.

We spent the rest of Saturday filling each other in with stories about family and friends and preparing a feast of fresh vegetables, rice, potato salad, cornbread, real lemonade and a variety of freshly caught sea foods.  My grandson Kelvin “Big Kel” Whitfield and his wife Lisa – whom I was meeting for the first time – also came over and brought some of their friends to meet me.   It was an interesting mix of personalities.  The young folk were bold, optimistic, and infatuated with various brands of folly.  My daughter’s friends, on the other hand, were mostly middle-aged, man-less but saved women who claimed to be done with the foolishness of this world and were storing up blessings for the hereafter by doing the lord’s work here on earth 24/7.  As they would often reiterate, theirs was a purpose driven life, and their purpose was to serve Jesus Christ and praise his name with every waking hour.  Yet the careful way they decorated themselves, and the sunshine smiles they beamed at the eligible brethren, betrayed a lingering interest in the opposite sex.

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 Come Sunday things started bustling around the house early as the Christian soldiers arose with the sun, carefully laying out their uniforms so as to pass inspection with the lord.  This was the day that the pious saved souls lived for.  This was the day that they visited their father’s house and sanctified their souls in the body of Christ.  None was more dedicated to this ritual than Sandra.  That’s why I had turned down an opportunity to travel into New Orleans with the Dillon family, one of the city’s most influential clans, as they returned to assess the damage the wind and floods of Katrina had done to their homes.  It was a reporter’s dream, but I had promised Sandra that I would be in Brunswick to attend church with her; so I cut out from Baton Rouge and headed for southeastern Georgia.  And on Sunday morning I groomed and decorated myself to the height of good fashion and escorted my daughter to the New Covenant Church.

It didn’t take long to discover the high regard with which my senior daughter is held by the members of her congregation.  She was admired as much for her artistic abilities as her tireless work in behalf of the church. I would later be shown several bill boards for theatrical productions she had presented under the auspices of the church.  She had served as writer, director, choreographer, and designer of the sets and costumes.  I knew that by some mysterious alchemy she had managed to touch the sacred fire and become a poet, but I didn’t know that she had also become a multi-talented thespian.  And she is lauded for her talents in spite of the fact that she has no formal training in any of these arts.  Sandra is a true autodidact. Upon reflection I began to recognize that, like the great composer Johann Sebastian Bach, she has found her muse, audience and patron in the church.  And that’s about as convincing evidence of God’s grace as I have yet seen.

 From Africa to America: A musical Pageant

 

 A historical Odyssey into the African Diaspora

 

 A Swirl of Colors and movement!

 Real Black Magic!

 

 Written, Choreographed, Costumed and Directed by Sandra

There are many impressive churches in Georgia, grand edifices with steeples that reach for the skies, but Sandra’s church was modest, though well decorated; a church where humble working people could feel at home. Yet in spite of its unpretentious architecture, I’m convinced that if the spirit of God was anywhere in Georgia on that Sunday morning, she was in that little church in Brunswick. You could hear in the music, which was divine.  In this holy sanctuary the worshippers were bathed in the word of the lord as it poured from the mouths of passionate preachers, and the word would rejuvenate them and make them feel brand new, cleansed of the sins of this world.  In church, everybody was bedecked in their finest garments, and it was hard to tell some of the saved sisters who shouted out to God from the painted Jezebels and shameless hussies who were shaking their pulcritudinous “Afri-cans” in the juke joints on Saturday night past.   Some said that’s because they were the same crowd!

Since I was a stranger in town I had no way of telling who’s who, but if they were anything like most other church people I know it’s the same crowd alright. I surmised this from the first hand reports I have received from professional church musicians – most of whom are versatile musical artists who play in a variety of venues – who assure me that they get more action on church gigs than playing the cabarets.  This may sound strange to many readers, especially true Christian soldiers, but there are some fairly obvious reasons why the church choir has often been a cauldron of sexual licentiousness and myriad debaucheries.

First of all, as the most perceptive people who study the mating game and religious ecstasy well know, passion is a class of phenomena; and those who are capable of experiencing it in one of life’s arenas are capable of feeling it in others.  To make a short story shorter: Passion is passion whether religious or sexual.  When we add to this emotionally combustible atmosphere all the lonely people who go to church in search of fellowship of some kind, we have the perfect atmosphere for mortal sins of the flesh such as fornication and adultery.

The Reverend Doctor Michael Eric Dyson has written candidly about the lust and licentiousness that flourish in the black protestant church, and the prolific scholar/priest the Reverend Doctor Andrew Greeley, has pulled the covers back and revealed the tempestuous sexual passions – homosexual and heterosexual – among all levels of the priesthood in his insightful and once shocking novel, The Cardinal Sins.  The powerful novel Elmer Gantry, which was made into the classic movie starring Burt Lancaster and the luscious Shirley Jones that set my youthful erotic imagination spinning out of control, also provides an insightful look into religiously inspired sexual passions.  And what’s more it has long been rumored, and can now be backed up with first hand testimony provided to researchers that the church choir is often a passion pit of homosexual assignations.

In fact, a black gay sociologist based in Atlanta recently showed me a study that he is presently working on that will soon make these suppressed homo-erotic narratives public, exposing the hypocritical anti-homosexual stance of most churches.  One long time church singer told me “If it weren’t for gay men there would be no music in these churches.”  Having sung in the church since she was a young lass, over forty years now, the singer knows whereof she speaks.  Hence it makes good sense for gay men to cruise the church choirs in search of deep inner fulfillment.  In spite of the preacher’s admonitions against it, or the proscriptions against buggery in the bible, the church choir remains a prime cruising ground for love starved homosexual males and females in search of forbidden fruit.  The situation is such that it prompted one devoted deacon to remark to this writer: “All the troubles in the church start in the choir!”

  God’s Eunuchs or Priestly Pervs?

 The rape of children is a recurring sin among the “celebate” priesrhood

Nowhere has the blatant hypocrisy toward homosexuality been more egregious than in the Catholic Church.  Here, where all sexual activity by devotees of the religious orders –priests and nuns alike – is deemed a sin, forbidden fruit is especially attractive. Its human nature and no amount of pious preachment can alter it.   After all, was it not Adam’s inability to resist the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden that brought the downfall of man from a state of grace?  Thus when all of those closet perverts who join the Catholic priesthood, desperately attempting to avoid confronting the demons conjured up by their refusal to deal with their lust for forbidden pleasures, are placed in close unsupervised activities with innocent youngsters who are programmed to trust them, the rape of children is increasingly the result.

All this has left an indelible blot upon the character of the Roman Catholic Church and the honor of Pope John Paul II, the late Bishop of Rome, a good friar under whose reign the mass rape of Children occurred while he looked askance in an unholy charade designed to preserve the earthly reputation of the Church, thus failing to exercise his responsibility as chief steward of that church and keeper of the faith.  For this the Pope, now beatified and bound for sainthood, would have had to satisfy the commands of a higher power, not serve the petty politics of the church!

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 Compared to such mortal sins against the word committed by the Catholic hierarchy, a few painted and daringly attired Jezebels in the Pews seeking absolution in my daughters church – even if on a temporary basis – was a welcome sight.   It was easy to tell who among us felt in the need of prayer, because at the invitation of Pastor Albert Armstrong – offered with arms outstretched majestically – the congregants flocked down to the well in front of the pulpit to repent their sins and seek God’s forgiveness and blessings through prayer.

As I watched them I couldn’t help wondering how they imagined God would weigh their sins – their failures of the flesh and petty avarice – Vs. George Bush’s fleecing of the poor to further enrich the rich, or the slaughter of innocents for example. And worse still, his unrepentant blasphemy!  I also wondered if they thought having impure sexual thoughts, or lusting after their neighbor’s spouse, was a graver sin than paying taxes to a government that enables the Bushmen to commit mass murder against weak and unoffending peoples, and to witness these crimes against humanity – the most perfect of God’s creations whom she cast in her own dusky image – without protest.

In spite of a burning desire to interrogate them, I never got to ask them these questions because they didn’t think in such terms.  For them morality was personal, these are the sort of people who were more alarmed about Clinton screwing around with Monica Lewinsky in an ante-room in the White House, than George Bush screwing us all from the Oval Office. The truth, as near as I could tell, is that most Christians who are devoted to other-worldly concerns don’t even pay any attention to the news; which, to my mind, is a real sacrilege.

 Dr Martin Luther King

 A Modern Prophet

Unfortunately, the Christian revivalism presently sweeping the south is not the prophetic Christianity of Dr. Martin Luther King, or his longtime comrade in the struggle Dr. Joseph Lowery, who told me in Atlanta a few days after I attended New Covenant Church, that he continues to see participation in the struggle against injustice here and now as the best way to serve the will of God.  But since the fundamentalists are certain that this sinful world is doomed to destruction by fire come Judgment Day, and many believe that we are clearly living in the last days – they can see it in the signs of the times – the truly righteous are spending all of their time getting ready to meet their maker.  And that means, first and foremost, “getting right with the lord,” which leaves them precious little time for contemplating the troubles of this world.

On this Sunday morning the sermon, which they referred to as “Praising the Word,” was delivered by Rev. Catherine Armstrong, the wife in the joint pastorate of New Covenant.  She wore her hair in a short “au natural” style, and was both bright and articulate as she delivered a straight forward message on the need for people to stand up and make a stab at achieving their dreams while seeking the lord’s help through prayer.  She was both erudite and funny, as she lifted the spirits of the congregants with her sermon.  Like the old time preachers in James Weldon Johnson’s epic poems God’s Trombones, this preacher was a poet, “with all the devices of eloquence at her command.”  And she was preaching in just the sort of church the great novelist and folklorist Zora Neal Hurston had in mind when she said a preacher “must be a poet in order to survive in a Negro pulpit.”

 Zora the Word Sorcerer!

 Her poetic prose celebrated the essence of black southern culture

As I sat and listened to this soul stirring sister I was reminded that it was the unschooled divines to whom these praises were addressed, Johnson in his poems and Hurston in her wonderful novel Jonah’s Gourd Vine, both written within a couple of hundred miles from each other in the same part of Florida where I grew up.  So by the end of my visit to this little Georgia church with the mighty spirit, after I had joined the congregation in physically driving the devil out of New Covenant’s sanctuary and witnessed my daughter raise her voice in sacred song, waving her hands above her head in time with the music, channeling the holy spirit on sound waves to the soul, I too, unrepentant infidel that I am, felt uplifted by the spirit of their sermons and the spiritual power of their songs.

 ****************

Playthell Benjamin

Harlem, New York

December 15, 2009

It’s A New Day!

Posted in Cultural Matters with tags , , , , on October 20, 2009 by playthell

Luke Ingram and Radio Legend Tom Joyner 

 

The Jazz in the Gardens Concert 022

Businessman Ingrahm is all smiles as he contemplates the future

 

On a recent trip through the American South I visited the sleepy little town of Brunswick Georgia.  However the boredom that is usually associated with small towns is alleviated here by virtue of the fact that St. Simon’s Island lay just over the bridge and attracts a cosmopolitan crowd.   It was while grooming and decorating myself in preparation for a visit to the cafes on St. Simon’s that I wandered into a Tonsorial Parlor – which is what they called elegantly decorated full service barber shops back in the day – located in a mini mall shopping strip located across the boulevard from the Georgia Costal College.  As it turned out, the proprietor was an enterprising young black man who was both a pleasant host and an artist with his clippers; I soon learned that his name was Luke Ingram.  And we hit it off right away.

As a class, barbers are a unique bunch.  Like beauticians, they must sell the illusion that they can make a person attractive by their cosmetological conjurations.  Hence people tend to have great faith in them as the alchemist who possesses the power to grant the gift of beauty.  As such, barbers and beauticians must also be part amateur psychologists and priest because they are forced to listen to confessions and offer home spun advice.  And their independent financial position was a catalyst for their support of and participation in the Civil rights struggle in the Deep South during the 1960’s; they had a first hand knowledge of the community’s problems and they didn’t work for the white folks.  Hence the racist defenders of the status quo couldn’t take away their livelihood.  However black barbers were active in the struggle all over the country, not just in the south

During conversations with Luke on my present visit to Brunswick, I learned that he was starting an organization aimed at giving direction and redefining the goals of the many young black males who are either misguided in their ambitions or wandering about aimless with no plan at all.  In too many cases these hapless young men wind up in jail or the graveyard before they have ever had a chance to really live.  As a young black man who was once fascinated by the sporting life of the streets and went afoul of the law, Luke knows first hand that the path being taken by far too many young men can only lead to disaster…sooner or later.  It’s in the cards.  That’s why as a music promoter he refuses to present rap acts that extol negative values and celebrate criminal or anti-social acts. 

The organization he founded, “Mature Movement: New Horizons for Youths,”  is  a mentoring program that engages young men in rap sessions and other activities designed to help them formulate a set of constructive values and define a life plan for success.  In this endeavor Luke is following in a distinguished tradition of barbers who have assumed leadership roles when their community was in crisis.  Two dramatic examples of African American barbers who led in the struggle against white supremacy and apartheid in their home towns were Clyde Jenkins of St. Augustine Florida and Ernie Chambers of Omaha Nebraska. Chambers would go on and become a lawyer then get himself elected to the state assembly.  Clyde Jenkins would perform some of the most self-less and heroic service to the struggle that few can match. 

I first heard of Ernie Chambers one day back in the turbulent Sixties when black folks were teaching white folks a new racial etiquette; by nature this effort could not be confined to the formal demonstrations lead by charismatic revivalists with silver tongues – those great orators, such as Dr. Martin Luther king and James Farmer, who could fire up the spirit of a crowd and inspire them to walk unarmed through the valley of death and fear no evil.  Although a few stars of the movement monopolized the attentions of the media, it was the masses of Afro-Americans who remain anonymous that made the movement successful.  Ernie Chambers was such a foot soldier for freedom, and a splendid one indeed.

Ernie first caught my attention because he made national news by just being what I consider a man and a good father.  He went down to the school house one day in Omaha and stuck in foot in a cracker teacher’s ass because the punk-ass muthafucka had insulted his little girl with a racist epithet.   However what I considered par for the course made big news in the media and most of white America was appalled.  I publicly applauded the brother during a speech soon after in Omaha, and he received greetings and salutations from black fathers all over the country.  The chain of events that followed Chamber’s actions propelled him into the thick of the struggle against the racist caste system in America.  He became a Civil rights activist, a lawyer and a state legislator.  Ernie Chambers set an example of leadership and manhood for black youths all across the nation.

 I remembered Clyde Jenkins as being easy like Sunday morning; a good natured even tempered pecan tan guy with a wit as sharp as his razor…a guy with a luminous smile and ready story or joke to provoke laughter; yet he seemed like a different guy when I read about his heroic deeds in the newspaper clippings preserved in the historical archives of St. Augustine Florida.  The records show that when the time came this slightly built good natured barber proved as tenacious as a tick and a man of uncommon courage.  He even scouted out a Ku Klux Klan meeting way back out in the piney woods.  When he and his companion were discovered they were captured by the Klan and came very close to being torched and burned alive!   They escaped this horrid fate only because a Federal Marshall had infiltrated their ranks and stopped the lynching from going down.

Reading about the incident in the archives was so gripping that I wanted to hear his recollections; I have tried to interview Clyde about those divine days but he dose not wish to remember…at lest he won’t speak on it.  But on my recent trip to St. Augustine I found plenty of people who lived and struggled through that period and were quite willing to talk about it.  And I am in the process of making a radio and video documentary of their testimony of remembrance, as well as their elation at the election of Barack Obama; which they rightly feel they had something to do with.  So when I arrived in Brunswick Georgia to visit my senior daughter Sandra, my head was full of stories about the bad old days of Southern apartheid and the heroic struggle Afro-Americans waged to overcome it.  And that’s what was on my mind when I returned to Luke’s barber shop for a haircut recently.

 

Droppin Science!

Rapping with the Youths in Brunswick 004

 Rapping with the young bloods at Mature Movement

 

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Luke, who is also a local concert promoter and thus has a conduit to the youths, is seriously concerned about the fate of young black men in the US and has a vision for turning them away from the self-destructive patterns that are becoming the norm for large segments of inner-city youths. An ex-offender who once did three years for aggravated assault, Luke has managed to put his life back together and is flourishing.  In this sense he is like Malcolm X, who also did time for things he did when he was young and dumb, then joined the movement to uplift our people.  Luke has a college degree and a thriving business cutting the heads of the most important and powerful black men in the city, as well as wayward youths fascinated with the gangsta life.  Thus he has the kind of street cred that one must have in order to get the youths to listen.  And he is a solid church member to boot!

Last Friday evening I sat and rapped with Luke and another young brother “MC Wood from the Hood,” an aspiring rapper and enterprising young man who has built a recording studio in his apartment, and I was impressed with the passion of their convictions. They had different takes on the significance of the Obama election – although both agreed that it was a great thing – and I learned much about the thinking of our youths from listening to their conversation. To MC Wood Obama’s victory represents a giant step in the struggle for the recognition of black talent and intellect.  “If you are a black man whites just assume that you are stupid!  These same people may not like the Chinese but they still concede that they are smart.”  Hence for Wood the presidential election represents a triumphant vindication of black intellectual prowess.

  However for Luke, who is ten years older,  the election of Barack Obama is a victory for American society as a whole.  “This is a win for all people in this country regardless of color, because it shows that we as a nation have come a very long way,” Luke argued, “but the most important thing about the election of a black man to the most powerful position in the world is that it cancels the cop outs that so many of us are using to excuse our failures.  You can no longer credibly say ‘I can’t be nothing because I’m a black man.  That rap is over!”

        For Luke this election means that “Now we are full fledged Americans…maybe we ought to forget the African American stuff and just concentrate on making the most of being productive American citizens.”   MC Wood took passionate exception to Luke’s vision of the new America that has emerged since the ascension of Barack to the Oval Office; he’s not convinced that the red neck element and elite racist of the south are really on board with the program.  After all, Barack lost here, and Wood is convinced that most whites down here – especially the older generations – remain unrepentant rednecks!

 

MC. Wood: The Voice of the Hood

Live at Club Lnbre 009  Mc Wood and D.J. Unpredictable at the Hip Hop convention in Atlanta

 

Since our conversation developments such as the Tea Party demonstrations, with their blatantly racist signs and rhetoric, and the swelling ranks of whites who deny that our President is a native born American and therefore has no right to occupy the Oval Office, has convinced Luke that there are a lot more flaming white racist around than he thought.  Notwithstanding this reality, MC Wood and Luke continue to believe that the election of President Obama has ushered in a new day and there can be no credible excuse for failure in life because one is black.  “When I was still in school just a few years ago,” Wood recalls, “if a black kid had said they wanted to become President they became the butt of jokes.  People thought you were out of your mind!   So we limited our ambitions to lesser things, the presidency was a goal beyond our reach even though we were American citizens. But now that’s all over; we can become anything that our talent and hard work can get us.”   Listening to their hopeful vision of their future prospects in America, I had to agree with Will-I-Am: “It’s a new day! 

 

 Playthell Benjamin

Atlanta Georgia 

 2009