There is little of my life that I expected it to be. Strangely enough, life is all that I hoped it would be: a flowing river of emotions; out-of-this-world experiences; dreadful pain; unbelievable gains; missed opportunities; prejudice; and hate, love, and passion.
For the last four decades, I have worked ceaselessly to remove the plague of corruption from the face of the earth. As I look back on my youth, I realize that this calling actually began to take shape as I was growing up in what I believe was a blessed training ground called, Bayview.
I firmly believe that there must be a universal acknowledgment of the need to retreat from the daily impotent lip service given on the topic of corruption in our communities. We must all contribute to a concrete plan of action to take a vise-like hold of this rabid tiger infecting society. That grasp cannot be by the tail, so that we are dragged through the urban, suburban, and rural mud pits of life. That grasp must be around the throat, choking off the air that gives life to the schemes that stifle the growth and success of nations and the people.
In my lifelong pursuit to bring corruption to its scabby knees, I have ventured out into the beautiful lands known as the Serengeti. I have freely explored the neighborhoods of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. I have had the opportunity to walk the streets of Liberia and talk with the people who live there, not those just passing through or who might be there with a political purpose.
I have sat and discussed the issues of the day with representatives of the Republics of Georgia and Uganda. I have stepped into earthquake-torn Haiti and discussed plans of action to fight corruption with its president and prime minister.
With my father-in-law as my guide, I have waded into the Great Dismal Swamp, final resting place of far too many men and women foolishly identified as being no more than three-fifths of who they really were. I have even spent ten hours in the Moscow airport, as a way station in my calling to making a difference.
I have said no to leaders of governments and gone head-to-head with organized crime figures. I have gladly emptied my pockets to those in need.
I have survived terror attacks and have volunteered to step into the bowels of terror’s aftermath and made it back—somewhat less than when I set out, but back nonetheless, ready to fend off any subsequent attacks.
These experiences may offend some, and others may simply shake their heads. As for me, what you are about to read is a heartfelt sharing of true-life experiences, dreams, hopes, aspirations and, for lack of a better description, just thoughts and memories, at least as I recall them, that have bubbled to the surface of my mind.
In many instances, it is just a sharing of where I have been—not necessarily where I wanted to be, but there nonetheless. In some cases, others may not share my memories of these events. In those cases, I take poetic license.
I have lost mother and father, sister and brother. I have known love beyond my imagination. I have witnessed hatred unbound. You just never know the path you must take to experience what life has in store.
My memory is home to thoughts and wonders that leave me with no doubt that God sits on the throne, technically government housing.
I have been blessed to be what some ignorantly call a “product of the projects,” specifically, “Bayview Projects,” which was aptly named, and I do not bear one bit of shame.
This publication did not start out with intent to be a memoir or autobiography, but to some, it might seem to be that way. In some instances, you might not even find it to be worthy of the names poetry, proses or short stories. However you chose to identify it, what you have before you is simply a free-flowing, spilling out of me.
I do not profess in any way to be a poet or writer extraordinaire. If I make any claim, it is that I have lived, and God has given me the courage, not so much the skill, to share some of my experiences. He has blessed me with thoughts that have risen with me most mornings. He has shown His infinite grace in allowing the soles of my feet to touch the ground one more time and to pen this work rolling out of the workings of one man’s mind.
I do not say this with attitude or any disrespect intended, but I do not care so much if you are fond of what I have written. My goal is to spark a thought, emotion, or a reflection or two. If that comes out of one line of the hundreds that you may read, then I am fulfilled, and I thank you for the small piece of your life that you have allowed me to steal.
For the last four decades, I have worked ceaselessly to remove the plague of corruption from the face of the earth. As I look back on my youth, I realize that this calling actually began to take shape as I was growing up in what I believe was a blessed training ground called, Bayview.
I firmly believe that there must be a universal acknowledgment of the need to retreat from the daily impotent lip service given on the topic of corruption in our communities. We must all contribute to a concrete plan of action to take a vise-like hold of this rabid tiger infecting society. That grasp cannot be by the tail, so that we are dragged through the urban, suburban, and rural mud pits of life. That grasp must be around the throat, choking off the air that gives life to the schemes that stifle the growth and success of nations and the people.
In my lifelong pursuit to bring corruption to its scabby knees, I have ventured out into the beautiful lands known as the Serengeti. I have freely explored the neighborhoods of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. I have had the opportunity to walk the streets of Liberia and talk with the people who live there, not those just passing through or who might be there with a political purpose.
I have sat and discussed the issues of the day with representatives of the Republics of Georgia and Uganda. I have stepped into earthquake-torn Haiti and discussed plans of action to fight corruption with its president and prime minister.
With my father-in-law as my guide, I have waded into the Great Dismal Swamp, final resting place of far too many men and women foolishly identified as being no more than three-fifths of who they really were. I have even spent ten hours in the Moscow airport, as a way station in my calling to making a difference.
I have said no to leaders of governments and gone head-to-head with organized crime figures. I have gladly emptied my pockets to those in need.
I have survived terror attacks and have volunteered to step into the bowels of terror’s aftermath and made it back—somewhat less than when I set out, but back nonetheless, ready to fend off any subsequent attacks.
These experiences may offend some, and others may simply shake their heads. As for me, what you are about to read is a heartfelt sharing of true-life experiences, dreams, hopes, aspirations and, for lack of a better description, just thoughts and memories, at least as I recall them, that have bubbled to the surface of my mind.
In many instances, it is just a sharing of where I have been—not necessarily where I wanted to be, but there nonetheless. In some cases, others may not share my memories of these events. In those cases, I take poetic license.
I have lost mother and father, sister and brother. I have known love beyond my imagination. I have witnessed hatred unbound. You just never know the path you must take to experience what life has in store.
My memory is home to thoughts and wonders that leave me with no doubt that God sits on the throne, technically government housing.
I have been blessed to be what some ignorantly call a “product of the projects,” specifically, “Bayview Projects,” which was aptly named, and I do not bear one bit of shame.
This publication did not start out with intent to be a memoir or autobiography, but to some, it might seem to be that way. In some instances, you might not even find it to be worthy of the names poetry, proses or short stories. However you chose to identify it, what you have before you is simply a free-flowing, spilling out of me.
I do not profess in any way to be a poet or writer extraordinaire. If I make any claim, it is that I have lived, and God has given me the courage, not so much the skill, to share some of my experiences. He has blessed me with thoughts that have risen with me most mornings. He has shown His infinite grace in allowing the soles of my feet to touch the ground one more time and to pen this work rolling out of the workings of one man’s mind.
I do not say this with attitude or any disrespect intended, but I do not care so much if you are fond of what I have written. My goal is to spark a thought, emotion, or a reflection or two. If that comes out of one line of the hundreds that you may read, then I am fulfilled, and I thank you for the small piece of your life that you have allowed me to steal.