By Jerome Whitehead

Before I begin writing this particular piece, I want to apologize to any reader who may be offended by the subject content. I realize that when you write opinionated pieces, the views that are expressed are your own; but with freedom of expression comes a backlash where some folks whose viewpoints that may not necessarily concur with your own may take what you've written as an attack on the theirs. So I apologize in advance if after you read this, you come away with that very feeling. My intent is never to offend, only to enlighten, possibly providing another perspective that may never have come to light. To the reader that may be offended by my words, I apologize for how you feel, but not for how I feel. Nor will I apologize for what moves me to write what I write whenever I write it.

 

The Church Sanctuary by Poncho Brown

For the last few months, I've been struggling with the idea of going back to church. There's a church literally a stones throw away from where I live. I've been there twice, maybe three times in my lifetime. I felt comfortable there, talked with the pastor at length and found that she is surprisingly warm, receptive and inclusive. I say inclusive because even though I didn't divulge my gay identity, we did talk about her congregation and exactly who and what makes up that congregation. I left feeling like if there was a church that I would consider joining, it would probably be that one. The few times that I've listened to her preach, I was always struck with the core honesty that she delivered her sermons. They were un-scripted at best; heartfelt and full of compassion at most. As I sat in the rear of the church, I thought to myself, "Could I join and commit to this church the same way I did the last church that I belonged to some five + years ago"? The answer of course was I really didn't know. You see, I've been gun shy of organized religion ever since I left what had been my church home for over a decade of my life. I won't name the church because it is irrelevant. Nor will I go into the reasons why I left because it would be too time consuming. I may save that for another article. What I will say about my departure is that it had absolutely nothing to do with sexuality - mines or anyone elses.

Please continue to Full Story

By Senior Correspondent, Jerome Whitehead

Less than forty years ago, Corporate America was the place to be. You entered the job market with guts and determination that you would make it, working your way to the top, hoping to get recognized along the way for accomplishments that you've achieved…accomplishments that would cast a favorable light on your company.

You'd hope that the reward would be great, coming in the form of verbal praise, promotion and/or salary increase. If you were lucky, sometimes you got all three. Working long hours were expected because you knew the pay out would be good if not great. If you were good at what you did and were fortunate enough to have a boss or supervisor that could see your worth, life could be pretty good. Or at least that was the playing field three to four decades ago.

 

No one has to tell you that times have changed. Corporations don't reward the way they used to. Long hours and volatile working conditions are the norm. Recognition for a job well done doesn't amount to anything more than a pat on the back if you're lucky to get that. And forget about getting promoted or obtaining a salary raise outside of the annual cost of living increase. Recently, I logged onto a Yahoo web site and clicked on a topic very similar to the one that you're reading. As a matter of fact, it inspired me to write this article. It basically gave a listing of why people were frustrated with their jobs, and it should come as no surprise that lack of job recognition, opportunity for professional growth and feeling under-appreciated were at the top of the list. That hit home for me. I could understand that completely. The landscape for Corporate America has changed over the years. Corporations across the country that generally promote an acronym that reflects their core values oftentimes don't live up to them. It looks good on paper. It sounds even better in staff meetings. But the reality is that the atmosphere has changed from camaraderie to every one for him or herself.

Please continue to Full Story

By Jerome Whitehead

Publisher's note: Mr. Whitehead is a health care worker and a contributing editor for GBMNews. This is the first installment of a comprehensive and informative series on America's heatlth care system.

Rochelle entered the office building quietly, greeting her co-workers with a wane smile, hung up her coat and seated herself behind her desk. She had just enough time to sign herself into her personal computer, launch the necessary applications that would enable her to perform her job responsibilities, and then log herself into the company's phone system. She took a deep breath, placed her headset on, and waited until 8:00 when the cues would open and she would take her first call.

 

She didn't have long to wait. The moment that the second hand ticked past twelve, her phone began to ring. It was a sound that she had become accustomed to over the years…it was a sound that she had grown to despise.

"Thank you for calling Customer Service. My name is Rochelle and my goal is to provide you with superior customer service. May I have your tax id or member identification number please?" She listens to the member who seems to be a little irritated that she was calling for the same issue that she has been calling about for several months now. It seems like there's a claim that has been outstanding that hasn't been paid and now she is being referred to a collection agency. The member goes on to say that she's angry and frustrated that she has had to call about this issue several times and that her employer is taking her portion of her premium out of her check every pay period. She also states that she doesn't understand why an insurance company as large as the one that Rochelle works for can't seem to get it rights the first time. Rochelle listens patiently and then apologizes for the mistakes, something that she has also grown tired of doing over the years. She asks if she can place the member on hold while she researches the issue of her claim. The member agrees begrudgingly, and while Rochelle looks over the system she can't help but feel that this is the very first call of the day…the first call of many that will be reflective of this same kind of scenario. She'll wonder why her company didn't pay out the claim correctly the first time. Why did it take more than one telephone call to resolve the individual's issue? Why does the subscriber have to be threatened with the possibility of being referred to a collection agency before her insurance company will take the time to correct such a miniscule issue as the proper and timely payment of a claim? Even more importantly, is this subscriber an isolated incident or are there many people that go through this same type of issue?

On any given weekday, across the country, hundreds upon thousands of members place calls to their insurance carriers to determine what the current status is of any outstanding claim that may be on file from healthcare providers that have submitted the claim for consideration of payment.

Most of those claims have been paid correctly and the issue resolved to the members satisfaction. However, a disproportionate amount result in repeat calls with the member becoming frustrated, feeling as if the insurance company is working against them rather than for them. From a customer service standpoint, the person taking the call also feels frustrated because they are addressing difficult issues, some of which are beyond their control. However, the buck doesn't stop there. In fact, that is just the tip of the iceberg. If you delve deeper into this issue, you will see that a member's experience, positive or negative, is more than just the level of service that they receive from the moment that they pick up the telephone. In order to address some of the areas of concern for most Americans, you would have to backtrack and take a look at our health care system to see how we got to this point in the first place.

Please continue to Full Story

I want you to find a nice quiet place in your home, close your eyes and picture something with me. Imagine for a moment that we live in a world where it is perfectly okay to be who you are and love who you love without any apprehension or fear of retribution. Imagine a world where there is no need to be "out" because who you are and have every right to be would be just as socially acceptable as the traditional family of father, mother, daughter and son.

Now don't open your eyes yet: imagine that you have the ability to walk hand in hand with your partner, feed him or her lovingly off of your dinner plate at any restaurant in town, or simply slip your hand in his or her back pocket while walking down a busy street on a warm summer night.

For those of us that go to church, wouldn't it be nice to enter a place of worship and not have to hear a whole hour's worth of sermon based on that one verse in the book of Leviticus?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, wondering that if our society paid less attention to orientation and placed more emphasis to content of character, just how much better we all would be. I don't think that the average person realizes just how much energy it takes to hate someone who happens to be different from them, no matter what that difference may be. I've been on the giving and receiving end, and now at this point in my life, I want to be on "no" end.

Please continue to Full Story

Marc met Jalil at the local gym that he worked out at. He had been going to this gym for the last year and a half, and during that time he had never seen Jalil before. When they met, there was an obvious instant attraction. Marc admittedly watched this man as he performed set after set of various exercises, marveling at the way his biceps flexed and his chest expanded.

He thought that Jalil was possibly the most perfect specimen of a man that he had seen outside of a magazine or movie. After their initial meeting, they started "hanging out", and before long, wound up sleeping together. Marc admits that the sex wasn't bad, but most of his attraction was due to Jalil's body.

Hindsight is always 20/20, and if Marc had been paying attention he would have seen red flags coming full force. Still, even if he had a glimpse of Jalil's true character, he doesn't think that it would have deterred him from pursuing him. There was a rugged sexiness about Jalil that drew Marc in; sucking him up like a blade of grass in a twister's vortex.

Over the next few weeks, Jalil's interest in Marc began to wane. Phone calls became infrequent and time spent together came even less. Everything came to a head when Marc asked Jalil what was wrong. Jalil's response was that he just wasn't "into" Marc. He went on to say that he was never "feeling" Marc the way that Marc was feeling him, but they could still "kick it" every now and then.

Marc was furious. He asked Jalil to leave and to never call him again. Jalil shrugged his shoulders and left without another word. A few days after that, Marc broke down and called Jalil, leaving a message on his voice message stating that he missed him. He had hoped that the time spent apart would make Jalil want him. It didn't. And here's the sad part: for about a week and a half, (give or take a day or two), Marc spiraled into a depression. He wondered what he did that would make Jalil not want to be with him. After all, in the beginning, hadn't it been good? Hadn't the sex been okay? Didn't the time shared and spent mean anything at all? The answer was "yes" - to all of the above. To Marc, all of that mattered…keywords being "To Marc".

Please continue to Full Story

"Waiting on You"
by
Jerome Whitehead

You are not going to like what I have to say. Knowing you like I do, you won't even have a remote desire to take the slightest whiff From the banquet of my words. But this isn't about you - or it isn't JUST about you. This is about me…us…the we, we should've been. The seemingly unbreakable bond between father and son. I look in the mirror and sometimes catch a distant reflection of you, and just for a second… I drift back to a happier time when you were there - bigger than life… And I stood in awe of you… …in fear of you …had respect for you …but mostly, I just loved you. And in the haze of cigarette smoke and stale rum fumes… …me, my boys and the woman that gave me life vanished in the night…and for years I waited.

Please continue to Full Story

I want to tell you a little story about a woman that I know named Naomi. I had the pleasure of meeting her many years ago, and my memory of her is one of strength and perseverance. We've had many conversations over the years; conversations where she actually invited me into the inner recesses of her life.

Soul of a Woman by Albert Fennell

She didn't think that there was anything overly extraordinary about herself. As a matter of fact, she describes herself as being just another working mother that was out there trying to do the best she could. But as I listened to her recite the high and low points of her life, it became crystal clear that she wasn't the average black woman

She survived a physically abuse marriage. She told me that after the birth of her third child, she realized that things weren't going to get any better for herself and her children, and it was in that realization that she summoned the courage to pack their bags, hop on a Greyhound bus and leave the man that she loved…the man that had become everything except the man that she thought he would be. She went on to say that she willingly put her life on the backburner, opting instead to raise her sons the only way that she knew how.

When she left, she didn't have much money, but she had family, and it was in the love of her family that she took solace. She strove to make sure that her sons never knew that they didn't have a lot. Never a day went by where they didn't have lunch money. They went on class trips, proms, dates - and she filled their lives with many happy Christmas's and memorable birthdays. Throughout all that, she admitted to me that there were many nights that she cried herself to sleep because of her loneliness, but she hid her pain from her sons. She said that it was her love that she wanted to share, not her pain or disappointment.

She told me that she wanted to instill in each one of her son's a strong sense of pride, placing particular emphasis on family. She said that she wanted them to remember family because in this day in age, she believed family was all you had.

Please continue to Full Story

When I was a boy of about 12 or 13 years of age, I remember meeting a young man who was probably old enough to be my father. I recall this man as being very kind, handsome and generous. He was highly respected and a much valued contributor in our church. This man, whom I shall call “Alan”, was extremely charismatic and had made a point of volunteering huge amounts of his personal time with the boys from my class.

He used to provide us with transportation to and from local sporting events and oftentimes took us to the movies on Saturday evenings to see films like “Enter the Dragon” and “Cooley High”. Admittedly, I loved being in Alan’s company. He made me feel special.

He had this knack for saying the dumbest things and making you laugh, and since I was being brought up in a single parent home, I welcomed his attention. Gradually, our situation evolved into one where we spent more and more time alone. I would come by his home on Saturday afternoons to help him wash his car or truck, and was elated when he paid me well to do so.

I had clearly taken a shine to this man and I wanted him to fill the role of my absentee father. Indeed, it seemed like things were going in that direction. I remember him referring to me as his “son” from time to time, and whenever he did that, I couldn’t have been happier. It never occurred to me to wonder why a man in his early thirties whom was neither married nor had a girlfriend, wanted to spend so much time with a boy in his pre-teens…but I found out in due time.

Last summer, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine who gave me a bit of advice that I didn’t understand at the time. He told me not to ever tell a man in his thirties how you feel about him. He also instructed me to never let him see you cry, no matter how bad you hurt. He said this because at the time, I was dating a man in his thirties and although I wasn’t ready to “jump the broomstick” with him, I liked him enough to want to spend some considerable time with him.

Coming out of a long term relationship and getting back into the dating scene proved itself to be challenging. Back in ’95, there weren’t nearly as many options for dating as there is now. If you wanted to meet someone, you had to go out and hope that you would run into someone that looked good to you. Ten years ago, it was all about being face to face and you were either feeling me or you weren’t.

On Wednesday, October 31, 2007, Officer Chuck Cassidy was executed on the streets of Philadelphia. He had unknowingly walked into a Dunkin’ Doughnuts that fateful morning, interrupting a robbery in progress. The gunman shot the officer at point blank range in the face and then proceeded to run away. To add insult to injury, he doubled back and took the dying police officer’s weapon. The theft of the policeman’s gun was caught on video. It clearly shows a heavy set gunman with a slight limp running away from the scene of the crime. At the time that this article was written, the killer was still at large – armed and considered very dangerous.

At the time that this article was being written, I couldn’t imagine being in the gunman’s shoes after the crime had been committed, nor could I see walking in them beforehand. Life could not have been easy for this man. Anyone that could take a life so easily could not have had it easy, which is not to defend the actions of the gunman. I’m not doing that at all.

But I’ve been following this story in the media, and my heart goes out to the unacknowledged victims of this crime. My heart goes out to Officer Cassidy’s wife and children. I know that somewhere in this city, this woman’s heart has been shattered and her life forever changed because the man that she loved is never coming home again. There will be no more Happy Christmases or Fathers Day for his children – at least not as they knew it. My heart goes out to the gunman’s grandmother who was so stricken with fear and dread that she couldn’t even form the words to convey to her grandson to turn himself in. But her tears of anguish said it all.

Previously, I’ve written about the end of my eleven year relationship as well as what I did to get through it. I purposely didn’t go into detail about what caused something that had at one time been so good to turn into something so bad. Admittedly, we both had done our share of pain infliction, and I don’t think that one hurt the other more – we just hurt each other at different times in our relationship.

We remain distant friends, calling each other every now and then just to say hello and to get caught up briefly on what’s going on in each others lives. He has since moved on and fell in love with what I will assume to be a reasonable man. On certain levels, I’m sure he did as did I. In fact, we are probably better friends now than we were as a couple. The only problem that we face now is that his partner doesn’t want us to be friends. He doesn’t believe in it. He says that what’s in the past should stay in the past, and on a certain level, I have a tendency to agree with him.

I guess the thirty million dollar question is: Should ex lovers remain friends, and if so, where do you draw the line?

I was walking through a department store a week or so ago looking for a picture frame. I think that the store was either Pier One or Kohls…I’m not sure. In either case, I recall picking up a pewter picture frame. There was nothing overtly eye-catching about it except for the size.

It was 5 X 7 and I had the perfect picture to place inside of it. It was a picture of my partner – dazzling dimpled smile and all. I thought that this frame would look so good on my desk, but as I picked it up and looked it over, I had to ask myself if this were something that I really wanted to do. The frame and the picture were nice enough, but was I ready to take this step? Did I want to be completely out at work?

I talked to my father a week or so ago for the first time in about five years. The conversation was light...pleasant enough, and lasted for approximately seventeen minutes. I had called my mother to find out how she was doing, and she mentioned that he had called her out of the blue the day before. My parents have been separated for years, grant it, under amiable circumstances.

My father and I talked briefly with me finding out how he was doing, telling him how I was doing while carefully steering clear of any relationship issues. We talked about my brothers, noting that one of them had just married this past summer. I joked with him saying that all of my brothers are married now except me. We chuckled lightly, and then I hung up after I gave him my number.

After we ended our conversation, I sat on the edge of my bed trying to sort through the myriad of feelings that coursed through me, wondering what really possessed me to go against my original decision to never talk to this man again.

The more things change, the more they stay the same – or at least that was my thought a couple of months ago when I logged onto CNN’s website and read a news article on a high school in Georgia that just celebrated their first desegregated prom. I skimmed through the article, not really reading it in depth because I couldn’t get past the fact that a high school in 2007 is only now just having their first integrated prom.

This follows along the lines of a thought that I had a few weeks ago. It was a question that was so simple yet no one that I spoke to could seem to answer it. What is it about the differences between the races that keeps racism alive and kicking in this day in age? Why is racism so entrenched in American culture and why does it seem like it’s so insurmountable? Is it really like a cancer that is so deeply rooted in our society that no matter how many operations we have to remove it, it’ll keep coming back?

Do you remember what it was like?
You know, when your eyes met and you KNEW something was up…
Something special – something rare.

When you exchanged that very first glance or that hidden smile that only you could see.

Ummmmmmm.

Do you remember when you finally got the courage (or the nerve)…
…to say something – anything, and prayed to God that it came out right
…and you didn’t sound (I don’t know) stupid maybe?

Continue to full article for the remainder of this poem

No one really wants to hear when you ache so deep inside
That sometimes it hurts to breathe
Very few want to take the time to wipe away tears…
…tears that have fallen, dried and fallen in a silent, silver cascade.

Don’t get me wrong, they mean well.
They want to want to hug you…
…and make it all go away.
As long as it can be done in ten minutes out the day.

Continue to full article for the remainder of this poem

I remember so clearly the day that I found out that my long term relationship was over. It was Valentine’s Day 2005, and I recall placing a teddy bear, a box of chocolate, a card and a pair of lounge pants on my then partner’s side of the bed. I had arrived home before him, and laid out everything carefully, turning on the lights on the bedroom set so that he would be able to see what I purchased.

We come from various shades…

            As light as the sun rising over the mountains in the east

            To the rich, dark flavor of mother earth.

 

We are descendants of kings and queens

            That ruled over terrains of the world not yet touched by man.

 
Please continue to the full article for the remainder of this poem

You’re like a fine line that separates me from my spirit
Almost like there’s a part of me that’s floating…free-falling

…wanting to lose myself in you
And the other part is grounded – on lock down – afraid to feel because I want to feel.

 

Please continue to full article for this remainder of the poem

For years now, something has been bothering me.  I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was.  All I knew was that it gnawed at me, taking away a bit of my spirit with each passing day.  It wasn’t until I sat down with friend for Easter Dinner this past April when I finally figure out what it was.

You see, I felt at more at home with the people that I had dinner with that evening than I did with my own blood relatives.  I felt the camaraderie as well as that sense of belonging. Acceptance enveloped me because I was among what felt like family, but in reality, it was just the similarity of our lifestyle that brought us together.  I listened (and participated) in the banter, and realized that the topics we laughed and joked about would never be discussed at my family’s dinner table, not because anything that we talked about that evening was inappropriate even by middle America’s standards.  The answer wasn’t as complex as that.  It was simply because we were (and always will be) different.