Poor people worry about poor boys with guns. Rich folks live in fear of rich boys with nuclear bombs.
-Paul Howard Nicholas
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Poor people worry about poor boys with guns. Rich folks live in fear of rich boys with nuclear bombs.
-Paul Howard Nicholas
Posted at 07:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Tags: Natural Light Network, Paul Howard Nicholas
"The price of Education is a bargain compared to the costs of Ignorance,"
-Paul Howard Nicholas
Posted at 11:54 AM in Black History, Books, Current Affairs, Education, Employment, Family History, Politics | Permalink | Comments (0)
As the sun slowly settled behind tall trees lining a well-kept street, the wealthy preacher turned his new Mercedes into the long driveway leading to his mansion. Driving past the perfectly manicured lawns and lush shrubbery, he smiled, thanking God for helping him to rise far above the crowded trailer he shared as a boy with his parents and siblings in a mobile home park.
He also thanked God for blessing him with another productive day of ministering to his huge flock: praying for the sick and misguided, coordinating a food drive, scheduling weddings and funerals, and putting the final touches on his next sermon. The preacher praised God for all that he had been given, and for inspiring him to give in return.
But suddenly his mood changed. The closer he got to his home, the more he started to sense that something wasn’t right. Gliding to a stop at the front entrance, the preacher noticed that the massive double door was slightly ajar.
“What’s going on?” he wondered aloud.
The house should have been empty. His wife and children were out of town visiting relatives. And he had given the servants the day off.
The preacher eased the front door open and crept through the foyer to the edge of the entry to his huge living room. On the far side of the room, he encountered a shocking sight! A lone figure, his back to the preacher, was snatching framed photos, plaques and awards from a large walnut and glass trophy case, and loading them into a jumbo trash bag! The precious mementos had been accumulated at various ceremonies over the years, honoring the preacher for his many achievements and contributions to the community.
“What are you doing?” yelled the enraged reverend.
The startled figure dropped his bag and turned around.
The preacher froze, transfixed by the creature before him. It was his arch enemy, non other than the devil himself!
Summoning courage, the man of God bolted across the room to the closet where he kept a special weapon for just such an occasion: the golden shotgun with the sacred bullets!
The devil leaped toward the closet too, and managed to get a hand on the gun just as the preacher pulled it from its rack. As they stumbled out of the closet, each with a death grip on the gun, a mighty struggle ensued! The two entities battled ferociously, turning over furniture, making a mess of the magnificently appointed home!
But the preacher would not give up. Calling out to God, he gave one last heave and wrenched the weapon from the devil’s grip! In a flash of motion, the preacher landed a powerful blow with the butt of the gun to the evil one’s head, knocking him to the floor!
Stunned, the devil instinctively raised his hands to shield himself from the barrel of the golden gun, now aimed at his face.
“I’ve been waiting my whole life for this day,” gasped the preacher. He struggled to steady the shotgun in his trembling hands.
“You better think about what you’re doing, reverend!” The devil lay on his back, one hand still shielding his face, the other gently inspecting the bump starting to rise near his temple.
“Shut up!” yelled the preacher, backing up slightly. “Don’t move!”
The devil again raised both palms toward the shaking man with the gun. “Okay, okay!” he stammered. “But at least hear me out. You are about to make one of the biggest mistakes of your whole life.”
“You are a liar! The worst liar the world has ever known!” Salty sweat streamed down from the preacher’s frazzled hair into his eyes, blurring the image on the floor. “Getting rid of you will be the best thing I have ever done. Every man, woman, and child will be so much better off without you.”
The preacher wiped his jacket sleeve across his eyes, trying to clear his vision.
“Do you really believe that?” The evil one sat up slowly. “What about you, Mr. Preacher? Are you going to be better off when I’m gone?”
“Yes!” shouted the preacher.
The devil managed an uneasy smile. “Don’t be naïve. Who is going to need you if nobody’s afraid of me? Who’s going to show up at your church, bringing donations and tithes? How will you pay for this beautiful lifestyle you have grown accustomed to without me around to scare people into your fold? Will your wife still be able to afford the clothes and the vacations she loves so much? And your kids. Are you ready to forget about the plans you’ve made for their college educations? You have been preaching since you were sixteen years old, and you really don’t know how to do anything else!”
The preacher wiped his eyes again, struggling to focus on his target. “Shut up! I don’t care about that!” he yelled, his hands starting to tremble more violently. “I’ve got to get rid of you, once and for all!”
Sensing a fracture in the man’s fortitude, the devil talked faster. “If you don’t care about yourself and your own family, think about your friends, your golf buddies! What about the doctor? Without me there will be no more sickness. What’s he going to do? Would he forgive you if he knew you could have saved his career?
“And what will you tell the lawyer? With me out of the way, people won’t be inspired to commit crimes. How will he take care of his family?”
The preacher tried to block out the words.
“Think about it.” The devil sat upright on the floor, still facing the trembling man. “You are going to cause a lot of grief if you shoot me.”
The preacher’s face was a mask of uncertainty. And the golden gun was starting to feel like it weighed a hundred pounds. “I can’t let you go,” he groaned. “I just can’t!”
“Sure you can!” Eyeing the man closely, the devil started to rise. He remained in a slightly stooped, subservient position with his hands up.
The preacher took another step backward, still aiming the gun at the devil’s head.
“Look,” the devil continued, “nobody has to know what happened here. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. You get to keep all your stuff, nothing got broken… And it’s dark outside now. I can leave by the back door and slip into the woods. Nobody has to know.”
The preacher’s eyes welled with tears as he glimpsed his front yard through a large living room window. Daylight had indeed faded into the night. Without the automatic lights illuminating the estate, his home would be engulfed in darkness. The preacher lowered the golden gun. Tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped from his chin, disappearing into the plush carpet.
The devil took a few tentative steps toward the rear of the house, still wary of the confused man.
“Wait!” The preacher leveled the golden shotgun at the creature’s back.
The devil stopped abruptly!
“I need to know something,” sobbed the preacher. “Why would you steal things from my home that couldn’t possibly be of value to anyone except me and my family?”
“Because it’s what I do,” replied the devil. “I steal things that can never be replaced.”
Again, the preacher lowered his weapon. Then he walked over to the wall panel that controlled the exterior lights. With the click of a switch, the area surrounding his home disappeared into the darkness. “Go quickly,” he said, “ before I change my mind.”
Not wishing to press his luck, the intruder made a silent, hasty departure from the rear door of the mansion and escaped into the nearby woods.
The man stood quietly for a while, tears streaming down his face. Gradually he regained his composure and placed the golden gun back in its special rack in the closet. After a stiff shot of bourbon, he took off his jacket, and started straightening up his living room.
By the next day, both the preacher and the devil had resumed their respective careers.
© 2014 Paul Howard Nicholas
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Posted at 09:55 AM in Black History, Books, Current Affairs, Education, Employment, Family History, Religion | Permalink | Comments (4)
Tags: home invasion robbery, money and religion, natural light network, paul howard nicholas, wealthy preachers
"Fear not the weapons of man. The only person that can destroy your soul is you."
-Paul Howard Nicholas
Posted at 08:36 AM in Black History, Books, Current Affairs, Education, Politics | Permalink | Comments (0)
With a few minutes to kill before my next appointment, I pulled off Crenshaw into a familiar parking lot, expecting to grab a quick sliced beef sandwich.
But a lot had changed since my last visit to this part of town. Like a growing number of small businesses in South Central Los Angeles, “Mr. B’s Best Bar-B-Que,” a fixture in the community for decades, had disappeared.
Mr. B’s hand painted sign over the door of the small stucco building had been covered by a red and yellow plastic banner flapping in the wind that said: “Julio’s Flame Grilled Chicken.”
I started to leave but the spicy aroma of freshly grilled chicken and my growling stomach provided me with a powerful incentive to give Julio's a try. They didn’t seem too busy, so I parked and went inside.
My timing was perfect. The place was empty except for two people waiting to place orders.
“May I help you?” The young Hispanic girl behind the counter eyed her next customer warily.
The huge black man in tattered clothes, scratching his scraggly beard, looked at the change in his hand and then at the menu board. “Uh… yeah,” he said. “Let me have a two piece and a biscuit.”
“What did you say?” the girl asked, clearly suspicious of the stranger.
“Two pieces of chicken and a hot biscuit,” the man replied.
The girl surveyed the man from top to bottom. “We don’t have biscuits,” she said.
The big man placed both hands on the counter and leaned forward. “So you sayin’ a brother cain’t git a biscuit up in here?”
The girl instinctively stepped back. “Julio!” she yelled.
A jovial, middle aged man, wearing an apron and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel emerged from the back.
The girl nodded in the direction of the big, intimidating man, now standing up to his full height with his arms folded across his chest.
Julio draped the towel over his shoulder and took the girl’s place at the cash register. “How can we help you, my friend?”
“Like I said to her, I want two pieces of chicken and a nice, hot, fluffy biscuit. Cain’t y’all understand English?”
“This is a Mexican restaurant,” Julio replied. “We don’t serve biscuits. But I tell you what. How about I give you extra tortillas and salsa to go with your chicken?”
Big Man fingered the change in his palm. “Well… okay,” he said. “That sounds pretty good.”
Julio muttered something to the girl in Spanish and returned to the kitchen area.
The girl stepped back up to the register. “What pieces would you like?”
“A back and a neck,” said the man.
The girl stared at him. “A what?” Her fear of the hulking figure was starting to dissolved into frustration.
Big Man turned around, put one arm behind him and patted the middle of his raggity green hoodie. “A back,” he said. He faced the girl again and pointed to his throat. “And a neck.”
The girl closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “We don’t have that,” she said.
“You don’t have that? How come? What kind of chickens are y’all cookin’ around here? Are they deformed or somethin’? I ain’t never heard of no chickens that don’t have backs and necks.”
Big man glanced over his shoulder like he was checking to see if he could get any support.
The frail black woman in front of me, wearing a greasy trench coat and a brown wig held in place by a bright orange headband, nodded. “I heard that,” she said.
I looked at my watch.
Big Man leaned toward the girl again. “Did you hear what I said?”
This time she didn’t budge. “Julio,” she sang out.
Julio bounded back into the front. “What’s the matter now?”
Big Man was on a roll. “She asked me what pieces of chicken I want, and I told her I want a back and a neck. What’s so hard about that?”
“Okay, look, we don’t want no trouble.” Julio’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Here’s what I’m gonna do. Instead of a leg and a thigh, I’m gonna give you a breast and a thigh for the same price. But that’s it, okay? We’ve got to move the line.”
Big Man stood straight up again, scratching his frazzled ‘fro. “Do I still get my extra tortillas?”
“Yes… yes, you get the tortillas.”
“And the salsa, with maybe a few chips?”
“Yes, extra salsa with some chips.”
“Alright, you got a deal.” Big Man fished a few crumpled bills from his pocket to go with his coins, paid the girl for his order, and took a number.
Julio waited until the transaction was completed, then disappeared again into the kitchen area.
“Next in line.” The girl forced a smile as the lady in front of me stepped up to the counter.
Miss Trench Coat braced herself against the counter with one hand and placed the other hand on her hip. “I want a bucket of chicken knees, crispy, a large side of collard greens and some yams.”
The girl stared at the woman. “You want what?”
The woman stepped back from the counter and pointed to her knees. “Knees,” she said. "A bucket of ‘em with some yams and greens.”
“We don’t have that!” sighed the girl. “Chickens don’t even have knees!”
“How come they don’t?” The woman leaned toward the girl. “They got legs, don’t they? And if they got legs, they gotta have knees."
“I know that’s right,” said Big Man, waiting for his order in one of the booths.
“What kind of chickens are y’all serving here anyway?” continued the woman. “Chickens that ain’t got no knees?”
“Julio!” the girl screamed.
Miss Trench Coat glanced back at me and winked.
I checked my watch again and headed out the door. It was time to get back on the road.
I sure do miss Mr. B. He would have handled Big Man and Miss Trench Coat in an entirely different manner. And I would have had myself a great big, deliciously tender, sliced beef sandwich.
© 2016 Paul Howard Nicholas
Posted at 09:12 AM in Black History, Books, Current Affairs, Education, Employment, Food and Drink, Games | Permalink | Comments (2)
Tags: barbeque, culture clash, flame grilled chicken, paul howard nicholas, south central los angeles
Austin H. "Jack" and Rosie Marcella Nicholas, Silver Wedding Anniversary, 1955
In 1953 my father was the personal barber for a prominent family that wanted to expand their real estate holdings in Los Angeles.
With their assistance, my Creole mother, assumed to be white, purchased a beautiful, three bedroom home on a pleasant, tree lined street near the intersection of La Cienega Boulevard and Jefferson Boulevard in way-way West L.A.
At the time, due to racial covenants in California property deeds, this lily white conclave was worlds beyond the boundaries that constrained Black home buyers in inner city L.A..
As soon as the deal was signed, real estate agents canvassed the whole neighborhood, warning home owners that "coloreds will be moving in soon."
When the rest of our very clearly Black family, my father, my two sisters, two brothers, my niece, and I showed up to move in with mom, panic stricken white folks staked "For Sale" signs in their front yards overnight and vanished in droves.
The real estate family, as planned, made a killing, snapping up premium properties at fire sale prices from desperate "evacuees."
My parents did okay too.
© 2017 Paul Howard Nicholas
Posted at 08:15 AM in Black History, Books, Current Affairs, Education, Employment, Family History, Food and Drink, Games, Politics, Religion | Permalink | Comments (3)
Tags: Black History Month, California Real Estate, Color Games, Paul Howard Nicholas, Racial Real Estate Covenants
We often hear people say they didn’t realize they were poor growing up because everybody they knew was in the same situation.
To assist our readers in determining the current economic status of their respective zip
codes, Natural Light Network presents the following top ten indicators of a poor neighborhood:
#10: You leave your barbeque grill unattended for a few minutes and somebody swipes a handful of chicken wings.
#9: A lot of the mothers pushing strollers aren’t old enough to drive cars.
#8: The ice cream trucks all carry condoms, BC Headache Powders, fruit-flavored cigars, triple-X rated DVDs, and Zig-Zag cigarette papers.
#7: Pizza shops cancel your order when you tell them where you want the food delivered.
#6: The custom wheels on your neighbor’s car cost more than the car.
#5: A fellow shopper at the local market offers to sell you a hundred dollars worth of food stamps for $45.00 and a ride to the dope house.
#4: Everybody knows where the dope house is, except the police.
#3: People throw all night parties when loved ones get out of prison.
#2: You try to stop a guy from choking his girlfriend and they both attack you for getting in
their business.
And the #1 indicator of whether you live in a poor neighborhood is:
The guy on the bullhorn in the police helicopter knows your neighbor's son's name, as in “Yo, Ray-Ray, put those chicken wings back, dude! We got you on tape!"
© 2016 Paul Howard Nicholas
Posted at 10:25 AM in Black History, Books, Current Affairs, Education, Family History, Food and Drink, Television, Travel | Permalink | Comments (2)
Tags: barbeque, paul howard nicholas, poor neighborhoods, rims and tires, teen moms
"It is better to be laughing with friends in a studio apartment than crying alone in a hilltop estate."
-Paul Howard Nicholas
Posted at 10:00 AM in Black History, Books, Current Affairs, Education, Family History | Permalink | Comments (0)