Natural Light Network

Mr. Jack and Mrs. Rosie: Creole Color Games in L.A.

                                   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

A Two Piece And A Biscuit

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

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Child's Play: How I Got WOKE!

I stood at our living room window, peering out at the empty street, hoping for a break in the rain. A sudden storm had roared into southeast Texas from the Gulf, hurling huge peppering flurries of swirling raindrops in every direction. 

My friends and I, when the first few sprinkles started to fall, had tried to continue our daily after school ritual of attempting to demolish each other’s spinning tops in a game we called “googie.” But the ensuing downpour, accompanied by booming thunder and crackling lightening, sent us all scrambling for the safety of our homes. 

The storm didn’t look like it was going to let up anytime soon so I turned on the television and plopped into my father’s big chair. 

Life just didn’t seem fair. It was the middle of September 1958, and trying to get used to being cooped up all day in a third grade classroom after a carefree summer was bad enough without Mother Nature washing away a chance to enjoy some free time. 

The sound of the phone ringing in the hallway ended my pity party.  

My mother, busy preparing supper, told me to take the call. 

I dashed to the phone and picked up the receiver. 

The girl on the other end said, "Hi, my name is Gail, what’s your name?”

I told her my name and we ended up talking for several minutes.  

By the end of our conversation, I had a new friend.  She was nine years old, and seemed okay, for a girl. 

Following our chance meeting, Gail called me after school at about the same time over the next few days. 

My neighborhood crew found it hard to believe that I would rather talk to a girl than play googie or shoot marbles. 

Gail and I talked about a lot of kid stuff:  favorite TV shows, games, foods, teachers, friends, what we wanted to be when we grew up. And even though she had never heard of my school, and I didn’t have a clue about hers, we found that we liked and disliked a lot of the same things. 

Our friendship blossomed as we provided each other with daily accounts of our ups and downs. 

And then Gail made a fateful request.  She said that if I really liked her, we should take turns calling each other, instead of her having to always call me. 

I agreed.

The next day, as soon as I got home from school, I dialed Gail's number. 

An adult female answered. 

“May I speak to Gail, please?” 

“Hold on,” said the woman.  After a brief pause, she spoke again.  “Who is this?” 

I told her my name. 

“How old are you?” 

“Eight,” I said. 

“And what school do you go to?”  

I will never forget the anger in the woman’s voice when I told her the name of the all black elementary school I attended. 

“You’re a nigger?” she screamed. 

My whole body started to tremble.  “ Uh... no, ma’am,” I stammered.  “I’m colored.” 

“You black son-of-a-bitch!  How did you get this number?”  The woman’s anger boiled into full-blown rage! 

“Gail told me to call her.  I… I…”  The words just wouldn’t come.

“Gail!  Get yourself in here right now!”  Her voice was clearly audible even though I held the receiver several inches from my head.  “Did you give this little nigger our phone number?” 

I wanted to hang up, but couldn’t.  Gail’s voice in the background made me press the receiver to my ear.

“I didn’t know he was a nigger, mom!  I swear!  I called his number by accident one day, and we just started talking.”  Gail started to sob uncontrollably.  “I swear, mom, I swear I didn’t know!” 

“You stupid girl,” the woman growled.  “Go get my strap!  I’m gonna teach you a lesson about talking to niggers!” 

My heart thumped and bumped violently in my chest!  A fine mist of cold sweat dampened my forehead.  But I couldn’t hang up. 

The woman again focused her rage on me.  “You stinking nigger bastard!” she hissed.  “Don’t you ever call this number again!  Do you understand me?  If you do, I will have your black ass put in jail, or shot, or hung from a tree!  You got that?” 

Before I could answer, the line went dead.  I replaced the receiver and stood near the phone, frozen. 

“Are you finished?  I need to call your sister.”  My mother’s voice startled me.  “What’s the matter with you?” She seemed to always know when something wasn’t right. 

I didn’t know where to begin. 

Mom placed her palm over my forehead.  “Are you feeling sick?” 

Somehow I managed to recount my harrowing experience with the woman on the phone. 

My mother, a mild mannered, good natured woman until someone or something threatened her family, became visibly angry as I told her what had just happened.  She was aware of my daily talks with Gail, but assumed the girl was black. 

“Did you know she was white?” 

“We never talked about color. I thought she talked kind of funny, but she said the same thing about me.” 

Mom started to pace.  “How could a grown woman talk to a child like that?  Did you tell her Gail’s been calling you?” 

“Gail told her.  But she said she didn’t know I was a nigger.” 

Mom snatched the receiver from its cradle.  “Nobody’s gonna talk to my child like that and get away with it.  What is Gail’s number?” 

“Please, mom, please don’t. You’ll only make things worse.  The lady is crazy.  I promise I won’t talk to Gail again, ever.” 

After a few deep breaths, my mother regained her composure.  “Maybe you’re right.  God knows we don’t need any trouble with these stupid peckerwoods.  But let this be a lesson to you.  Unless you want to end up like Emmett Till, don’t get involved with white girls!  Don’t talk to them!  Don’t even look at them!  You hear me?” 

I promised. 

That night, after hearing the details about my brief friendship with Gail, my father repeated my mother’s warning about white girls.  They're nothing but trouble, he said. 

Again, I vowed to stay clear of white females. 

For the next few weeks, fearing repercussions over my fling with Gail, my dad drove me to school and picked me up.  And he told me to keep my mouth shut about the whole incident. 

The telephone encounter with Gail’s mother brought an abrupt end to my relationship with a curious, adventurous girl.  We never spoke to each other again. 

And, while I’ve often wondered what happened to her, I'm pretty sure I will never find out.

© 2014 Paul Howard Nicholas

Trouble's Girl: Portrait Of A Princess

                                                                                          

Trouble follows her everywhere

like a patient, re-usable lover:

ready, willing, eager at a moment’s notice to

stray with her into another binge

of uncharted adventures,

high above and far beyond the outer boundaries   

of her inner compass. 

Trouble lives and breathes to fulfill her needs, 

the perfect companion when her stable, secure  

world starts to drain away her passions; 

when a prolonged state of peaceful co-existence  

leaves her stranded in a foreign land where 

smiles and kind gestures are obligations 

instead of free gifts, and where 

too many days of sunshine make her crazy 

for some thunder and some lightning and

some pouring down rain! 

And so, when she calls, Trouble always comes 

to save her from the safety of a predictable existence,  

to whisk her away to a more exciting place 

where freak shows and fireworks  

help quench her cravings for drama, 

where clowns and creepy characters  

dare her to fall asleep;

where party now/pay later is

the reigning rule of law. 

But she never seems to remember that the  

trash-scattering, window-shattering joy-rides 

she enjoys so much with Trouble 

inevitably end with a familiar parting image: 

her, trapped inside a framed souvenir snapshot, 

pleading with Trouble to leave her alone 

in a bleak, black alleyway, flooded up to her ankles  

in backwater from the sewer pipes  

Trouble crashed her into, 

praying for deliverance once again 

from the blood-hungry tracking hounds 

barking in the distance. 

© 2016 Paul Howard Nicholas

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Creole Color Games: Passing For White

                                                                 Jack and Rosie Nicholas, West Port Arthur, Texas, 1956

My understanding of the importance of skin color in southeast Texas and Louisiana during the 1950s began to develop early and within my own family.  As a young child I soon realized that my fair skinned mother, often assumed to be white, could enjoy certain privileges that would be denied my father, my siblings, and me.

During road trips, for example, when we got hungry, my mother wouldn’t hesitate to walk into a “White Only” restaurant and place a to-go order while the rest of the family waited in the car a block or so away.

The first time I remember my mother doing this, I asked my father why we couldn’t go in with her, or wait in the parking lot.

His answer was that it was against the law for colored people to go onto the property unless they worked there.

“Is mom colored?”  I asked, suddenly afraid that the police might take my mother away.

“Sure she is,” dad replied.  He checked his watch, then peered in the direction of the restaurant, craning his neck to see if he could spot mom.  “But the white folks think she’s white, and as long as they don’t see her with us, they won’t start any trouble.”

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if a white person had followed my mother back to our car.  Would a mob have tried to rescue her from a band of “renegade nigras,” or would she have been attacked for deceiving the restaurant staff?

While I’m sure that, in pulling off this charade, my parents were simply trying to obtain a small slice of the “life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness” pie, such an act of defiance during an era of strictly enforced apartheid would have surely incurred the wrath of the white locals. 

Thank God mom’s ruse was never discovered, and we got to eat the best of whatever my parents could afford.

© Paul Howard Nicholas

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Message to Young People

                                                                                                                  

These are challenging times for young people. 

 

Children, teenagers, and young adults today have access to more information about human beliefs and behavior, both the good and the bad, than at any other time in the history of our Earth.

 

But the messages they receive from parents, teachers, role models, peers, the Internet, media conglomerates, and religious organizations can often be contradictory and confusing.

 

Consider the dilemma of the average modern adolescent girl. Her parents tell her she will have to get good grades in school if she wants to have a good life.

 

But the chart-topping songstress she worships, scantily clan in a scorching music video, and the bare-chested, glistening, rap-master prancer impress her with the importance of being “hot” and “sexy.”

 

Her peers, and a guy she met online, amplify the pop culture message.

 

And the witchcraft community assures her that it's perfectly okay to explore being weird and rebellious and open to being entertained by vampires, demons, zombies, warlocks, and an endless assortment of super-negative beings that will never help her find her way to Heaven.

 

The pastor of her church, however, teaches that living a hot and sexy life can cause people to end up in eternal hellfire. But, because the girl’s atheist science teacher has undermined the pastor’s overall credibility on numerous occasions, the impact of the preacher's warning is minimal.

 

And then there’s the message that women should be more like men:  fighting wars, flying planes, driving big rigs, working construction jobs, and doing whatever it takes to prove that females can compete with men.

 

If the bombardment of conflicting information starts to overwhelm the girl, or if she begins to feel hopelessly inferior to the sexy media images she’s competing with, a variety of drugs, legal and otherwise, are available to help her cope with the stress of uncertainty.

 

And, like other girls seeking to create an acceptable image of self during a critical phase of development, she is at risk of succumbing to an eating disorder, self-mutilation, or other self-destructive behavior.

 

 

It is a tragedy that individuals and organizations that seem to be more concerned with advancing their own agendas than they are with the welfare of young women have been allowed to become so influential in shaping their values.

 

And what about today’s young men? Are their challenges comparable to those faced by young women?They too are given various, inconsistent examples of what constitutes success in the modern world.

 

The most notable difference between boys and girls today seems to be that, while the majority of girls want to be hot and sexy, a lot of young guys want to be slick and tough. Slick enough to “get paid” like the “ho-pimpin’,” “dope-slingin’,” “Benz-drivin’” rap video star, or the “bad boy” celebrity. Tough enough to command respect.

 

And, in all fairness, it should be noted that, for boys who aren’t into guns, gold teeth, and backward baseball caps, there is a whole separate category of “slick” role models: a seemingly endless supply of well groomed politicians, corporate executives, and lobbyists that would loot the resources of hard working families without blinking an eye.

 

Understandably, certain young men are more impressed by these mega-pimps than they are by a guy whose “bling” represents a substantial portion of his net worth.

 

While the threat of impressionable young minds falling under the influence of negative personalities might be considered to be an unfortunate by-product of modern society, it is, in fact, an age-old problem.

 

Long before the birth of Jesus, King Solomon, in the Old Testament of The Bible, recorded this message in the 1^st chapter of Proverbs:

 

“My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not. If they say, Come with us, let us lay wait for blood, let us lurk privily for the innocent without cause… We shall find all precious substance, we shall fill our houses with spoil: Cast in thy lot among us; let us all have one purse:

 

"My son, walk not thou in the way with them; refrain thy foot from their path: For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.”

 

This message is as timely now as it was when it was written: do not follow in the footsteps of negative people! 

 

In modern vernacular, this warning could have come from a father or mother raising a son in a present day, urban, gang-infested neighborhood.

 

The problem today is that parents find it increasingly more difficult to combine the advice they give their children with effective supervision. Some, because they aren’t familiar with modern communications options, and don’t know who their impressionable children are spending time with.Others, because they are distracted by more urgent responsibilities, like earning a living.

 

And so the message to young people today is that they will have to take a more active role in their own generation’s spiritual advancement.

 

Waiting for adults to lead them could quite possibly result in continuing increases in violence, crime, drug use, unwanted pregnancies, poverty, suicides, school dropout rates, and a number of other threats to the progress of young people.

 

If they are to play a significant role in their own salvation, young people will have to put forth a special effort, both collectively and as individuals, to initiate and maintain contact with the part of themselves that helps every human being differentiate between what is right and what is wrong.

      

Prayer offers the most efficient means of getting in touch with this special inheritance from God.

 

Young women may have to lead the way. A good starting place for them would be to pray for guidance in re-evaluating their seemingly obsessive attraction to the “bad boy” image. What could possibly be so irresistible about a guy that is most likely to give a female the least amount of respect?

      

Females are often quick to say they don’t have much control over things. In the case of males, however, they have a lot more power than they give themselves credit for.

 

For instance, what would probably happen if boys in honor programs, or those who openly strive to further the will of God, started getting a lot more female attention than common street thugs? An historic fact is that males will be as good as they have to be with women. High expectations generally inspire high quality performances.

 

Females are the foundation of civilization, make no mistake about it. Had the challenges of creating stable homes and nurturing children been assigned to men during the dawn of enlightenment, the human race would probably have become extinct a long time ago.

 

But, along with the honors of being acknowledged as the founders of civilization, women must also address the responsibilities of making sure that the moral foundations of humanity remain sound. Like a wise man once said, "Hoochies are for flings, good girls are for life."

 

Women who adhere to a high standard of personal behavior, and who encourage their significant others to do the same, help make the world a better place.

 

And the opposite is true: the less a woman invests in maintaining her standards, and the less she requires from her man, the less she and the rest of society will benefit.

 

In other words, if a man's woman will accept him as an abuser, a bum, or a thief, why should he be concerned about what the rest of the world thinks of him?

 

To further ensure spiritual progress for the current generation of young people, I would encourage every young man and woman to develop a passion for something early in life that will not only allow them to prosper, but also make it possible for them to provide meaningful assistance to the less fortunate.

 

And I would say to young people, in concluding this message, that, when you become discouraged in attempting to reach your true potential, do not lose faith in our Heavenly Father, or yourselves.

 

Even when success seems unattainable, no matter how hard you try, do not give up, and always remember that God fully understands the huge challenges His children face on Earth, and that He will always cherish your sincere efforts to become assets to humanity as much as He appreciates your positive results.

 

Wishing you all Love, Peace, Health, and Prosperity. 

© 2016 Paul Howard Nicholas

EYEBALL WITNESS NEWS: Trump Fight Ringside Update

 

Donald Trump, in his first nine months as President of The United States of America, has unleashed a flurry of wild, windmill lefts and rights that has caused two black eyes to the theory of white supremacy.

 

The first eye suffered a bruising blow when Trump made it clear that even a rich, well educated white man can't seem to rise, according to people who know him, above the IQ level of a morally challenged moron.

 

Damage to the second eye, swollen nearly shut by repeated punches to the face, was made worse by a simple question:

 

"How could a race of people, supposedly endowed with superior intelligence, ever become so completely bamboozled by a morally challenged moron?"

 

-Paul Howard Nicholas, Natural Light Network

EYEBALL WITNESS NEWS GAME SHOW REVIEW

 

JEOPARDY CATEGORY: Something a Moron Might Say:

"Ain't no shame in my game! I will lie, cheat, beg, borrow, steal... whatever it takes to defame the legacy of Barack Obama!"

Correct Response: "Who is Donald Trump?"

-Paul Howard Nicholas, Natural Light Network

 

JEOPARDY CATEGORY: Something a Moron Might Say:

"Ain't no shame in my game! I will lie, cheat, beg, borrow, steal... whatever it takes to defame the legacy of Barack Obama!"

Correct Response: "Who is Donald Trump?"

-Paul Howard Nicholas, Natural Light Network

Casing California: A Spoken Word Point Of View

Photo by Paul Howard Nicholas

Gamblers prayed and played their hands.

A DJ played his own song.

Children played at being adults

but they played it all wrong.

Dreamers played the Lotto.

An actor played a king.

Rockers played a few loud chords.

Jazz men played the whole thing.

A jokester played an audience.

An angler played a shark.

Golfers played beneath a midday sun.

Lovers played in the dark.

A beggar played it by ear

while the con man played to win.

And those who played it safe simply

paid the portly piper and

followed the play again.

© Paul Howard Nicholas

EYEBALL WITNESS NEWS THOUGHT FOR TODAY: Why Are Our Children Becoming So Violent?

Too many Americans are growing up on a steady diet of extremely violent video games, and easy access to guns.

So why should we be shocked, dazed, and confused by the increasing number of troubled children and young adults who go all-the-way crazy and start trying to kill people for real?

The time has come for the American people to make our elected officials aware of our deep concerns regarding the need for an urgent review of restrictions on the distribution of video games with violent content.

In addition to increased attention to the activities of their heirs, parents, as well as all concerned citizens, should issue a nationwide call for legislation that would create a better understanding for consumers of violent video games of what generally happens to perpetrators of violent acts, and their victims.

Natural Light Network, therefore, strongly suggests that violent video games should be required to include a documentary that clearly illustrates the injuries suffered by victims of violence, and the grief of families that have lost loved ones in senseless acts of depravity.

The documentary should also include detailed accounts of what happens to angry, disillusioned, young men who end up in jail when they try to take their fantasies of aggression from TV screens to real life scenes.

As always, your feedback is a valuable part of our networking projects.

-Natural Light Network

© 2017 Paul Howard Nicholas

 

 

 

EYEBALL WITNESS NEWS TRUMP UPDATE: Missile Attack On Syrian Airbase

Highlights of Recent Developments

FBI Turns Up The Heat On Trump-Russia Investigations.

Trump Confers With Russia:

TRUMP: "Vlad, what can we do?"

PUTIN: "Not to worry, Donnie Boy. Bomb an insignificant Syrian air base. That will assure the world that you are capable of standing up to me. But hey, do not touch the runways. We just repaved them."

TRUMP: "OK,"

Trump Alerts Russia To The Time And Place Of Pending Attack, And Launches A Missile Strike So Weak That Syrian Fighter Jets Are Able To Fly Into And Out Of Their Bombed Airbase Less Than 24 Hours After The Attack

Donald Trump, Jr. Issues Statement: "See, I told you guys we are not in cahoots with Russia."

© 2017 Paul Howard Nicholas