Today is a day, not to mourn the passing of a simple man with humble roots, men to whom monuments are never built but who, themselves, built a nation. It is a day to remember how this simple man with meager talents forged a full and happy life through sheer force of will and the sweat of his brow. He lived to walk the streets of Moscow, Rome, Berlin and all of the Carribean with the love of his life. He leaves this unforgiving earth owing no debts, begrudging no man, and the love of his life secure for her remaining days. << MORE >>

"Well, maybe someday," Terry ventured, "change will come. Maybe someone black will become President and change everything." Terry watched Franklin closely for his response. It came slowly. First, a smirk came across the wrinkled old face. He crushed out his cigarette and deliberately and slowly took another shot of tequila. Finally he leaned out of his seat and closer to Terry. Finally, he spoke: "A black President? A BLACK President? Nigga, please! Not in my life and probably not in yours. But it is a good dream, little brother. A good dream." He leaned back in his seat and lit another Kool. He ever so briefly smiled and closed his eyes as if trying to imagine. After the briefest repose, he managed a few concluding words: "Maybe you will be President, someday, little brother. Now, that would really be something." He closed his eyes again and resumed enjoying his cigarette. << MORE >>

"What up, young blood?" came a voice halfway between that of a Tereak’s and an adult. Tereak turned to see a slightly larger boy smiling a step or two behind him as the classes answered the first bell to home room. "Are you talking to me?" answered Tereak, tentatively. "You see any other brothers around?" answered the cocky, sauntering black adolescent as he slightly quickened his pace to draw aside Tereak. "Hi!" was all Tereak could muster, having determined he must be the one being addressed by the older-appearing boy. "You’re a new kid, right?" "Yes, this is my second day" replied Tereak. "It’s all our second day but this is your first year here at the school, am I right?" the young boy’s voice crackled with increasing confidence and a definite urban accent. "I guess you’re right. Yes, this is my first year at Pamatau." "I figured. You look like a scared black among all these honkies." the boy giggled as the words came out. << MORE >>

When Tereak (no longer the "Abu" of his kin and townspeople in Malaysia, he had used his full name to register at school) first stepped onto the fences, well-manicured campus of Pamatau Preparatory Academy, he felt he had been transported to another planet. There were no dirt road and every walkway, path and drive was paved. There were well-placed tables in designated areas for the students to study or just converse and they were surrounded by the varied and lush vegetation of the "Pearl of the Pacific". The students were well-dressed, though casual, and most of the younger students, though in clean clothes, went barefoot. It looked almost as if the young people of his village had been magically transported to his new school, bathed, dressed in finery and told to walk about. Strangely, after completing the arduous required placement testing and administrative paperwork, Tereak felt comfortably at home. Most of the students were white but there was a healthy mixture of Asians, much like the ones he had grown up with, and a smattering of blacks. He was anxious to make the acquaintances of those who looked more like him and it was not that difficult with the laid-back environment of PPA. His first class class of the day was to check in at home room and the room of 20 or so students fortuitously had 4 black students among the whites, Asians and islanders. After observing them for a day, he determined that he would strike up a conversation with whoever he could find the next day. << MORE >>

The mullah embraced his young charge with a sense of pride and fulfillment he had never felt before. As he walked Abu to the door, he fought back not tears of sadness but tears of pride. He would not fall prey to the sentiment of the woman and the weak. No further words were to be spoken between the two. The old man walked Abu to the taxi waiting outside his hut. Abu’s mother and his half-sister were already in the back seat and his meager belongings were packed and ready for the flight. As Abu turned to open the door, he turned back to the only man that existed in the tiny universe that was his old life. The young boy and the elder locked eyes and exchanged a thousand words with a glance. Just as quickly, Abu bounded into the car, closed the door and the car slowly accelerated down the dirt road. The mullah closed the door to his hut and, alone for the first time in years, rolled out his own prayer mat. His words to Allah were not the specific, rote words of the Salah but a special prayer just between a man and his Deity. He prayed for 20 minutes. His knees ached as he rose and replaced the mat and tidied up the hut. He read the Qu’ran for the remainder of the day, undisturbed. That night, the old man slept more soundly than he could ever remember and dreams were of battle and ultimate victory. << MORE >>

The next morning, Abu was awakened by his mother at their usual time for lessons. Since she had to leave for work by 6:00 and Abu was required to be at the village madrasah by 7:00, they always woke together at 4:00 in the early dawn to work on Abu’s English. He was proficient, already, in Arabic and Malay. It was up to his mother to make sure he would master English. She was a patient teacher and, fully aware that her son’s future life - and mission - would be in America, she took great pains to hone his pronunciation of the complicated language to a fine edge. She was not without prior experience either as she, for a time, taught English to prospective immigrants at the American embassy. Lessons done and breakfast shared, the two members of the little family went their separate ways. His mother gave him a loving hug as she sent him off toward the madrasah and watched for a few seconds as he was joined by the other children headed off to their Islamic education. She smiled to herself at his tiny form, growing smaller step by step, and felt proud that her son was becoming such a mature and responsible young boy. "We’re sure not in Kansas anymore but it’s not too damned bad for what we have been through!" she thought to herself. << MORE >>

The gathering of men, resplendent in the robes of the highest leaders of Islam, was not seen by the townspeople of the secluded country that cradled the old Mullah’s village. Nothing but a monumental calling - a clarion trumpet that rang in their hearts as loud as their local muezzin’s call to prayer from their mosques - could bring these leaders of millions in their own nations to this insignificant hovel. But come they did, these rocks of Islam. They came to the shabby little town on foot or on horseback so as not to arouse the attention of those sleeping soundly after a long day’s work. But the men were deadly serious in their purpose and it showed in every aspect of their deportment. They spoke nothing to each other but merely mouthed the traditional Islamic greeting - "Assalamu alaikum" - as they met with their eyes. The chief security precaution was stealth and silence. There was much to discuss and the wandering ear of an uninvited onlooker would mean disaster to their purpose.<< MORE >>

As the day of secrets came to a close, marked by the decline of the shadows on the walls of the Mullah’s hut, Abu knew it would was time to make ready to leave his beloved teacher. As it was nearing sunset, it was time for the pair’s 4th daily prayer to the Mecca and Medina. The rugs were unrolled with care and the prayer, uttered by Abu with even more assurance each time, were lead by Grandfather. Afterwards, not a word was spoken between the two as they replaced the rugs and cleaned the little room for the evening. Abu knew that, every evening, the most important men in the village and even beyond would visit the Mullah home and he took great care to make it as presentable as it could be for the honor of his teacher. He and his teacher never spoke of what was discussed at these meetings but Abu was sure they were of serious matters. His Grandfather was the leader of the region - both within Islam but also as a law-giver and civil authority. Abu felt a great sense of pride that he was the one who was allowed to spend his days with the great man. He knew it was an honor, even for the most important of men, to have just a few minutes with the Mullah and he, a mere child, was allowed to spend the whole day with him. << MORE >>

The room that the young child entered was familiar to him. He had been there almost every day of his two years in Malaysia. His mother, an American from the Midwest, had abandoned her country to work among the ancient ruins of the old country. She believed that the boy, the product of a mixed union, would be subject to less prejudice and stigma in the ancient, predominantly Islamic (the religion of the boy’s Kenyan father) than in her own homeland. The child’s father, who abandoned both mother and son months after his birth, was back in Africa. The mother. prideful of her independent streak, saw less problems for her muwallad (Arabic for "mixed ancestry") in the Far East than in "Jim Crow America." - her words to those who would listen. << MORE >>

Since I, apparently, have ranted until the well has run almost dry and now am approaching some 400,000 words of blather and cant on this blog, I have decided to start the new decade off with something fresh and different. Yes, Virginia, your intrepid writer is attacking fiction. What I hope to do over the next year is post 20-25 chapters of a fiction book on this site. The postings, depending on the muse, will be one chapter every 10-14 days. And, best of all, it will be free. Not in the “public domain,” mind you with permission to reprint elsewhere, but copyrighted and under the usual protections of your federal and international copyright agreements. I do this as an attempt to expand my writing skills stimulate dialogue and, perhaps, my readership. The book is about politics, intrigue, religion, terrorism, sinister plots and what might have been or, more, what might actually be. I’ll leave it at that for now. As the usual disclaimer, all resemblance to any people, living or deceased, is strictly coincidental. All of the characters are simply creations of a warped mind (mine) and have no relationship to current events, except incidentally. I hope you enjoy the experiment. I look forward to your comments and criticisms with equal anticipation. Just don’t passively read - in the words of the current youth, “holler back” and let me know what you think, good, bad and ugly. The first installment will follow shortly. Thanks for reading along. Cheers and HAPPY NEW YEAR, Ron<< MORE >>