Tag: african-american

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Essence

A marker portrait of the character Essence.

The sky had turned a darker shade of purple than the violets I’d picked for my bouquet. Essence had said those were her favorite color in our chats. I checked the time on my phone. She should’ve arrived well over half an hour ago. Most restaurants would have closed by now, and the next showing of the movie I’d picked would not be until tomorrow.

Where was she?

I sent her another message. No response. The waning moon was almost halfway up in the sky. Still no response. I could make out a few stars overhead despite the streetlights’ glow, and the passing cars were dwindling in frequency. Still no response.

That wasn’t like Essence. She’d always been good about getting back to me within seconds on the app. The dread was shaking me up. I had to call her.

Still no response. Not even a ring.

Maybe she was stuck in traffic. Rush hour had long passed, but I was desperate.

I called her again. Nothing.

Was something wrong with her? Was her phone dead? Why hadn’t she kept it charged?

I shouldn’t preoccupy myself with worry. Better to think of all the positives instead. We had so many great conversations. About her studies in English literature, about her cute little dachshund, about her equally adorable niece. How she liked strawberry cheesecake and gospel music, how her last ex had hurt her so badly, and how she thought I was the most sensitive man she’d ever met. In turn, I could tell her everything about myself, and no matter what was bugging me, she knew how I should deal with it and how to cheer me up.

Of course, if her photos on the app were anything to go by, she was as beautiful on the outside as the inside. I should dig them up.

Footsteps clipped on the sidewalk. My stomach fluttered with delight. That had to have been Essence. But why had she not called or texted me first?

It was not Essence. Too tall, too big and stocky, too clad in black, and much, much too white to be her. Whiter than me, even. The tattoos on his hand stood out like black clouds in front of the moon. As he regarded me with eyes as gray and sharp as the steel blade in his grip, he grinned with a show of bejeweled teeth.

“Waiting patiently for your Nubian queen, eh, Dylan?” the man said with a thick Russian accent.

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White Lion of the Trinity River

Texas, 1875 A.D.

Penelope Jenkins held her brass-framed binoculars to her eyes and peered at the steamboat resting on the southeastern horizon. Even within the evening mist, the vessel’s blocky bright white form stood out against both the deep violet sky and the dark waters of the lower Trinity River, as did the lanterns that twinkled along its tiered decks. On the side of its hull read the words “The Lion’s Den” in thick black lettering.

Penelope could not resist a quiet snicker to herself. “If that ain’t his hideaway, I don’t know what would be.”

She dismounted her black stallion Ramses, hitched him to one of the oak trees that fringed the floodplain, and took out both her revolver and rifle from holsters attached to his saddle. Weaving her svelte figure through the thick reeds along the riverbank, she made sure to walk on tiptoes so that her boots wouldn’t squish too loudly in the mud.

The closer Penelope drew to the steamboat, the more audible was the vulgar banter and laughter of men on the bow of the boat’s uppermost deck. Amidst this played music like the squealing of a fiddle, the staccato twanging of a mandolin, and the buzzing of a harmonica. She could even catch a faint whiff of tobacco smoke mingling with the sweet scent of liquor. Whatever occasion these pirates were celebrating, they sure liked to party.

Looking through the binoculars again, she scanned the length and height of the ship for the likeness of the White Lion as she remembered it from his wanted poster. She could find him nowhere, not even among the noisy throng of revelers. Penelope recalled from the poster’s description that he had once been a gentleman of refined taste, so perhaps he would not associate with his own minions by dancing among them. He might have retired to one of the fancier cabins inside.

Regardless, Penelope’s plan from that point on was nothing elaborate. She would wade up to the steamboat’s stern, possibly climbing up its paddle wheel like a ladder, and sneak her way around until she found her prey and end his career of robbery and terror the way he deserved. In an ideal situation, she’d be able to accomplish all this and escape before the Lion’s men knew what hit them, but failing that…well, a few drunken pirates couldn’t be too difficult to take on or evade. Could they?

Something ice-cold and metallic prodded the dark brown skin on the back of Penelope’s neck.

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The Sultan of Finback Isle – Opening Excerpt

Cover illustration for my e-novelette “The Sultan of Finback Isle”, showing our heroes Abdullah and Monique Kalua being encircled by a hungry Dimetrodon.

A new novelette available in ebook form on the Amazon Kindle store!

Having broken off from the other continents two hundred and sixty million years ago, the landmass known as Finback Isle has protected a unique ecosystem in the equatorial Pacific older than the dinosaurs themselves. Only a near-extinct nation of Polynesian settlers, together with the crew of Ferdinand Magellan in 1520, have ever set foot on the island within the annals of human history. 

And then Ibrahim Fawal, a native of Casablanca turned controversial new Chief of Police in Los Angeles, decided to establish his private winter getaway there.

Enter Abdullah and Monique Kalua, a daring husband-and-wife team of FBI agents sent to investigate the LAPD’s accelerated record of corruption and brutality under Fawal;s leadership, including the shooting of Monique’s own close relations. Their mission is to penetrate Fawal’s secret lair and bring him to justice.

Not only must they brave treacherous jungle littered with Polynesian ruins and teeming with beasts from the late Paleozoic Era, but they must also contend with the armed officers of one of the most vicious men ever to head the police of Los Angeles…the Sultan of Finback Isle!

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The Case for African-American Reparations

This was originally a paper I wrote for a Sociology course over at UCSD back in 2012. Even after the passage of several years, I still consider what I articulate in this paper to be representative of my current views on the topic.

Are Black Americans owed reparations for the oppression they have suffered throughout American history? Many if not most White Americans would say no, whereas many if not most Black Americans would say yes. The question of reparations is a racially polarizing one, and since Whites form the demographic majority and socioeconomically dominant ethnic group in America, this has meant that reparations have never been paid. This payment is long overdue. Since Black Americans have suffered from and continue to suffer today an ancient legacy of racial oppression, a reparations program for them is long overdue.

The most commonly cited objections to reparations for African-Americans’ suffering are that slavery ended too long ago and that many White Americans’ ancestors never owned slaves, therefore absolving Whites as a collective of any responsibility over the issue. The former argument would be valid if slavery was the only historical crime against Black Americans and if modern Blacks did not suffer from its effects, but neither of these conditions have been met. The oppression and unfavorable treatment that Blacks received continued even after slavery was formally abolished and still affects the modern Black experience. As for the second argument, while Whites as a whole may not have been guilty of slavery, they have benefited from a racist social hierarchy that favored them over Blacks. This is not a question of making White people feel guilty about what a few of their ancestors did over 150 years ago. The fundamental issue is one of healing a larger legacy of racism that elevated Whites about Blacks.

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