The 1st time I’ve cried during this, the most recent and devastating Black Lives Matter entry in our race’s tattered diary of The Historical Peaks and Valleys of Our Civil Rights Odyssey was on my 53rd birthday. That would be yesterday.

The 1st time I allowed myself to cry.

It was after I heard my son’s musical arrangement inspired by the George Floyd atrocity.

My son is 17 years old. Opting to start his own Business last spring of 2019, rather than go out and get a summer job — which he also attempted but was quickly turned off by the lackadaisical and less than forthcoming (a.k.a. ethnocentric and race-averse) responses from local business owners in our Long Beach, CA neighborhood, he began creating, promoting, releasing and selling beats on Instagram.

My son’s home-based business generated a revenue so substantial I ceased having to cover his needs and wants. My child became financially independent of me inside of a summer.

While all of this was happening right there in front of me, I would eavesdrop on his conversations… marvel at his business acumen. His customer service is impeccable. His ability to communicate with, and in some cases firmly but cordially … Continue reading..