Other than an Instructor in Human Relations, a Facilitator of Race Relations and a Trainer in Military Logistics, the only title I post harmoniously possess is Chief Navy Counselor U.S. Navy Retired. Writing my book, "Guidance Against the Odds" was motivated in part thru the experiences of life — a resume established with over 60 years of working with people in diverse cultures. I.E., Starting as a child, carrying groceries for tips, becoming a stock boy, a snowball stand, and a newspaper route. As an adult, over twenty-two years of military, a bus, truck and cab driver and thirty years in Retail Management.

Born in the 40s, the period known euphemistically as Jim Crow, I was immune to the existence of hate thru the Grace of God by two loving parents. 

The '50s was the decade of my transitioning, from the imaginative stage of adolescent's, the fairytales of living happily ever after into the reality of hate.  

In the '60s, after "Bloody Sunday" I came to realize the untold horrors inflicted for hundreds of years by the proactive minefields thru the ideologies of a selected body of people; which reads "I'm a white man and I carry with me the cultural legacy of tribal racism."

In the '70s, I learned to navigate those very impetuous minefields, the institutional standards, built with glass ceilings. Ceilings that turned a blind eye while looking down upon the injustices which were systematically marinated upon a people.

By the 1980's, I had adjusted to the mindset of racism being an embedded norm within American society and the reality of the unchanging existence of my blackness in the face of evil.  

In the 90' my fears were exacerbated by the images of Rodney King, him taking a life-threatening beating by four white policemen. My anxiety towered about driving while black, which was not an oxymoron.

2020 is now upon us, and the minefields are more active than ever. However, I refused to be subverted, as I vow to someday, somehow, make a difference.  


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Long ago, while at sea...
There was this hand that reached out to me.
It had a glow bright with spree...
           and then it called me Henry Lee.
I did not hide…nor did I dart, as it warmed the cockles of my heart.
Of a speaking hand, I did not flee, as I knew             it was clearly ... God and Me.

As I was baptized a baptist in 1950 by the late Rev. James R. Grant, the then Pastor of Southern Baptist Church in Baltimore, Maryland, ​a diary of transgressions over time had caused me to drift away from the church. In turn, in the '90s, it was the speaking hand of God in forgiveness, which brought me back under the doctrine of Catholicism.