My little girl, as the old saying goes, is all grown up. I have watched your maturation into young womanhood with fascination, unbridled joy, and no small measure of pride. I see in you the limitless potential for a lifetime of great works, and the embodiment of everything I think is good and decent in this otherwise corrupt, crumbling world of liars and fools.
I remember July 30, 1989 like it was yesterday.
Your mother and I were living in my small, one bedroom apartment on Girard Avenue in North Philly. I was employed as a custom photo lab technician at Quaker Photo, at the time, one of the largest labs in the region. My job involved spending 8 to 10 hours a day in my darkroom, virtually cut off from all outside communication. (Cell phones, while they did exist back then, were only owned by a privileged few, and were the approximate size and weight of a large brick.) If a lab employee received a phone call, the person taking the call would have to find the tech, bang on the darkroom door, and wait until the tech came out, sometimes many minutes later, to relay the message. Often by that time, either the person relaying the message gave up and left the darkroom area, or the person on the other end of the line hung up.
Starting about a month before your birth, I informed each of my fellow employees, (and there were more than 100) that if I got a call from my wife I was to be summoned immediately, and without excuses. Failure to comply, I added, would result in severe consequences. As a result, for several weeks before your birth, every phone call from your mother was given the highest priority, and whenever someone knocked on my darkroom door, I came tearing out of there like a man possessed.
I needn’t have cowed and intimidated my colleagues into compliance, since, as it turns out, you were born on my day off.
I was enjoying my usual Sunday late-morning routine: several cups of strong coffee, and the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling on television. About 11:45 your mother, who was ironing clothes, called out to me that it was time. At first, I was hesitant, since we’d had a couple of false alarms, but she quickly convinced me that this was it.
It was sometime around noon when I loaded her into the car, and drove to the hospital like Mario Andretti on the last lap of the Indy 500. As I had made the trip on practice runs several times, my route was mapped out to avoid as many traffic lights and crowded streets as possible.
Then, the wait.
Because you didn’t show up until 11:30 that night, I spent most of the day at the hospital pacing back and forth and getting on your mother’s nerves. It was a long, long day for us both – but the wait was more than worth it.
After the nurse hosed you off, (believe me, it was necessary) she gave you to me. The entire wave of emotions I had been bottling up for months poured out, and I was crying as much as you were, although not as loudly. I realized, in that single moment, that everything I had done in my life until that time was trivial and insignificant. You, this tiny human being, was more important than anything I would ever accomplish, and would remain my highest priority for the rest of my life. Love, while perhaps the strongest word in our language is insufficient to define my feelings toward you.
For the first few years, I carried you everywhere I went. It got to the point that my friends were surprised to see me without a child attached to my shoulder. I learned to plait and cornrow your hair, and pick out your outfits. I was the proudest Papa the world had ever seen.
As you grew, I watched your personality take shape. You were kind, compassionate, loving, sensitive to the needs and feelings of others, and smart as a whip. You handled difficult situations, like being bullied in school, as well as anyone could be asked.
I was, as you can imagine, especially pleased with your passion for art and music. You were my band’s first (and maybe only) fan, and my band mates loved you for it. I played the bass often for you, even learning the Alphabet Song so we could duet.
I suppose I could talk about the sacrifices – like the nights spent sleeping on hard couches at Children’s Hospital, or giving up beer and other luxuries for a couple of months in order to buy you the guitar and amplifier you wanted – but when you’re a parent, those aren’t really sacrifices at all. It’s called being a father, and that’s what fathers do.
Watching you grow up to be the person you are today has been the single greatest joy of my life.
Your great love of art and design will open up worlds of new experiences for you when you graduate from college next year, and I have no doubt that your career will be a source of great satisfaction for you, and yet another source of chest-swelling pride for me.
Not that my life is not already a shrine to my daughter – I still have everything you ever gave me – from preschool drawings on scraps of paper to my Eagles shirts to my “World’s Greatest Dad” coffee cup – which I still use every day.
On this momentous day, as you officially enter adulthood, I thought it was important to let you know that you have been my beating heart and soul for 21 years, and I thank God every day for giving you to me. You are my greatest accomplishment, and my greatest inspiration. You will always be my Baby Snooks, even if I live to be 100.
If I am the World’s Greatest Dad, it is only because I have the World’s Greatest Daughter.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A Crazy Rush To Judgment
For weeks the city of Philadelphia has been riveted by the trial of the two men accused in the events leading to the killing police Sgt. Stephen Liczbinski on May 3, 2008. Eric DeShann Floyd, 35, of North Philly and Levon T. Warner, 41, of West Philly each face the death penalty for their roles as accomplices in the botched bank robbery and car chase which ended with Liczbinski bleeding to death on a Kensington street.
Floyd, Warner, and 33-year old Howard Cain, who masterminded the robbery of the Bank of America at a Port Richmond ShopRite, went in the bank disguised as Muslim women, hit the place quick, and made a speedy getaway.
Moments after the three robbers left the supermarket, police had a description and license plate number of their getaway car, driven by Floyd, and seconds later Liczbinski’s patrol car was on their tail.
Unable to shake Liczbinski, Floyd stopped the car and yelled to Cain, “Bang him!” Cain jumped out and started firing with a 35-shot Chinese SKS military assault rifle. The weapon fires a .30 caliber bullet with enough punch to shred a bullet proof vest or puncture a car door. Liczbinski, who wasn’t wearing a vest, was hit eight times as he got out of his car.
Cain, the actual shooter, was himself killed by police in a confrontation later that day after he and his accomplices split up. Floyd and Warner were caught, and now face what could charitably be described as an uphill battle in court.
If you’ve been following the trial, you know much has been made of Floyd’s confrontational attitude and bizarre behavior. He wasn’t allowed in the courtroom for most of the trial, forced to watch on closed circuit after he punched out his own defense attorney in court. He’s demanded his right to act as his own advocate, and accused both the judge and his own defense team of being out to get him. He’s argued, he’s screamed, he’s ranted and raved, and he’s acted the complete fool.
Now you may conclude, as many have, that Mr. Floyd is probably mentally unbalanced, and incapable of understanding the gravity of his actions, let alone able to assist in his own defense.
Not me.
I think ol’ Eric is crazy like a fox. He may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I bet he’s smart enough to know he’s in a fight for his very life. He knows the evidence against him is overwhelming, he understands his chances with the jury are slim, and figures the only way this can end is with him strapped to a gurney upstate with a needle in his arm.
He’s understandably desperate, and as we all know, desperate men take desperate action. So what does Eric DeShann Floyd do? Take the safer road of his accomplice Levon Walker, who said nothing in his own defense – essentially throwing himself on the mercy of the court?
Or does he act out – perhaps throwing the proceedings into chaos and maybe, just maybe, giving himself the foundation for a future appeal on the grounds that a) he was denied his constitutional right to represent himself, or b) the jury was unduly influenced by his courtroom antics, or c) he’s the victim of a system out for retribution – as often is the case when a police officer goes down in the line of duty.
Sound far fetched? Well, there is some precedent. Perhaps Floyd followed another famous case in which a Philadelphia police officer was killed some years ago. In that case, the defendant argued with the judge, showed his utter contempt for the proceedings, insisted on acting as his own defense attorney after his choice of non-legal representation was denied; screamed, shouted, and was eventually bound and gagged by the judge.
Sure, that guy was eventually found guilty, but his fiery courtroom rhetoric made him a cause celebre, and his conviction became a worldwide rallying cry for opponents of the death penalty. In the end, it mattered less whether he was guilty or innocent of the actual killing than whether he was the victim of a government-inspired witch hunt, and convicted in a trial described by both his defenders and detractors as a “circus”.
But most importantly to Floyd, that guy is still alive. And if there’s the slightest chance that he too can remain alive by turning his trial into a similar circus, what does he have to lose?
That’s not what I call crazy, folks. That’s what I call self preservation.
Floyd, Warner, and 33-year old Howard Cain, who masterminded the robbery of the Bank of America at a Port Richmond ShopRite, went in the bank disguised as Muslim women, hit the place quick, and made a speedy getaway.
Moments after the three robbers left the supermarket, police had a description and license plate number of their getaway car, driven by Floyd, and seconds later Liczbinski’s patrol car was on their tail.
Unable to shake Liczbinski, Floyd stopped the car and yelled to Cain, “Bang him!” Cain jumped out and started firing with a 35-shot Chinese SKS military assault rifle. The weapon fires a .30 caliber bullet with enough punch to shred a bullet proof vest or puncture a car door. Liczbinski, who wasn’t wearing a vest, was hit eight times as he got out of his car.
Cain, the actual shooter, was himself killed by police in a confrontation later that day after he and his accomplices split up. Floyd and Warner were caught, and now face what could charitably be described as an uphill battle in court.
If you’ve been following the trial, you know much has been made of Floyd’s confrontational attitude and bizarre behavior. He wasn’t allowed in the courtroom for most of the trial, forced to watch on closed circuit after he punched out his own defense attorney in court. He’s demanded his right to act as his own advocate, and accused both the judge and his own defense team of being out to get him. He’s argued, he’s screamed, he’s ranted and raved, and he’s acted the complete fool.
Now you may conclude, as many have, that Mr. Floyd is probably mentally unbalanced, and incapable of understanding the gravity of his actions, let alone able to assist in his own defense.
Not me.
I think ol’ Eric is crazy like a fox. He may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I bet he’s smart enough to know he’s in a fight for his very life. He knows the evidence against him is overwhelming, he understands his chances with the jury are slim, and figures the only way this can end is with him strapped to a gurney upstate with a needle in his arm.
He’s understandably desperate, and as we all know, desperate men take desperate action. So what does Eric DeShann Floyd do? Take the safer road of his accomplice Levon Walker, who said nothing in his own defense – essentially throwing himself on the mercy of the court?
Or does he act out – perhaps throwing the proceedings into chaos and maybe, just maybe, giving himself the foundation for a future appeal on the grounds that a) he was denied his constitutional right to represent himself, or b) the jury was unduly influenced by his courtroom antics, or c) he’s the victim of a system out for retribution – as often is the case when a police officer goes down in the line of duty.
Sound far fetched? Well, there is some precedent. Perhaps Floyd followed another famous case in which a Philadelphia police officer was killed some years ago. In that case, the defendant argued with the judge, showed his utter contempt for the proceedings, insisted on acting as his own defense attorney after his choice of non-legal representation was denied; screamed, shouted, and was eventually bound and gagged by the judge.
Sure, that guy was eventually found guilty, but his fiery courtroom rhetoric made him a cause celebre, and his conviction became a worldwide rallying cry for opponents of the death penalty. In the end, it mattered less whether he was guilty or innocent of the actual killing than whether he was the victim of a government-inspired witch hunt, and convicted in a trial described by both his defenders and detractors as a “circus”.
But most importantly to Floyd, that guy is still alive. And if there’s the slightest chance that he too can remain alive by turning his trial into a similar circus, what does he have to lose?
That’s not what I call crazy, folks. That’s what I call self preservation.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Death of a Picnic
It’s a sad week in Philadelphia, and on a number of fronts.
We’ve had a couple of tourists die in the Delaware river, the tragic result of a collision between a disabled Ride the Ducks tour boat and a passing barge being maneuvered by a tugboat. The accident made not just national but international headlines, as the tourists were part of a group visiting from Hungary.
The National Transportation Safety Board, Philadelphia Police, the U.S. Coast Guard, and just about every local law enforcement agency on land and sea are investigating the crash. The skipper and first mate of the tugboat pushing the barge have clammed up, and you can bet the finger-pointing, and resultant lawsuits, are going to keep this thing heated up and on the front page for months.
We were also treated this week to the news that three more Philadelphia police officers were fired and indicted for corruption and drug dealing. The scenario is so familiar around here it has become routine: A press conference featuring a somber faced Commissioner Ramsey vowing to root out the bad apples in the department, backed up by an equally dour Mayor Nutter, who tells us in no uncertain terms how angry he is.
One refreshing break from the routine: Fraternal Order of Police President John McNesby, who usually defends his officers with his last breath, immediately threw these three under the bus. He didn’t even give them the standard “innocent until proven guilty” excuse reserved for cops who are stone guilty. It’s about time the FOP stop circling the wagons around corrupt cops, and take the lead in efforts to weed them out.
We’ve tried, but we can no longer pretend to be shocked every time a police officer turns out to be more of a low-life criminal than the people he arrests every day. The confidence of the average citizen in the effectiveness of our system of justice is already at an all-time low. Every headline about a corrupt cop, judge, or city official erodes that confidence even more.
But what really struck me this week was the unofficial death of Philadelphia’s annual Greek Picnic.
I guess it has been a long time coming, but still, it’s a crying shame. The event started out so positively years ago: an annual celebration of Black fraternities and sororities, mostly from historically Black colleges. It was a reunion of sorts – networking and camaraderie, step shows and friendly rivalries.
That celebration was ruined by young rowdies - the majority of whom had never set foot on a college campus – crashing the parties while engaging in everything from drunken brawls to store looting to brazen sexual assaults.
Participation by Greek letter fraternities and sororities began to wane, while police presence and citizen paranoia increased with each year’s picnic. Even though picnic organizers warned participants to stay out of the area, hundreds of police officers, both mounted and foot patrols, descended on South Street every year in anticipation of crowd control. Merchants and store owners on the busy avenue bolted their doors and pulled down the storm shutters. Bars and restaurants closed early, owners preferring to sacrifice profit rather than risk their customers’ security. It no longer mattered that the looters and revelers had no connection to the Greek Picnic or Greek letter organizations. It was pure guilt by association – and the association stuck like glue.
This year, the Philadelphia chapter of the National Pan-Hellenic Council decided not to hold the traditional Greek Picnic. Organizers of a makeshift substitute event, Philly Greek Weekend, found their efforts in finding a venue stymied by the Greek Picnic’s unfortunate but well-documented reputation.
Delaware County officials went to court July 1 to block the Nile Swim Club in Yeadon from hosting Philly Greek Weekend events. They won. Then an alternate plan to move the picnic to Neshaminy State Park was met with objections from park officials.
Through no fault of the event organizers or fraternities themselves, the very name Greek Picnic had become poison.
Even with no official picnic planned, just the rumor of a Greek Picnic brought 20,000 teens and post-teens to South Street last weekend. A large fight erupted in the crowd, resulting in one person being Tasered and arrested. By Saturday night, bars and stores had shut down, and police cordoned off nearly the entire length of South Street.
So say goodbye to the Greek Picnic, Philly’s yearly celebration of Black college life and academic achievement – and mourn another positive tradition murdered by a small slice of the subculture with little respect for traditions, and even less respect for college and academic achievement.
We’ve had a couple of tourists die in the Delaware river, the tragic result of a collision between a disabled Ride the Ducks tour boat and a passing barge being maneuvered by a tugboat. The accident made not just national but international headlines, as the tourists were part of a group visiting from Hungary.
The National Transportation Safety Board, Philadelphia Police, the U.S. Coast Guard, and just about every local law enforcement agency on land and sea are investigating the crash. The skipper and first mate of the tugboat pushing the barge have clammed up, and you can bet the finger-pointing, and resultant lawsuits, are going to keep this thing heated up and on the front page for months.
We were also treated this week to the news that three more Philadelphia police officers were fired and indicted for corruption and drug dealing. The scenario is so familiar around here it has become routine: A press conference featuring a somber faced Commissioner Ramsey vowing to root out the bad apples in the department, backed up by an equally dour Mayor Nutter, who tells us in no uncertain terms how angry he is.
One refreshing break from the routine: Fraternal Order of Police President John McNesby, who usually defends his officers with his last breath, immediately threw these three under the bus. He didn’t even give them the standard “innocent until proven guilty” excuse reserved for cops who are stone guilty. It’s about time the FOP stop circling the wagons around corrupt cops, and take the lead in efforts to weed them out.
We’ve tried, but we can no longer pretend to be shocked every time a police officer turns out to be more of a low-life criminal than the people he arrests every day. The confidence of the average citizen in the effectiveness of our system of justice is already at an all-time low. Every headline about a corrupt cop, judge, or city official erodes that confidence even more.
But what really struck me this week was the unofficial death of Philadelphia’s annual Greek Picnic.
I guess it has been a long time coming, but still, it’s a crying shame. The event started out so positively years ago: an annual celebration of Black fraternities and sororities, mostly from historically Black colleges. It was a reunion of sorts – networking and camaraderie, step shows and friendly rivalries.
That celebration was ruined by young rowdies - the majority of whom had never set foot on a college campus – crashing the parties while engaging in everything from drunken brawls to store looting to brazen sexual assaults.
Participation by Greek letter fraternities and sororities began to wane, while police presence and citizen paranoia increased with each year’s picnic. Even though picnic organizers warned participants to stay out of the area, hundreds of police officers, both mounted and foot patrols, descended on South Street every year in anticipation of crowd control. Merchants and store owners on the busy avenue bolted their doors and pulled down the storm shutters. Bars and restaurants closed early, owners preferring to sacrifice profit rather than risk their customers’ security. It no longer mattered that the looters and revelers had no connection to the Greek Picnic or Greek letter organizations. It was pure guilt by association – and the association stuck like glue.
This year, the Philadelphia chapter of the National Pan-Hellenic Council decided not to hold the traditional Greek Picnic. Organizers of a makeshift substitute event, Philly Greek Weekend, found their efforts in finding a venue stymied by the Greek Picnic’s unfortunate but well-documented reputation.
Delaware County officials went to court July 1 to block the Nile Swim Club in Yeadon from hosting Philly Greek Weekend events. They won. Then an alternate plan to move the picnic to Neshaminy State Park was met with objections from park officials.
Through no fault of the event organizers or fraternities themselves, the very name Greek Picnic had become poison.
Even with no official picnic planned, just the rumor of a Greek Picnic brought 20,000 teens and post-teens to South Street last weekend. A large fight erupted in the crowd, resulting in one person being Tasered and arrested. By Saturday night, bars and stores had shut down, and police cordoned off nearly the entire length of South Street.
So say goodbye to the Greek Picnic, Philly’s yearly celebration of Black college life and academic achievement – and mourn another positive tradition murdered by a small slice of the subculture with little respect for traditions, and even less respect for college and academic achievement.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)