My Path

As I stood atop Mt. Sacagawea in Montana in July of 2013, I couldn’t help but feel a great sense of accomplishment and pride. I was 66 years old and had never hiked in the mountains like this before. I grew up in eastern North Carolina, and my outdoor activities were more focused in farm labor than mountain hiking. There were no mountains like this one in my home state. Moreover, as a young adult, my lifestyle didn’t include adventures like that. My life was more oriented toward partying than challenging myself out in nature. How high you could get was more associated with liquor than a hiking trail. In reflection on my life, the most special pride I ever felt was when I held each of my children for the first time at their births. There were other times when I felt proud of my accomplishments; this mountain challenge was particularly unique and notable. I might compare my Sacajawea experience with others, such as making my high school football team, graduating from Temple University, being appointed as the Executive Director of the National Black Republican Council, or being appointed as Executive Director of the international civil rights organization – Minority Alliance International or being named as the US president of the Global Peace Foundation. While I am proud of those achievements, in some ways, they were things that I felt I should achieve naturally, as a matter of due course. My early life was complex. I wanted to participate in church with my grandmother so she would be proud. Like my brother before me, I was appointed to read the announcements during church service when I was 14. I was happy to follow my brother in his footsteps. The church community was different from the school community. My grandmother was considered the “mother of the church.” More than specific ceremonial responsibilities, that position indicated the respect all church members had for her. I wanted her also to be proud of me as she had been of my brother. Perhaps it was the passage of familial rights. – elder to younger brother. Regardless, I had no reservations about being a “stand-out.” When I graduated from high school, I struggled to find my identity. Who and what the hell am I? is a question asked by black people in America over and over. Some, like me, mulatto – Black, White & Indian, probably ask the question more than others. I share these experiences in the context of this spiritual reflection because I’ve long been convinced that God is involved with human affairs. The holy scriptures in the Talmud, Holy Bible, and Quran record how, throughout history, God has guided His people and chosen figures who were leading them. We know many of their names: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David, Ruth, Esther, Paul, Peter, and Muhammad. I am confident that the living God continues to speak directly to His people today. In my opinion, experiencing God’s presence begins with belief. If I talk to God, will He, in turn, speak to me? If I ask God for direction, will He give it to me? If I ask God to open doors for me in line with His providential will, will He do it? My experience is a resounding yes to each question. Why would He not? After all, I am His child. Can we expect more from earthly fathers than our Heavenly Father, who created all out of love beyond imagination? I think not! I was always prepared to stand up for what I believed was righteous. In Wilson, during the 1964/1965 period, which was at the height of the Civil Rights era, I, like many others, marched in the streets to protest segregation. I remember marching up to the theatres requesting a ticket for a seat in the “Whites only” section. Before graduating from high school, “coloreds” were finally allowed to use the main library in Wilson to research and even check out books. In the class below me (Junior class), three students were selected to attend the all-White Fike High School. We thought we had arrived. It’s interesting how life is so relative. When we compare how we felt sitting in the main library of Wilson in 1965 with today in 2024, given that the 44th President of the United States was a Black man and that there are currently nearly 2 million Black millionaires, one might think that the feelings would be different today. Perhaps for some, it might be. However, when so many Blacks still live below the poverty line, and with news nearly every day that police shot another unarmed Black, it’s not easy to see yourself as “arrived” with whatever that truly means. My grandmother, especially, was strict but very caring and demonstrated what a love for a higher power was all about. My grandfather showed us what working hard meant and how it paid off. He was a proud man and was well-respected in the community. I had a solid foundation to stand on. However, something was missing.