Like most people, I’ve watched the movie Wizard of Oz since I was a very young girl. Like many, I’ve also read all of the L. Frank Baum books. More recently, as an adult I’ve read all of The Wicked Years book series by Gregory Maguire and have seen the Broadway play adaptation of Wicked twice. That either makes me a huge fan or slightly obsessed (laughing)! Eh, a little of both, actually. I always cried near the end of Wizard of Oz, long before Dorothy ever made it back to Kansas. When I was about 8, Mommy asked me why; some people still do.

I learned a lot about leadership and people from the characters in the film, books (both sets) and musical play. Recently, I discovered a great article by Sharon Kruse and Sandra Spickard Prettyman that also deals with leadership. Here’s what I learned from the collective “Ozian” tales.

The Wizard was the kind of leader who pretends to be more than they are, while using others to do the things they are afraid and incapable of doing themselves... having Dorothy kill the Witch of the West. They change appearance and behaviors to compensate for their fear and have no real ability, just trinkets they use to keep others distracted or complacent. Remember, in the film the Wizard was also the gatekeeper, carriage driver and guard. He proclaimed himself to be “the great and powerful,” (Kruse & Prettyman, p. 459) but did nothing about providing solutions for the social and cultural injustice present in the Wicked books and play. In fact, this type of leader will turn popular opinion against those who point out their shortcomings in an effort to destroy credibility... Wicked. Just like the Wizard’s balloon, this kind of leader is full of hot air with no substance.

Glinda is the kind of leader who uses appearance and charm to gain “position and power,” (Kruse & Prettyman, p. 457). They use popularity (Wicked) as a way to establish and maintain their status, while never really doing more than building a “power base” through charming others to do their bidding. In the film, Glinda didn’t go take the shoes for herself, she charmed Dorothy into doing it for her. Then, because she wanted the Witch of the West gone to solidify her position as the only Witch in Oz, she “neglected” to tell Dorothy that the shoes could immediately take her home. Again, Glinda used her appearance, “little girl voice,” and popularity with the Munchkins to convince Dorothy to travel to Oz for help when she could have helped her right then. This kind of leader is always, always about maintaining popularity and appearance... doesn’t matter that nothing is accomplished and people sometimes get hurt.

That brings me to Dorothy. Ugh! She led by using others to get what she wanted. The Scarecrow was needed for all of the planning that had to be done. Getting from Munchkinland to Oz, getting to the Witch’s castle, figuring out that Glinda could help Dorothy after the Wizard took off. The Tin Man was willing to sacrifice himself to keep her safe. Putting out the fire, rusting in the poppy field, fighting off the Winkie soldiers. And the lion, of course, was useful because of his size and strength. Sometimes I think this kind of leader is most dangerous because they get people committed to the goal, then leave behind the very ones who got them “there” once the goal is reached.

Last, but not least to me, is the Witch of the West/Elphaba. She represents the kind of leader who doesn’t seek attention or fame, doesn’t really “fit in” with the other leadership types, and refuses to remain silent about the injustice or oppression of others. They are “outsiders,” (Kruse & Prettyman, p. 459) and, eventually, they like it that way. The trouble with this type of leader is that they are usually vilified by those who are in power and loved by those who are also oppressed. Frequently, they are on the receiving end of plans to “bring her down,” (Kruse & Prettyman, p. 459). These people step into leadership roles, not because they seek power and popularity, or have their own agenda/goal but to meet a present and persistent need of others. All too often, they achieve the end of the injustice or oppression only to be brought down for their efforts.

Do I read/watch too much into the books, movie and play? Maybe. Then again, there are lessons everywhere if we pay attention (smile). Think about the leaders you know, I’ll bet you could categorize each into one or more of these four types if you are honest.

So, when did I cry during the movie, books, and play? I cried when the Witch of the West/Elphaba was “liquified,” of course! Buy why the Witch? Well, if someone killed your sibling, stole your inheritance, then acted like you were the wicked one... you’d be angry and go after them too!

The simple question sent my mind reeling backward through time to those hot, hot, muggy oppressive days of summer. The question was from a neighbor commenting on how hot and uncomfortable the month of July has been. Temperatures have resided in the mid 90s with the heat index well into the 100s. 

Ours is a walking, jogging, bike riding neighborhood.  People stand in the yard and talk to each other. These days you can do that early morning and late evening but during the middle of the day the heat has been too much. My neighbors question sent my mind back to the heat of yesteryear. 

“How did you all stand practicing outdoors in this hot sun? I can’t imagine,” was the question? 

I answered immediately, “I don’t know. Sometime I ask myself that question.” 

Looking back to the 1970s, it was always brutally hot in Auburn, Alabama in July and August. For clarification, it’s brutally hot in Auburn most summers. But for that five-year period, I was practicing with the football team in the steamy hot sun, with no breeze and only the occasional water break. 

Walking on, I had to prove I deserved a scholarship. I did. I had to earn a starters job. I did. I had to keep that job for three years and help us win games and national rankings. I did that too. Standing in the hot sun with my neighbor, I felt a trickle of sweat run across my brow and down my face. Looking back on it now, in a six-decade old body, I wonder how we did it as well. 

You see it was about more than being a big man on campus, the glamour of television, or signing autographs. Those were the byproducts, the benefits of hard, grueling, day-to-day grinding work in summer camp. Since school had not started we could devote all our time to practice. Summer camp could make or break our season.

We were young and frisky like colts. Reporting to camp we went at it twice a day for two full weeks before we tapered off to a regular practice schedule. The heat was unbearable. But we were on a mission. We went out in the morning in full pads. We hit, we hit and we hit some more. 

In the afternoon practice we did it all over again. Dripping wet with sweat, our pads and practice uniforms now weighed close to ten pounds more as they were soaked. There was no Gatorade. There were no water coolers. It was according to our coaches, “How bad do you want it?” 

We did get the occasional water break! People laugh when I tell them we had a water spigot about six inches off the ground that we had to kneel down to slurp its precious cold water on our two water breaks a day. It was yesteryear when the hardship of making a football team was equated with your manhood. “Prove you’re a man,” was the message we were given. If that was what it took to be a man we were willing. 

My mom feared for me because I could not hold my weight in that hot sun, running miles and miles a day.  I assured her I was okay. 

Between practices we stuffed ourselves with food. Caught a quick nap and headed back out for the afternoon practice. Before dressing out we would check the afternoon depth chart. Had anybody moved up on the roster? Had I moved up on the roster? 

Inevitably we reached that point in practice where attrition would take hold and those who refused to do it any longer would pack their bags and ease out of their dorm room under the cover of darkness and sneak off to another life. Putting that experience in their rear view mirror. We didn’t hold it against them. Maybe it took more courage to leave than it did to stay. 

Was it worth it? Yes! Would I do it again? Yes! Absolutely. Could I do it again at this stage?  Absolutely not! 

As I explained to my neighbor what that part of my life was like, I smiled as I remembered the angry screams from coaches, the camaraderie we built, the games we won, “the teammates for life” tag we have placed on ourselves. The stories we now tell. All because of that “torture” we underwent in that brutal oppressive heat. 

“I don’t see how you all did it,” my neighbor exclaimed.  

With youthful exuberance and a big smile, the words shot from my mouth, “It was fun.”

“I’ll go first,” Buck instructed. “Then Chris, come in. Tyrone, you hang around outside near the door. Don’t cause no suspicion now. Got it?” Buck, from the drivers’ seat, stared at Tyrone in the rear view mirror.

Chris, from the passenger seat, waited for Tyrone’s answer. Tyrone nodded but without conviction.

Quiet and darkness set in inside the car as Buck settled the Blue Camaro onto the exit ramp of the freeway. They began their descent into the city.

Tyrone’s full stomach felt queasy. Buck had insisted they eat  on the way to the job. He stopped at Church’s Chicken® on Martin Luther King Boulevard, got a family box of greasy chicken, dinner rolls, corn on the cob, and ate it in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant. Tyrone ate a wing and couldn’t eat anymore. He had no appetite.

Buck devoured the drumsticks, breasts, two ears of corn, two dinner rolls, sucked down a 24 oz. strawberry soda, and belched a sinful, nasty, loud, vulgar belch then said, “Let’s do this.”

They rolled toward the western side of town.

Anticipation gripped Tyrone in the darkness of the back seat. His chest was tight, his throat dry. His 6’1” frame hardly fit into   the tight back seat of the sports car. He slumped and bent his head forward to find some comfort for his long legs.

Tyrone’s long legs had carried him to the 400-meter state finals in high school. “Little Horse,” they called him. He finished second, but no scholarship offers came his way. He had no money for further education.

I’ve been to this store many times before. The thought drifted across Tyrone’s brain. The car hit a bump in the worn road. The coldness of the blue steel in Tyrone’s pants touched his skin. This ride to the store was different. He knew it. He removed the gun from inside his pants and placed it on the seat, pointing it away from himself and toward Buck

Tyrone had tried to get his old high school buddy Goose to come along. He’d begged Goose, but Goose begged off. “Ain’t going to jail, Jack,” Goose responded.

Approaching the destination, Tyrone could see the blinking lights of the 7-11®. The city streets were naked, with the exception of an old, fat bag lady wobbling her way home from the bus stop and a day of scrubbing, cleaning, and caring for someone else’s home and children. She walked as though her feet hurt, and her next step would be her last. A step, a wobble; she would shift her weight then take another step, another wobble. Tyrone thought, Everyone has to make a living.

Buck had instructed that they all wear black windbreakers and a black cap just like he’d seen the bad guys do on CSI-NY, his favorite show. “Zip up,” Buck commanded.

Sweat beads gathered on Tyrone’s forehead. Even though it was a warm night, cold chills crept into his bones. Was this the dumbest thing he’d ever done? How could he get out of it? Was he scared of Buck? He was damn sure afraid of Chris. What about his family?

He’d married Pam two weeks ago. It felt good to marry the mama of his two-year-old son. He promised to get a job and help her with the bills. A good woman, Pam worked as a nurse. She was smart with money. She and Tyrone had dated since high school. She had gotten pregnant their senior year.

He thought of his son. Little Man, they called him. Tyrone had been so proud the day he was born. He’d held him so close, those first few days. He’d vowed to do right by his son. He tried. He drove cabs. He did day labor. He’d landed a career opportunity loading trucks with UPS®. Thirty days later, they fired Tyrone for a positive marijuana test. He hadn’t worked in a year. Desperate, he tried to make nice with his father long enough to get his rent covered. Daddy said, “No way. When I tried to help you, you didn’t want it.” His father had arranged a job for Tyrone in the steel plant where he’d worked for forty years, but Tyrone turned it down. “I ain’t working in no plant,” he emphatically told his father the last time they had talked.

Buck’s gruff voice interrupted Tyrone’s thoughts. “Get ready.” Buck, at nineteen, was a convicted felon and a violent veteran criminal. He slowed to make the right turn into the parking lot but then suddenly accelerated and passed his mark. No one said anything. Tyrone breathed a little easier. Both Tyrone and Chris had faith in Buck. Tyrone thought, Buck’s the man. He knows what he’s doing.

Buck circled the block, making sure there were no cops around. He came back and made his turn. The lot was vacant. The store was empty of customers. Chris reached over and killed the radio.

Buck pulled the Camaro next to the rectangular building with flashing neon lights. Only the old man was inside, just as Buck had figured and Tyrone had said. Tyrone hit the illuminating dial on the watch Pam had given him, 10:49. Buck turned, checked his piece of big, cold blue steel, and demanded, “Everybody be cool. It’ll be over in three minutes. Don’t be a fool.”

Buck opened the door, slid from under the wheel, and made his way around the car. He shoved the gun into the back of his pants just like criminals did on television. Chris followed. He shoved his gun down into the back of his pants, just like Buck. Tyrone lingered for a few precious seconds. He’d begun to sweat and beads of water trickled down his forehead, into his eyes. He thought about running. Just running. Maybe, running track again. When he was running track, it had been the happiest time of his life.

“Damn,” he murmured.

The night air was thick, the heat a forewarning of trouble. Water beaded up on Tyrone’s forehead and ran from under his arms. Like Buck and Chris, Tyrone tucked the gun into the back of his pants.

He started for the door about the time he figured Buck and Chris were inside. Tyrone was the lookout. He was afraid, afraid to go through with it and afraid to leave.

Tyrone could see the old man, Mr. Perkins. He knew Mr. Perkins through his grandfather, who also worked at this store. Tyrone had casually mentioned that his grandfather, his father’s father, worked at a 7-11®, and Buck had taken it from there. Tyrone had protested, but Buck reasoned it was all the way across town and their heads would be covered. No one would get hurt. He swore it would be a piece of cake. Tyrone stood his ground and insisted the job be done when his grandfather was not working.

Tyrone peeked inside the store. He did not want Mr. Perkins to see him.

Mr. Perkins had retired from his job in the factory. His wife had died five years before. He worked in the 7-11® to make a few bucks and get out of the house. Tyrone’s grandfather had recommended him to the owner, who hired him. Mr. Perkins stood slightly slumped and his hair grew in gray patches throughout his head. His customers loved him and his pleasant disposition. He, in turn, enjoyed his interaction with his customers.

Looking through the glass, Tyrone lost his focus. Mr. Perkins reminded him of his grandfather. He pictured his grandfather standing behind the counter with Buck and Chris in the store. What would he do?

Tyrone snapped out of it, made it to his position. Buck, Chris, and Mr. Perkins were the only ones in the store. Things were moving smoothly. No problems.

Mr. Perkins did not see him.

Suddenly, without warning, the old man’s eyes came alive, registering danger. He’d spotted the piece in the waistband of Chris’s pants as Chris bent over pretending to look for some Oreo cookies. In a split second, Mr. Perkins, a kind, lovable older man, went under the counter for his piece, a Charter Arms Undercover .38 special.

Instantly, Buck, a veteran crook and felon with no dreams and no future at nineteen years old, went for his automatic, shouting, “He got a gun.” Chris, having spent a few years in juvenile detention and having enthusiastically watched too many Criminal Minds episodes, dove spread eagle, behind the row of cookies.

Tyrone, paralyzed, watched it all unfold. He could not flee, nor could he help.

The old man fired the .38 special twice in Buck’s direction. Bam! Bam!

Buck, kneeling, gun pointed sideways like he’d seen in the new rap video, fired multiple rounds. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

It was surreal to Tyrone. It looked like television. The images were so vivid! The old man shooting, Buck behind the potato chip counter, and Chris lying prone on the floor, firing like a marksman. Tyrone thought about his own gun. The thought made him sick.

This wasn’t television. It was for real. His nervous stomach threw up the Church’s Chicken® wing.

In the next instant, fate slammed the door on all four lives.

Buck rose, his gun sideways, and fired multiple times. The bullets caught Mr. Perkins full in the chest like target practice. Tyrone saw blood gush and squirt through the gray flannel work shirt. It wasn’t like television at all. It wasn’t surreal. It was real, bloody, and scary as hell. Bullets tore away at Mr. Perkins’ flesh. Little pieces of his body flew in different directions. Mr. Perkins screamed out with the pain, became limp, and fell against the cash register, violently bumping his head. He hit the floor, lifeless.

It was time to go.

Tyrone’s legs started moving. He pulled his gun, threw it toward the dumpster in the parking lot, and broke for the freeway. His stride was long and casual, but his heart and mind were frantic. He replayed the picture in his mind—Mr. Perkins’ flesh being ripped open by the penetrating bullets. He tried blocking it but the pictures kept coming.

Sweat poured in currents from his body.

Tyrone ran. Running felt good. Running restored order to his world. He could control running. He started to relax. Running, he was able to think.

He didn’t know if Mr. Perkins was dead or not. Yes he did. He knew Mr. Perkins was dead. Damn! He didn’t look back for Buck and Chris. He never had to see them again, and it would be okay. He would never do this again. This had been stupid. He thought of Pam and Little Man. He was running to them. I’m on my way honey. Hey, Little Man, Daddy is on his way home. His thoughts raced along with him. Maybe I’ll call Daddy and get the job in the plant, he thought. Oh God, I hope so.

Somehow he ran up the entrance ramp to the freeway. Cars whizzed by. The thought of thumbing a ride entered his mind and exited just as fast. He continued running; his long strides now growing shorter; his breaths coming in fevered pants. He was no longer in running shape.

He never looked back. He didn’t stop running. He never again wanted to stop running, never again.

Sirens whistled in the distance, and he knew cops must be on the scene. Never losing stride, he hit the watch dial, 11:00 pm. It was time for his grandfather’s shift to start. Was his grandfather there? Would he find out? Would his dad?

Tired, exhausted, and run out, he wanted to quit running. He couldn’t go anymore. He wanted to stop. He wanted to be in the little one bedroom apartment with Pam and Little Man. He wanted the three of them to cuddle up in the bed his father had given him. He wanted to be home. Gradually, he slowed. Cars zipped by. He didn’t look backward or to the side. He only wanted to look straight ahead. He stopped running. He didn’t see or hear the Camaro pull up behind him. He didn’t hear the horn blow. When he heard his name called, it startled him. He turned.

Buck pulled the Camaro next to him, and commanded, “Get in.”

Read more short stories in A Slice of Life, available in ebook or paperback copy
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She saw him before he saw her. The flash of adrenalin shooting   through her body upset her equilibrium. Excitement pumped in her chest. Uncertainty crept through her mind. Should she?

Yes? No? Duck and hide?

The old woman, talking in her ear, droned on incessantly. “So Simone…

Blah! Blah! Blah!” The old lady continued. Simone was oblivious to the old woman’s words. Her eyes were glued to him.

It had been fifteen years, another life ago, but he was aging well. He was a little heavier. He had a slight limp. He had less hair. His hair was now the silver color that gives men distinction. Dressed smartly, his body language said he was still comfortable in his own skin. He was still cocky, but in a more mature, dignified manner.

At the bar, a glass of wine in his hand, his eyes canvassed the reception. No one he saw interested him.

She sank further down in her chair.

Should she confront him? Say hello? Accidentally bump into him? Or just leave. Maybe he’d never know she was there.

She’d anticipated this moment for over a month after she had seen his picture in the Festival Program. Still, seeing him in the flesh had set off her alarms. She never thought of him anymore. She figured she had doused those embers a long time ago, but apparently not.

Had he seen her picture in the program? It was a nice picture.  One she’d had made  for  the  occasion  of  the  book  festival.  The photographer had done a good job of hiding her baby fat.

. . . . .

The Montgomery, Alabama sun turned orange.

There was maybe another thirty minutes of sunlight left in the day and she was on his mind. Two days before the festival Eric had been shocked to find her picture in the festival lineup. He’d not heard of her book, based on her family’s Alabama Civil Rights History. Nor had he heard of, from, or seen her in the fifteen years since he’d...

Fifteen years ago he’d ended their relationship. No, he hadn’t ended it, he’d simply quit calling, would not return her calls, and within months married another woman. Someone he thought he’d always loved.

That was the best excuse he could come up with for his behavior.

Their mutual friends had to choose sides. Her female friends said he’d screwed up badly. “A dog, a low down, stinking, rotten dog,” they called him.

He’d convinced himself he would not be embarrassed to see her.  “If I can avoid it, I will,” he thought. “Should I apologize?” The conversation played on in his head. “What if she’s forgotten? What if she’s simply moved on, not wanting to revisit the ugly past?” That would be a relief. He’d feel less guilty. He decided he’d play it by ear.

Besides, he was a different man today. Happily married, but not to the woman he dropped her for. That ended up being a living hell. Today, his life was peaceful and full of bliss. In addition to loving his wife and son, he liked them. They were his friends. They were his backers. His work required him to be away from home for long stints and they hung in there with him.

He had almost not made it to the Festival.

A scheduling conflict had him in two places at the same time. The important, but boring university meeting had droned on all day when he decided to skip out on the dinner hosted by the University President, and drive the fifty miles to the Book Festival reception.

He enjoyed book festivals. His book was doing well. The attention, money, and increased sales pleased him.

He liked the book world. It was the entertainment business yes, but the main characters, the writers in their rumpled clothes and smart glasses underplayed their roles. Writers, unlike actors, didn’t strut around like peacocks, their “look at me” attitudes flashing their colors. Most of the writers he’d run into at least had something to say. There was an intelligentsia. At book festivals, there were people eager to explore ideas and discuss differences.

He started to wander around the dusty reception area. He watched the authors and benefactors mingle. She was on his mind.

Suzie, the forty-something volunteer chairman, came over with a red headed friend accompanying her. “Eric, thank you so much for coming,” she sang in her Alabama accent. She draped herself over him in what passed for a hug. He felt her press her pelvis up against him, the way women will do when their hug says more than hello. He politely hugged her back.

For Eric, this function was strictly business. Suzie could only help him by giving him a platform to sell more books. There was one personal issue he needed to attend to and he would avoid that one if he could.

Suzie’s husband, Sylvester, standing by as his wife groped Eric, obviously did not care. Sylvester was verbally engaged with a sloppy, fat writer who liked himself far more than was warranted. Sylvester and Suzie had been married 25 years and over that time

Sylvester had trysts with both girlfriends and boyfriends.

Suzie introduced her friend, the red head. Eric shook her hand. He thought she was cute, “southern white girl, cute.” Marge, an author, had written a book about her native state of Mississippi, Mississippi Mud. It had gotten good reviews and Eric promised to read it. All smiles and giggles, she couldn’t wait to ask, “Do you know Morgan Freeman?”

“No,” Eric begged off, excused himself, and wandered away to enjoy the Alabama Book Festival.

. . . . .

Simone had come from Washington D.C. where she was now a federal judge appointed by President Barack Obama. She was on track to fulfill her life’s ambitions. Back then, fifteen years ago, as they lay in bed, she had confided to him that one day she hoped to be on the U.S. Supreme Court.

He had made the journey from California. Hollywood, to be exact, a fantasy world he’d escaped into after college. He’d been successful but after a while, become bored. Since he’d gotten married, “for real this time” is how he described it, coupled with the changes in the business, he’d found writing as his rescue. Thus, he’d written   a memoir about his early days in Hollywood and the stars he had known. It had been a kiss and tell with juicy, salacious sexual details.

There had been no mention of Simone. He respected her too much.

They had met in his hometown of Birmingham. She was the hotshot lawyer out of Harvard, working at a local firm for the summer. He was in town visiting his family. One of his lawyer friends hooked them up.

It had been a long-distance courtship, a whirlwind. Dates became weekends in D.C, New York, Los Angeles, and Birmingham. Hollywood and lawyer types were their friends. It was a wonderful ride, until one day she had rushed home from her clerk job on the federal bench to call him. She fell asleep waiting for his return call. It never came. She called again the next day wondering if he was ill. He did not answer. She called again that evening and again the next day. He never returned her calls. She tried again a week later, and again two weeks after that.

She never heard from him again. She never saw him again, other than television and films, until now. She did hear from a colleague that he’d gotten married.

“Why couldn’t he at least tell me?” she wondered.

. . . . .

Simone decided she had to conquer her fears, meet them head-on. She purposely walked right into Eric’s sight line, making sure he saw her.

He saw her. He smiled.

She was not a flamboyant woman. She was dressed comfortably but professionally. She projected the sexiness that comes from being smart and assured in your chosen area of life.

His smile of recognition lifted her.

“I didn’t want you to think I was ducking you,” she said, her words fighting through a nervous smile.

Find out what happens next... read "The Book Festival" in The Rest of the Pie, available in ebook or paperback copy
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On January 21, 1952, at 7:30 pm at Holy Family Hospital in Birmingham, Alabama, I entered this world. My parents christened me Thomas Gossom Jr. after my dad. While that is my given name, over the years I’ve also been given other names. Some of these were out of fun; others are a play on my name. To me they all signify different episodes of my life.

Tommy is my childhood name. I was Tommy until I went to college. On the rare occasion these days when I hear “Tommy” directed at me, I know the person is from an earlier episode in my life. Those who still exist in Tommyland are comfortable there, perhaps a reflection of a more innocent time. I remember the cashmere jacket I had with “Tommy” written in script across the left chest area. It was cool! At least I thought so.

Radio is another one of my childhood names.This one was between my close growing up buddies and me. We all had nicknames. Cool, Bubba, Duck, Blood, and Radio were our handles. We were close then and still are today. I don’t remember how the nicknames came about. But I do remember the Radio was always on.

Possum Gossom was bestowed on me by my high school Coach Richard Porter. I think he came up with it because it rhymed with Gossom. Twenty years after high school, I was working on In The Heat Of The Night in Covington Ga. Having checked into my hotel I visited the gym next door. They had a track so I took a few laps. I recognized the man and woman walking in front of me. As I passed them, I turned and with a big grin greeted my coach, whom I had not seen in twenty years, “Coach Porter,” I grinned.  He grinned, “Possum Gossom.”

Thomas wasmy name in high school and college as a football player and student. It has risen again, as I enter the fourth quarter of life.

Coach has followed mefrom being the B Team football coach at Parker High School until today with the guys I was lucky enough to coach. It was a special time for us. I am proud to have had that experience and those guys in my life. Occasionally in Birmingham, I’ll hear “Coach” directed toward me. Before turning around, I know it is one of my guys.

TG, G, The G weremy initial years. People dropped my name and called me by my initials. These years overlapped my college years and young adult years. TG became a nickname among my teammates. It still is with many. The G was an ego trip one of my friends laid on me. Yeah, I liked it.

Dark Gable is up there near the top of my list. When I started acting, and flying back and forth between my hometown and Los Angeles, the maintenance guys at The Birmingham Airport whom I had gotten to know, christened me “Dark Gable”. I would even wear my shades indoors for them as I headed to baggage claim.  I loved the name then and now. Those guys gave a lot of love to Dark.

There were other names, some not so complimentary. Most of those were associated with my role in integration. White Boy was a name bestowed on me by some of the less enlightened in my black neighborhood. It was meant to be a slur on me as I went to private school with white students, and wore a white shirt, tie and blue or gray pants every day for twelve years. I grew to like being different.

Monkey, Baboon, Gorilla, The N word, and other disparaging words were thrown at me when I became a pioneer athlete in both the integration of my high school and college. I suppose it was an effort to discourage me from moving ahead in athletics, business and life. It didn’t work. The scars have healed. The memories rarely make me sad anymore. It was a time I was passing through on my way to now.

Thom came about as I began a television career as both a newscaster and an actor. The different spelling highlighted my name in the credits. It has stayed with me throughout my adult life.

I am still a hodgepodge of all my different years, names and episodes of my life.

When it’s all said and done, I’ll settle for Thomas Gossom Jr.

We’re getting ready to go on a vacation this summer. I’m ready, Thom’s ready... we both need the time away and off from the day-to-day of work and life. Thankfully, we have a fantastic Travel Agent, Tammy McDaniel, who plans and executes amazing adventures for us. Whether we need a trip to see, go, and do; or like this year we need a trip to see no one, go nowhere, and do little or nothing... Tammy’s Journeys is like no other agency I’ve ever used. This year is no exception.

Thom will start asking me questions about the location, flight, pickup, resort, food, you name it; about 5 days out. Then, he’ll ask me again about 3 days before we leave. Yet again the night before. Aaaannnnddd one more time sitting in the airport (laughing). Now, he has the same links, email messages, and information that I do... he just wants to hear it from me, The Best Gurl.

Once we get to the destination airport, he’ll start grumbling because he won’t see whomever is supposed to pick us up. There will only be about 40 or so drivers standing in luggage claim with signs, but he expects me to spot ours instantly (like I already know who it will be or something, SMH)! Once I find the driver and we get our luggage, off we go.

Please don’t let us get to the place we’re staying before it’s ready for us! That’s another long grumble (laughing)! When we finally get to our spot we split up. He goes to inspect everything and I start unpacking and organizing my things. Then, we swap!

Sitting on our balcony (Tammy always, always gives us a room, apartment, suite or home with one), and taking in a deep breath, we finally relax and chat about the flight, ride, driver, location, whatever floats into our mind. We’ll talk about what we want to do for the evening, or rather Thom will ask me about what there is to do and about the restaurants, food, entertainment and options (laughing) and I’ll go get the brochure, open the App or we’ll go on a walk-about to answer him.

Inevitably, at some point during the journey there, on the way back home or as we tool about wherever in the world we happen to be, someone will look... and look again. They will hesitantly or sometimes rudely, walk over and ask, “Are you...” Never Fails. Every Trip. Every Time. I wait while he patiently answers questions, signs his name and poses for photos. “No, I don’t want to be in the picture, thank you. I’ll be glad to take it for you.”

It’s fun traveling with Thom, in spite of him expecting me to know everything about anything and the interruptions of people who want photos or autographs (laughing). It’s fun because we know each other and know how to give each other enough space and quiet to relax. Sometimes together and sometimes in separate rooms or locations. That way, it really truly is a vacation for both of us and we come home relaxed and ready to get back to work.

At least, until about 2 days before it’s time for us to leave, when the questions start again!!

Since 1997, the National Association of Branch Campus Administrators (NABCA) Annual Conference has been held in April. I’ve known about it and went to it as a Member since 2008 and I’ve planned for and coordinated it as Staff since 2012. So why do I look forward to and long for the month of May... every year?!?

NABCA is one of our Best Gurl, inc clients, I serve as Executive Director, and we provide support services for the Association Members. NABCA helps administrators, staff and faculty in higher education advocate for and accelerate the growth of their locations. The Association provides this through published research, professional development, a peer reviewed journal, and committee participation opportunities for the unique needs of higher ed professionals at off-site locations, and of course, the Annual Conference!

Most people only about the traditional college or university campus, or what is known as the “parent campus.” It typically has 18-19-year-old freshmen, graduate programs, and multiple colleges of academic study. It’s where most people go for higher education. Then, you have “off-site” locations; it may be called a “branch campus,” a “center,” a “satellite,” or a “regional campus, center or satellite.” No two are exactly the same or have the same name. Some higher ed institutions only have one... others have multiple, sometimes in other states or countries. There are some things they have in common; however.

They are established and located where there is a community need for higher education by people who cannot go to or live on the parent campus as 18-year old freshmen. Most likely, students are 24-older, work full-time, have families, are retired or are still in the military, and/or are reentering the workforce after an extended absence, and they most often pay their own way.

Some locations offer one or two academic programs only; others may offer more than that... very few offer all academic programs that the parent campus offers.

The administrator does... everything! If students want to start an organization, they call the Administrator’s office. If the community wants to establish a new program or scholarship, they call the Administrator’s office. If the toilets are backed up... right, the Administrator’s office (laughing). He or she handles everything that individual Vice Presidents, Deans, Department Chairs, Recruiters, etc. handle at the parent campus.

It’s a different life with different needs. Are you starting to get a picture?

NABCA is the only professional association with an Annual Conference that meets the unique needs of all personnel at off-site locations. It’s the biggest event they hold all year. And that brings me back to the Annual Conference... and my love of May!

Throughout the process; before, during and after the Conference, we’re asking and waiting for decisions from the Executive Committee. Decisions about the Annual Conference, an upcoming Webinar, the new Member recognition, or the next issue of the Access Journal. Lots of times, there are differing opinions... which makes our jobs LOTS of fun (laughing)!

As of now, Emily (Hedrick, the Best Gurl, inc “Communicator") and I have a Conference Action Item List with 120+ items on it that we work on! Everything from planning and conducting the September Site Visit to select the hotel and Conference Dinner location for the Conference that is 2-years out, to arranging hotel rooms and airport transportation for the Executive Committee Members at the upcoming Conference! It wouldn’t be so bad if the Annual Conference was the only thing we did for NABCA.

The “Great Questions Forum” discussion board/list serve goes down. The Access Journal editors want a special email blast to go out. Searching for a place once we get to the Conference site to find fresh flowers and candy for the Expo tables. Working with the company that’s building our new Member Management System and Website. The Research Committee wants to do a survey... and so does the Membership Committee. Setting up for the next Executive Committee Meeting. Making last minute arrangements for the new participants in the Branch Campus Leadership Institute (BCLI) Orientation and for the current BCLI participant presentation and graduation. A potential new member calls to say she can’t pay by credit card online and wants to mail a check, would I give her the mailing address? It’s right there on the website... beside the phone number (laughing). An applicant for the Innovation Award wants more information about the program.

From the beginning of June until the end of April. Every year... that’s why I love May. The newly elected Executive Committee doesn’t come on board until July. The Site selection geniuses we work with, EMC Meetings & Events (Sherry and Jody) are doing their magic and sending out RFPs for the 2-year away Conference. We don’t have to do anything for next year’s Conference because the website is updated and the call for proposals, partnerships application, and registration are updated. The June-April buildup and execution are over. We don’t have to start planning Orientation for the new Executive Committee until next month... and, in May, we can just... breathe.

Of course, it would be far simpler and less frantic if NABCA was the only client we had. In the midst of everything we do for NABCA, we’re also running all over the country to speak, do organizational assessments, facilitate strategic planning, formulate communication plans, and provide executive coaching for our other academic, corporate and non-profit clients; and of course, we’re writing our next books, plays and films! Have computer and smartphone will travel!

So, I’m happy to see May finally arrive! I have time to sit in the backyard and watch the sun rise. Go out to dinner with a friend and not glance at my watch every few minutes to make sure I can get home to bed and get up before the birds in the morning to start work. Watch something on TV with Thom... or me watch TV and the TV watch Thom (laughing)! Talk on the phone with my best friends. Knit. Read. And most of all, I love May because I can finally... SLEEP!! At least, until June, when we start gearing up again to take care of one of our favorite clients, the National Association of Branch Campus Administrators!

Chris McNair has died.

My first memory of him is of my being a little boy and greeting him as he brought the milk to our front door. A gregarious man, dressed in white and driving a White Dairy Milk Truck he was the milkman who my parents and aunts knew. Later, after I finished college and moved home to Birmingham, I went to work with him on his magazine, Down Home.

Down Home showcased his beautiful award-winning photography of people and places in the Deep South. I wrote many of the magazine’s articles both under my name and my pseudonym, Dwayne Stanley. We sold the magazine all over Alabama and to those black transplants who had generationally been a part of the great migration from the southern states to the good life, “up north.”

Working full time for BellSouth/AT&T, I would leave work, change clothes, get a bite to eat and spend the evenings at his studio, working with him on story ideas, accounting for the ads and magazines I had sold, and more importantly we would sit and talk. Because I had known him for so long, he always referred to me as “boy,” but that was okay. In terms of what I would learn from him, I was a boy.

Much has been written and discussed about him, the tragic death of his daughter in the

16th street Baptist Church bombing, his artistry as a photographer, his many civic and personal attributes, his time as a politician and his fall from grace. But for me it’s the nights we spent in his studio, talking, me mostly listening.

He often asked me about life at Auburn University where he would later send one of his daughters. He was interested in what life was like in the downtown corporate power structure, where I had “a good job.” I often detected regret at his having come along “too early,” to enjoy the rewards of integration.

Only once did I ever see him lower the barrier of his manhood and break down in tears as any man would who had experienced the life he had experienced, from Fordyce, Arkansas, to Tuskegee, to Birmingham, to the bombing at the sixteenth Street Baptist Church and the tragic loss of his daughter. “Why do we have to go through this?” he wailed, tears streaming down his face.

I didn’t say a word. It was his moment. I sat in silence.

I suppose I should say Chris McNair went to prison for stealing the people’s money. I’m a believer that you don’t run away from your history. He didn’t. He pled guilty to that crime. But if there was ever an elected official that the public wished could have been forgiven it was Chris McNair. He’d suffered enough many said. The crime and punishment was a testament to the contradictions of life. We can be upstanding in the light of day and perhaps do what we feel we need to do when the shadows of darkness surround us.

My memories will always be of the man I got to know personally and intimately, a man who during a five-year stint in my life became a mentor and friend. Toiling and talking in his junked-up studio, we strived to shine a light on what was happening “Down Home.”

I’m in love with my dad.

Do I love him? Yes. But I’m talking about being in love. I like him. I like being around him. He’s funny. He makes me laugh.  He’s special.

You see I didn’t grow up throwing the ball with him in the backyard. We never sat by the fireplace and had older man, younger man talks. No, my dad worked all the time, all the time. He left home for his pipe shop job around 4:30 am, returned around 3 pm and would leave again around 4:00 pm for his nighttime janitorial job. On the weekends he did plumbing with a family friend, Goat.  

Yet, as much as he worked, we all knew he was there for us, a reasoning safe presence. For me, his oldest and only son, he foresaw a changing world. A world he was willing to send his son into but would not live in himself. He accepted his supporting role in life but wanted a starring role for his son. So he worked. He worked to make the funds necessary to send me, and my two sisters, to private school, buy us a house, allow us to live comfortable lives. When things got tight, we, the children, would be made aware of it because we were a team and everyone pitched in to make things work. 

What I remember most and what I enjoy most now is listening to him talk. Born in 1925, in Elmore County Alabama, he’s seen a world I could not have survived. Almost being accosted by white strangers because they thought my light-skinned mother was a white woman. Having to step off the sidewalk when a white couple approached. Working all day, sun up to sun down behind a mule for 50 cents. Building his own bicycle from spare parts and riding with his brother into downtown Wetumpka, Alabama to go to the movies, and of course, sit in the black section of the theatre.  Going to the army at 18. Afterward, moving to Birmingham to join his sisters and brothers as they transitioned from rural country life to city life, marriage and a family.

His wife, my mother, had been raised Catholic and had gone to Catholic schools. She set the standards. He converted to Catholicism. He worked so we could go to Catholic schools. When I became a popular athlete at the school where I integrated the sports teams, what he didn’t understand he didn’t stand in the way of. He never limited me. When I pushed back against his more restrained ways he supported me.

There are times, while visiting him that we will take a drive to visit with his friend, Kit. They worked together at Acipco Pipe. Kit’s ten years younger than my dad and babysits a tire service he runs with his wife. There are few customers so he and my dad can have an hour or two to just talk.

They both survived 35 years in the plant. Made it out. Retired and have lived long enough to enjoy it. They witnessed their place of work go from their supervisor referring to them as “These are my Ni_ _ ers,” to a measure of respect for who they were as men. They laugh a lot at the supervisor who they told jokes to in order to get him laughing and telling jokes. While he entertained them they got to rest.

Our adult worlds have been different; his blue collar, mine entrepreneurial. Sometimes that has been frustrating.  When I vent about a client issue, he comes back with “running the ball, but you got to be blocking and you need a tall receiver who can snatch that ball, then you can score the ball.”

Traveling in parallel universes is sometimes frustrating. “What are you talking about?” I wanted to say. But I studied him. Now 93 and hard of hearing, he still is the master of his shrinking domain, holding on to whatever control he can.

I thought about what he’d said. The light went on. It was a strategy. A strategy I could utilize. I would utilize. I had to get back on offense. Score some points. I would.

This trip I spent three days with him. My sisters, his angels, are his full time caregivers. I come in once a month to substitute and give them a tiny break. Daddy and I talk, watch television, go on rides through familiar territory, and eventually nod out on the couch in the evening.

The hardest part is leaving.  We always make good eye contact, our eyes express the thankfulness of being in each other’s lives and the loving words he cannot verbalize but doesn’t have to. I know.  

He always says,  “I hope I see you again.” I always give him a big hug and say, “You will.”  

I’m in love with my dad.

Happy Birthday Dad!

I never have a good answer about what I want for Christmas, my birthday, whatever…because I don’t really care what people get for me other than cash and gift cards (something useful…).

“What kind of things could you use? Any electronics?” My dad asked.

“I can’t think of any off the top of my head. Like what?” I replied.

“Fitbit, Alexa, Speakers, Headphones?” He continued.

I stopped. I hadn’t thought about anything like that. I did need headphones… I couldn’t find my earbuds anywhere for the last week or so, and I was about to travel home… and hmm… a Fitbit would be nice. So, I let him know.

I had a Fitbit before- it was the little clip-on kind, and I loved it. But, at that time, I was a college student at Auburn University, and I was a breakfast server at the university hotel. I’d always hit my 10,000 step goal daily, either after a day of walking around campus, or by 8am on my serving days (I’m not kidding).

But now I not only wanted a Fitbit…I needed it. I was working at home, home being a tiny apartment which probably only took me 15 steps to get from my bed to my desk. I worked through the day, sitting at my desk, occasionally trapped by videoconference meetings, or regularly leaving the house, to go work/meet with my bosses. I joined the American Business Women’s Association, and so there was one evening a month for our Chapter Meeting where I’d go and mostly sit, then our monthly board meeting…another 2 hours of sitting. Yeah, I would take breaks during the day when I could, but I never made it a priority to go out and walk. Plus, I always felt tired after a busy day.

The most exercise I probably got was walking around WalMart or Target to shop and scan items (Try Shopkick and we'll both get points toward a free gift card! Use code SAVE792565 or download http://getsk.co/save792565). I had access to a small gym at the local rec center, and I went several times to use some of the equipment…but I wasn’t about to make a special trip in town, and if I was already in town I’d try to remember my tennis shoes and athletic wear- but again, sometimes I just didn’t feel like making the stop, I was tired, or I was busy doing other things.

Christmas came, and in the evening before dinner we opened presents at my grandma’s house. My sister, Landri (11 years old), and I both got the Fitbit Versa! I couldn’t set mine up that night because I stayed at my grandma’s house and she doesn’t have WiFi, but I still immediately charged it and wore it. The next night, I stayed at my dad’s with my sister and set up my Fitbit. I created my profile and set my step goal to 10,000. She kept me up all night, and we slept in, but seeing how the Fitbit tracked my sleep was awesome.

Next, I had to figure out what I could do with my Fitbit. I tried to figure out how to add friends and posted on Facebook for my friends to add me. My friend Ashley was the first person to invite me to the Workweek challenge, then I created challenges between some of my connections. The most competitive group would be the one with my dad, my uncle, my sister, and I. Let me tell you those challenges bring out the competitor in all of us, but especially Landri. I remember one night it was about 10pm Central (they are all on Eastern time), I was just a tiny bit behind, so I joked and said I needed to get up and take a walk, I hadn’t yet when my dad called and told me to stop walking. He had just talked to Landri and she said she was going to stay up (past her bedtime) and pace her room so she could win. This girl would literally talk crap to me in the challenges or call me out on how few steps I had, when she would have so many steps because of school, cheer, and gymnastics. There was nothing I could do but try to step it up. My uncle kept winning the challenges, so one time she created a challenge without him so she would have a better chance to win.

Four months later and in a new setting, I really enjoy my new toy/tool. I am doing much better on my daily walking and have started hitting (or getting super close) to my goal. I have a notification set to alert me every hour from 9am-6pm to get up and get at least 250 steps in the hour. I love the Workweek Hustle, Weekend Warrior, Daily Showdown, and Goal Day challenges. I have completed one Solo Adventure, Yosemite Vernal Falls, and plan to do the Yosemite Valley Loop next. There are also Adventure Races to virtually race against your opponent(s) I want to try. I am still accepting friends and challenges…so connect with me!

I have to say, if you want some motivation for a more active day and a consistent sleep schedule, GET A FITBIT- officially endorsed by Emily M. Hedrick.