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!

Christmas is a special time for many children in the world. Those who celebrate the holiday suddenly remember around Thanksgiving, that they need to be “good” in order for Santa to come on Christmas Eve. The world is filled with suddenly helpful, obedient, and non-fussing-with-sibling, children (laughing)! It’s a wonder that parents don’t arrange for “Christmas”to arrive every month, just to keep children in line!

There are many Christmases that stand out for me. Christmas of 1964 is near the top of the list.

I remember being so extra good that November and December.At seven, I did my chores without being reminded… a first; I brushed my teeth for real instead of just swishing with water; I went outside and ice skated in the park with my friends instead of staying in my room reading as I usually did… I was the model poster child. It didn’t last beyond Christmas when I reverted to my usual “Oh Joyce!” persona (laughing). But that year, I had an extra special Christmas list.

Christmas morning arrived and I leapt out of bed and ran to my parent’s room. “Mommy, Daddy! We have to see if Santa came!” I yelled excitedly. My mommy, who was about ready to deliver my brother at any moment, smiled up at me. “Go look and see, but don’t touch anything until we get there,” she said. I ghosted!

In our living room, I looked across the vast distance,zeroing in on the Christmas tree. Something caught my eye and I turned to the right. “I got it! I got it!” I screamed, jumping up and down. “Santa brought my piano!!!” There it sat, a brand new Lyon & Healy upright piano. I plopped down on the bench and lifted the lid, already envisioning the beautiful sounds I would make, just like the woman at the symphony I’d seen in January. I would be just as famous as she was in no time! Placing my hands on the keys, I positioned my fingers just as hers had been and plunked out the most awful sound in the world (laughing). Stunned, I resettled my fingers and tried again…same mess.

“You’ll have to take lessons, Joyce,” Mommy spoke from the doorway. “Practice and practice and you will play beautifully some day.”

“But I want to play Christmas music for everyone today,” I wailed. “I should be able to play, I watched everything she did.”

“Who did?” Mommy asked, confused.

“The lady with the symphony in January,” I exclaimed. “I want to play like her.” By now, I was crying.

“Joyce, stop. You will be able to play just as beautifully as the soloist at the symphony someday, if you practice hard and do everything Mr. Wooten tells you to do.”

“But I have been!” I explained through my tears. “I thought I just needed my own piano to be able to play better. It should have worked.”

“Oh Joyce,” Mommy sighed, brushing my cheek, “It just doesn’t work that way. You have to focus and practice.”

I slammed the keyboard lid down and got off the bench without a word. Marching across the living room in search of more cooperative gifts!

On my way, I spotted the bike… no, The Bike… the 3-speed English Racer bike that was just like my cousin David’s, only for a girl. Euphoria filled me again, the piano fiasco long forgotten… and I never did playlike the symphony soloist, by the way!

“Can I go outside and ride it? Please Mommy?” I begged, hopping up and down.

“May I, not can I. No Joyce, there is snow everywhere. You may ride when the snow clears.”

“Can I ride it in the basement then?”

“May I… Yes, but not today,” Came her automatic response.

Further frustrated, my eyes landed next on the brand new ice skates with their gleaming white boots and silver sharp blades. Promptly sitting on the floor, I threw off my slippers and shoved my feet into the skates. Already picturing myself gliding across the ice just like the Olympic Skaters we watched every winter. I could hear the roar of the crowd and see myself standing on the 1^st Place box with my Gold Medal around my neck. Standing on my brand new ice skates, so much better than the babyishstrap-on ones I currently had. This will make all the difference, I thought. “Can I… May I go across the street to skate on the rink?” I added a big smile, certain that it would make the difference.

“No, Joyce. It’s Christmas morning.”

“Right, so I should get to play with my presents then,” I pointed out. “It’s not fair to get presents I can’t do anything with!”

“Joyce,” she sighed, “Just open the rest of your gifts.”

Turning back to the bounty under and around the ceiling tall tree, I spotted a large box, beautifully wrapped, and grabbed for it. “My Easy Bake Oven!!!” I yelled. “Uncle Cal got it! He got it for me! I’m going to cook wonderful dinners in it!” I looked up at Mommy with a big grin. “I can cook Christmas dinner for you, so you can rest with the baby.”

“Thank you Joyce, why don’t you practice on simple dishes first though?”

“Okay,” I yelled. “I’ll cook something now.” Then I paused.Was this to be yet another gift I had to wait until I could use it… or would this one get me a “pass”?

“Ladies don’t yell Joyce. That’s fine, just don’t make a mess,” Mommy said as she turned toward the kitchen.

“Oh wait! I have to open the rest of my stuff and you and Daddy have to open yours.” She turned back and walked over to one of the chairs to sit.

Mommy watched me open the pile of presents and toys that could have been distributed to an army of children with an indulgent smile. I ripped and tossed paper and bows all over the living room. Daddy came out and sat to watch.

Finally, finished and exhausted, we had all unwrapped the Christmas bounty and exclaimed over every item. Ready to start baking, I turned back to the Easy Bake Oven box, prepared to open it and read the instructions.“Make your list so you can write your thank-you notes tomorrow,” Mommy said over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen to start Christmas dinner. Sigh, always the thank-you notes, Ithought. Bet other children don’t have to do this… just us! I left the living room, headed to my room for paper and pencil to make the dreaded list. It was the same for every birthday and Christmas. Make a list of the gift and who gave it to me. Use my stationary to write a thank-you note to every person… even relatives… get the addresses and stamps from Mommy… put them in the mailbox for the postman to pick up. Sheesh, I already thanked them yesterday when we were out delivering our gifts and I’ll see everybody else when they get here today for dinner. So why do I always have to write and mail the notes?I grumbled inwardly. If I have children,I’m not going to make them write thank-you notes! was my final thought of defiance as I finally returned and started my task.

Later that morning, Nana arrived with hugs and kisses, then Uncle Cal and my cousins, Gigi, Auntie, Grandpa Ed, and a host of other relatives filled our house with laughter and love. Mommy came up to me and hugged me. “I’m going to the hospital to get your little brother or sister now,” she whispered in my ear. “Why is he there? Is he sick?” I asked, having already decided this summer that I would have a brother, not a sister.

“No Joyce, that’s where Mommy’s go so the doctor can take the baby out of their tummy’s.”

“Oh. Okay then. Come back with him soon so I can play with him,” I replied, engrossed in the cake recipe for my oven. She kissed me and left.

The rest of the day was filled with people, phone calls from relatives in other states, and playing games. I plunked out a one-fingered version of Jingle Bells on my new piano, to my disgust and everyone else’s delight. I made recordings of everyone on my new tape recorder from Uncle Cal.

At about 8:30 that evening, Nana came into my room to wake me up. “Mommy wants to talk to you,” she said. “Put your robe and slippers on and come to the phone.” Sleepily, I complied. Walking into the kitchen, I took the phone from Nana. “Hi Mommy,” I sleepily mumbled. “Joyce,” Mommy said, “You hav ea little brother.” “I know. I already told you that I was having a brother.” I replied, hung up the phone, and went back to bed (laughing).

It was nearly 7 am in Savannah, Georgia, still dark enough for headlights. I was fourth in line at the drive-through at the Krispy Kreme Doughnut Shop on Abercrombie Drive. The flashing “HOT” sign lured me into its greedy web.

“I’ll only get three,” I told myself. “Three hot glazed,” Mmmmmm. I could taste them, already. “The last time I had some was the last time I was here, some four months ago,” I rationalized.

Waiting, I rested my arm on the stomach I had grown. My own personal armrest reminded me of the continual promise I kept making to myself. I would lose weight by getting back to eating to live rather than living to eat.

The nagging started.“This Monday will be the start,” I once again promised myself, “I’ll do it this time.”

The drive-through curved to the left and led to the pick-up window on the other side of the building. An adjacent road to the right, led back out into the street and in the direction of my hotel. I was literally at the fork in the road, or at least the fork in the drive-through.

I debated myself. “I could continue on the path I am on,” I thought. “Get my three Krispy Kremes.” I could still taste them!

“Or I can just win this moment,” I thought.

“Maybe this moment won’t be life changing but… if I win this moment…!”

I tried to turn away from the Krispy Kremes but I couldn’t. “Glazed,” was winning the moment, “Mmmmm!”

The debate continued. Could this moment be the start to the rest of my life? Would I let it slip away? I have a photo someone sent, of me in my football uniform in 1976. I am an athlete in top condition. I can be again I tell myself. No, not an athlete in top condition, but be conditioned through exercise and putting the right foods into my body.

Can I do it?

I won that small battle with the drive-through. At 7:05, I turned away from my three Krispy Kremes.

Is it a life changing moment? We’ll see. 

The CNN special 1968 is worth watching. Why? History matters. It always has. 1968, fifty years ago, resonates today through the resulting cultural and social changes of that year. That year changed our country and influenced many of us who lived through it.

In 1968, I turned 16. Social changes rocked the country. Integration was now the law of the land. Old restrictive ways, legal and illegal, said and unsaid, began to erode. Civil unrest reigned. Riots, demonstrations, the struggle for women’s rights, a presidential election that included the governor from my home state of Alabama, and the Vietnam War dominated the headlines.

At 16, my priorities were simple teenage desires. I was focused on the freedom a driver’s license could bring me. I got my license in February, but initially there was little driving for me. I had to earn the money to pay my car insurance. It took me a while even though I had a weekend job. Finally! I had a license, insurance and occasional access to the family car.

While the world swirled around me I continued in my teenage world.

On January 14, I watched the Green Bay Packers with Alabama’s Bart Starr defeat the Oakland Raiders 33-14 in Super Bowl II at Miami’s Orange Bowl.

Five days after that, on January 21, my family celebrated my birthday with homemade vanilla ice cream and my favorite of my Mom’s cakes, chocolate icing with pecans.

In sports, I went out for spring football practice.

As a fledgling speaker, I admired Dr. Martin Luther King. That year he delivered two of my favorites. Years later, I would learn his The Drum Major Instinct and I See The Promise Land and would deliver them in churches.

On April 4, many of us who were teens had to grow up when a gunman ended Dr. King’s life, and the hopes and dreams of many Americans, at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. Riots erupted across the country. It was a scary night for me as I made my way home from spring football practice. The crosstown trip would take two-and a-half hours and three buses to make the trek from my private high school to my home.Since the age of 14, I had lived in the segregated world and the integrated private school world that my dad paid for with two and sometimes three jobs. I often said that I was an ambassador between those two worlds. That night, I felt as if both worlds had failed me. I was alone and afraid.

Two months later, Robert Kennedy, running for President, was assassinated like his brother President John Kennedy was in 1963. Literally, the world has never been the same. Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King in the same year two months apart. Five years after John Kennedy. What if, they had lived? What if’ was the question many of us asked over and over. A world of justice, peace, and love had seemed so close.

Change continued throughout the year.

On May 13, one million students marched through the streets of Paris.

In the fall of 1968, Henry Harris, a basketball player from Boligee, Alabama, entered Auburn University as its first African American scholarship Athlete. He was the first in the states of Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi. He would become a friend and big brother to me.

On September 24, 60 Minutes debuted on CBS.

On October 16, at the Olympics in Mexico City, with the world watching, African-American athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos raise their fists in a black power salute after winning, respectively, the gold and bronze medals in the Olympic men's 200 metres. They were both banned from future Olympic games.

On November 5, Republican challenger Richard Nixon defeated the Democratic candidate, Vice President Hubert Humphrey, and American Independent Party candidate and Alabama Governor, George Wallace. Nixon would become the President of the United States.

On November 14, Yale University announced it would admit women.

1968, like 1963, changed us all. Many of us remember what we were doing when those critical historical moments occurred. Some still debate the value of those times. I agree with Dr. King, “Time is neutral it can be used either constructively or destructively.”

“Nine o’clock the next day and I’m ready to go. I’ve got 600 miles to ride to do one more show.”

Those lyrics from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s What’s Your Name paint a picture of a raucous band going from city to city performing by night and traveling by day, sometimes on 600-mile journeys to the next evening’s show.

Such has been my adult business life. No, not the raucous, band playing part; but since 1979, starting as a management recruiter for South Central Bell/AT&T/ Bellsouth, I’ve been on the road from one gig to another, making my living as an actor, consultant, writer, or speaker, and then moving on to the next episode.

It started with recruiting new management hires for South Central Bell. It was technically a 9 to 5, however some weeks I left home on Monday and returned on Friday after visiting at least three college campuses. I could offer jobs to deserving young people and that was satisfying.

Later, I added acting in film and television to the consulting work I did in my firm after leaving BellSouth. For six years it was back and forth from my hometown of Birmingham to Conyers, Georgia to work on the television show In the Heat Of The Night. What started as community theatre and consultation has become a 30-year career in film and television and consultation. In the Southeast, I’ve traveled highways between Birmingham, Northwest Florida, Atlanta, Nashville, Jackson, Wilmington, Charleston, and Savannah, for gigs on movies, speeches and corporate communications.

I’ve flown into airports in most major cities. I flew into Memphis from Los Angeles to catch a connecting flight home only to turn around and get back on the plane to LA, because duty called.

The longest commute began in 1997, Birmingham to Los Angeles working as an actor out of the Los Angeles market. Then came Florida to LA, back and forth and back and forth until we got a place in Santa Monica and used it as our work home. I still enjoy spending time in Santa Monica with friends, Irish Joe, Michael O, and Sterfon.

Into this second decade of the 21^st century it’s been, Charleston, Atlanta, Charlotte, Auburn, Birmingham, Nashville, Washington DC, Dallas, New York. I identify cities by the gig I worked there, Atlanta: Containment, Nashville: Sing Me the Blues Lena, Wilmington: Miracle In The Woods, Jackson: The Chamber, Los Angeles: Fight Club, NYPD Blue, etc etc.

The latest gig was in Charleston, South Carolina. I’ve worked Charleston now a half dozen times. I could know more about it. I could have seen more, even visited the few people I know who live there, but that’s the road life. Go in do your gig, enjoy the crew and fellow cast members, another temporary family, and head for home awaiting the next episode of life to call. Home for me is the cherry on top of my life’s bowl of ice cream. Home is where I live my life.

How many final checks have I done? You know where you walk through the room and make sure you haven’t left anything, only in the back of your mind you feel you’re leaving something. It’s a road ritual; like zipping up the final item in your suitcase only to then remember something you specifically and meticulously planned not to forget only to have to unzip, reposition and remember what you promised to remember to pack, in the first place.

Leaving Charleston, I fired up some Allman Brothers and headed to Savannah. In Savannah, I stayed in a hotel I’d stayed in before. For every night I have paid for a hotel room, I could own an entire hotel by now. Sometimes I get to mix business and pleasure. In Savannah, I got to visit with Dixson (our son) and his family.

I am working out of Atlanta again. Looking back there is a sense of pride in having made it work. In having honored my commitments, both business and personal.

When will I stop? I don’t know. What I’ve done for money over the years, I’ve also done for free. It’s what I enjoy. I love the actual performing, consulting, and writing.

There is little more satisfying to me than siting in my office in the early hours of morning writing a piece and watching the sun come up over the Bay.

Then the phone rings, an e-mail hits, a text gets my attention.

“Nine O’clock, the next day and I’m ready to go!”

“Joyce, please report to Mother Superior” (my name was still legally capitalized then). It was April 1971 and I was in the eighth grade getting ready to graduate. 

My first thought was, Who told? and my second thought was, How much did they tell? (laughing)

I was always getting others to do daring or sometimes, slightly dangerous things with me, just to see if we could do them. The thing is, since I looked so completely innocent, I pretty much never got busted for them, and my classmates never told on me for some reason. Just lucky I guess! Anyway, between homeroom and the Principal’s office, I had to get my face and expression right. Surprised innocence worked with just about everybody except Mommy… she was never swayed and always knew when the antics were the result of my influence (sigh).

“Yes Sister,” I replied and rose from my seat, headed for the door. She smiled at me. Oh boy, this is not good I thought. Sister and I had a mutual dislike fan club of two… This is going to be so bad… trickled through my mind as I left the classroom and started down the hallway.

I reached Mother Superior’s office and stood in front of the clerk. “Hi Joyce,” she said with a smile. “Go right in.” “Thank you,” I replied and knocked on the office door, waited for the response and stepped into the room.

You know those moments where everything seems to shrink into a long tunnel and you only see a part of the room or area? When it feels like the room and the people in it come zooming toward you, only you know in some part of your brain that they aren’t? …I was having one of those moments. I watched, mouth getting dry; hands getting clammy, as Mother Superior and our Parish Pastor seemed to zoom in for a close up. Oh gosh! Wait, Mommy isn’t here, it can’t be expulsion yet, I thought. Breathe, Joyce. Just breathe.

“You wanted to see me, Mother Superior?” I said breathlessly.

“Yes, Joyce. We did. Please sit down,” she replied.

I looked up at her beautiful brown face and thought, as I always did, that she should have been a mother for real instead of a nun. I loved this woman… at least I did before today! Doing the only thing I could do, I sat. Gone was the surprised innocence. The only defense I had for this inquisition was confession. Mother Superior, I could pull off. Father Regan, not so much. He could see through ten feet of reinforced steel, let alone one 13-year old girl!

Father leaned forward in his chair. “Joyce, as you well know, graduation is in a few weeks.”

“Yes, Father,” I replied. Then waited.

He glanced at Mother Superior, then back at me. They both were looking way too serious for my comfort level. Whatever it was is it going to keep me from graduating? I thought frantically. I was ready to confess to everything I’d done throughout elementary school… the broken window at the Rectory, the food fight in the auditorium, using the holy water to wash blood off of Vinette’s scraped knee, trading communion wafers for candy, all of it! I just couldn’t not graduate. Mommy would kill me!

Clearing his throat, Father said, “We have never had a speaker at the graduation ceremony; however, in your case we are making an exception and would like you to deliver the class response before I confer the diplomas.” He stopped and looked expectantly at me.

Wait, what!!!

Give a speech? At graduation? Me? Why?!

“Joyce?” Mother Superior asked. “Did you understand Father?”

“I think so,” I managed to whisper. “You want me to make a graduation speech.”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “You will be the perfect person to address the class and parents and express all of the thoughts, experiences and emotions of the day.”

So it was, that on graduation day May 30, 1971, I gave my very first speech… and received my first standing ovation. More important, I discovered that I could make a difference in the lives of others. I discovered my mission!

(As published on westernjournalism.com, Sept. 28, 2017)

I saw him last spring in Montgomery, Alabama. I was there to speak to a Leadership Montgomery group. As I looked out over the crowd, he sat there, grinning. Grinning at me! Grinning as if he had a secret no one else in the room knew. As it turns out he did. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago, we found the time to get together and talk about it.

The story travels back into not only my past, but also, our mutual history. Back into a time I call yesteryear. Memories fade. Details get fuzzy but the essence of the story, he remembers in full.

We were freshmen at Auburn University. We had at least one class together. We obviously struck up a relationship.

Sam Johnson tells it like this. We both started Auburn in fall 1970. As freshmen we were coming at the early integration of the University from different perspectives. Sam is white. He chose to get to know me. Not just in class and not just as an athlete. Sam chose to befriend me and get to know me in a time when not many on the white side of the integration experiment at Auburn chose to cross over to that other side. He could have chosen to avoid the integration debacle. It wasn’t his fight. He was secure socially in a fraternity and had the advantage of not being the first in his family to venture to Auburn. I was at the other end of that spectrum.

When we met this September, Sam remembers, that we talked a lot in those days; or rather I talked… a lot. Sam says I was angry and voiced my anger to him about the experience between classes while sitting outside of The Haley Center building. Some of that is fuzzy for me but I don’t doubt I was angry. I do wonder about my sharing my feelings with him. That was something I did not do with people I did not know well. It was part of my anger. Integration was lonely, boring, demeaning and more like the drudgery of a miserable mission than a fun education experience. Today when I hear my fellow white alums from that era or teammates tell stories of their college days, I wonder if we went to the same University. The few of us black students who ventured into integration during that time were pioneers on a mission to make things better for those who would follow. Was it fun for us? Nope. The black athletes, at that time there were three of us in the Auburn athletic department (1basketball, 2 football), were the forerunners to today’s games, but we were not the beneficiaries of our efforts. I kept who I was and what I was thinking bottled up inside. My insides were tied up in knots, knots of anger. I often kidded some of my white teammates telling them, “If you knew what I was thinking, you’d be scared of me.” Sam must not have been afraid. Because according to Sam, I let him in.

The visible proof of our relationship appeared in the school newspaper, The Plainsman that I would later write for. The paper ran an article on race relations on campus, with an accompanying photo. Sam brought a copy of the photo to our meeting in September. The photo was of Sam and a white female, two other black males: Joe Nathan Allen and Rufus Felton, two black females who I do not remember, and me. We were all smiling. We had been recruited to pose for the picture. Someone walked up to Sam and me and asked if we would pose. Someone else recruited the others. We agreed and met the others on the steps outside Haley Center. In the photo we were all smiling like friends. Sam did not know any of the others, just me.

The cut line under the photo in The Plainsman read, Communication. Cold weather does not deter students both black and white from gathering for conversation on the steps of Haley Center before going to class. Integration problems still exist but progress is being made.

The photo is dated February 12, 1971.

Sam caught hell from some of his fraternity brothers and others for being in the photo with five black students. But he went even further. Because of my venting, Sam took it upon himself to go to the University recruiting office and tell the officials what I had said. Not telling on me but repeating the things that I had said needed to be done to make progress at the University. At first he was given the run around but they eventually listened. Auburn administrators even went so far as to put some things in place to recruit more black students and improve the social atmosphere.

Before we left our September meeting, Sam says that I inspired the little progress that was made in those days. I thank him but know that it was in part, credited to him. I could not have gone and done what he did. I would have been viewed as the angry radical in the administrator’s eyes. I could have lost my spot on the team, lost my scholarship, gotten kicked out of school. On the other hand, Sam would not have known what to say if he had not listened to me. When Sam took it to the administrators it became a university problem not just the angry black guy’s problem. He did what I couldn’t do. It takes us all. Sam taught me that. Thanks Sam!

The morning air is crisp, not yet cool. The sun’s rays reach through the majestic trees, an invitation to the great day ahead. The bay glistens in the background. It’s beautiful! The involuntary grin deeply creases my face. I say my prayers. I’m happy!

Some people go to therapists. Some meditate. Others search daily for that elusive inner peace. For me it’s morning’s freshness and my bicycle at 6am, cruising through the neighborhood. Morning is the gift we’re all given. The bicycle is the gift I give myself.

I’ve been riding bicycles all my life. Love it! I remember my first lessons with training wheels, my first lesson without them. I remember crying when I realized my dad was not behind me holding me up. Then I promptly fell.

Most mornings in good weather, sometimes in not so good weather, I raise the garage door and leave the house for a 75-minute ride through the neighborhood. It’s peaceful. Quiet. There are hardly any cars, dogs, or people; just me, the morning and the promising day ahead.

“The Bicycle Man” they call me. I’ve been called worse.

There are three regular riders on the circuit as I call it, in their colorful bike outfits. They ride as a group always with a bright “good morning” for me. There are some regular walkers offering big smiles while soaking up that morning promise. “Good mornings” abound! Like warm coffee on a cold morning the day flows.

The peaceful solitude only lasts so long. After the 7’oclock hour the cars, school buses, and people start to flow. I make my way back to our home.

The newness of another day!

There aren’t many walking around on this earth who are branded by first names only; you know, Cher… Madonna… Bo. My friend “Sterfon” is one of those. You don’t know him? You should! He’s a character! He’s also fun, a great dad, devoted husband, and his name creates ripples in the film and television business.

Sterfon!

Walk into a makeup and hair trailer on many sets in Hollywood and drop his name. Check out the reaction. For those whose misfortune has not brought them into his orbit, there may be a look of puzzlement. For those who have been lucky enough to travel in the same pathway, there are more than likely smiles, laughs, and the question, “Is he here?”

Sterfon Demings is a known entity in “The Business” of film and television. He is a survivor and a hair stylist extraordinaire. I first met him on the television show In The Heat Of The Night, shot in Covington, Georgia, near Atlanta. We didn’t know each other well. He now says he kept his distance from me. “I thought you were an undercover cop,” he laughs.

“Why?” I asked.

“You looked like one. You always had on a suit. You were the City Councilman on the show so you were always with the cops.”

Lots of laughter!

Earlier in my career, I played quite a few lawyers, policemen, and politicians.

A few years after he left Heat, I met him again in Atlanta, on Miss Evers’ Boys. This time we clicked, and have been clicking ever since. We would later work on the short-lived series, City Of Angels.

In between those gigs he has stayed busy; working on Boyz In The Hood, Into The Wild, Italian Job, Beauty Shop, Soul Plane, How Stella Got Her Groove Back, Milk, Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, American Crime Story, Bones, Monster’s Ball and many many more. Those who have sat in his chair include, Alfre Woodard, Sean Penn, Halle Berry, Donald Sutherland, Kristen Stewart, Miles Davis, Ed Norton, Angela Bassett, countless others… and myself.

Sterfon and I had lots of fun in Los Angeles. A boy’s night out on the town generally meant a whole lot of fun and laughter. My trademark introductory greeting to anyone who would listen was a prideful, “I’m from Alabama.” It was always a conversation starter. Intriguing. Sterfon got a kick out of it. Over the years he must have heard it hundreds of times. If I wanted to make him laugh, I only had to say those three words and he could not help himself. 

We still enjoy each other’s company. We think of each other as brothers who are grounded as friends because of our core beliefs. Occasionally we pick up the phone and give it a go in a long-winded conversation. Our conversations bounce from family, to The Business, to our memories of nights out on the town in Los Angeles, and of course, Alabama.

TG: You’re from Montgomery, Alabama? What was it like leaving Montgomery, right out of High School, for the bright lights of NYC?

SD: For me, it all started in high school. In high school, I got my cosmetology training in vocational school. I’m grateful because that started me on my career. I discovered my talent. Vocational education? Too bad the high schools don’t do that anymore. Education is vital to career success, I feel.

TG: From high school to being in The Business. Trace your path for me.

SD: I moved to New York. That was a big step. People doubted me but I was pretty determined. Several people tried to talk me out of going. “New York,” coming from Alabama, they made it sound scary but it also became a challenge. I got a job as an apprentice at “The John Atchison Salon,” so I could learn my craft at the professional level. Education was important for me. Quite a few entertainers came in there. Even as an apprentice I wasn’t star struck. So they didn’t intimidate me. The apprenticeship program allowed me to go do some morning talk shows on NY-TV and I met Jackee Harry who was working on the show “227.” We got to be friends. I did her hair. She told me she was moving to California. I told her I was too. She told me she would look me up when I got there.

The salon opened another location in LA. I transferred out here. I soon became part of management and the Educational Director. Jackee kept her word and I worked with her as her stylist from time to time. I left the salon in a dispute. I started off going to people’s houses. Then came the chance to work on “Boyz In The Hood.” After that, I was off and running.

TG: You’ve won industry awards for styling. The annual Hollywood Beauty Awards recognizes the architects of hair, makeup, photography and styling in Hollywood. You have been described as, “An innovative and world-renowned hair designer and stylist, a master hair-cutter.”

SD: Funny, I never used to pay attention to awards. Considered most of them political. But I’m grateful. There’s even an award named for me. “The Sterfon Deming Award.” The person who won it is amazing. I thought it was pretty neat that she went home with an award with my name on it.

TG: Did I fail to mention you were always a snazzy dresser?

SD: Thanks.

TG: You were always a fun guy to have on the set. You would always dress up and do a walk on in one of the scenes. Must have had a good relationship with the Director and Producers?

SD: I was always a fun guy to have around. The crew would always encourage me to jump in somewhere. It was part of my thing. Where is he going to show up in the film? The first time it was in “Boyz N The Hood.” I was in “White Men Can’t Jump.” In “The Piano Lesson” I played a slave. I was also in “The Temptations” and a few others.

TG: Did you want to act?

SD: Not professionally. If I could have done it for fun. But I enjoyed my job.

TG: What’s next for you?

SD: The older you getthe more you realize that it isn’t about the material things or pride or ego. It’s about our hearts and who they beat for.

TG: You’ve become a philosopher?

SD: Beautiful things happen when you distance yourself from negativity.

TG: Any last words?

SD: I’m from Alabama!

TG and SD: Laughing Out Loud!!

Best Gurl commemorates 30 years of business in May 2017 

Founder Thom Gossom Jr. “looks back” in a series of blogs

In The Heat of The Night, the long running television show from the late 1980s through the mid 1990s, kick started an unintentional acting career for me.

With my PR business, Thom Gossom Communications, running smoothly in my hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, and a good staff to keep the day-to-day running; I sampled the local theatre scene, something I’d always wanted to do but never got around to. Once I started, I did my first play at 29 years of age and began to flourish. A Soldiers Play; Fences; My Children, My Africa; Ali; and later, Master Harold and The Boys; A Christmas Carol; and my own play Speak Of Me As I Am all became successful hits on the theatre scene. For several years running, I was voted one of Birmingham’s best actors.

Then, the unthinkable happened!

After an inspirational evening performance, the next morning I received a phone call that would change my life. Out of the blue, I was offered a part in the film being shot locally. The director had happened into one of my performances and decided to write a part for me. It was a great break, but still one from which I had no deeper ambitions. The film struggled with distribution but it was a great experience. I learned a lot. I met several actors who became and still are good friends. I met my agent then, who is still my agent now. The thought began to roll around in my head that this could be a good way to make a living.

From that film, ShadowWaltz, a couple of television roles opened up for me in Georgia, and then it happened. I was offered a possible recurring role as the city councilman, Melvin Lemon, in one of television’s top shows, In the Heat of The Night.

I shot the job but the recurring part of the deal didn’t happen. I worked that one episode that year and that was it. Based on that, and being 37 years old, I decided no matter how the acting thing turned out I would keep my business. It was steady. It was fun, I was established and if other acting opportunities emerged, I’d do them both.

Still, like all actors, I wondered what happened to the city council recurring role. I questioned my agent. I questioned myself. Did I do something wrong? Did they eliminate the character?” With no intention of going any further and with steady clients in my business, it was back to local community theatre I went.

The following television season another phone call came. It was my agent; “You have an appointment with Carroll O’Connor to read again for the City Councilman’s role.” “What?” I questioned. This time the councilman’s name was Ted Marcus. I took off for Covington, Georgia.

In the outer room at the production office, several of us hopefuls waited for our turn to become Ted Marcus. The questions in my head continued. Should I do something different from last year? Why did they change his name?

My turn came.

I stepped into the room where Carroll and the other executive producer Ed Ledding awaited me. We exchanged pleasantries. Carroll asked, “Didn’t you play the City Councilman last year?”

“Yes.” I answered. Silence filled the room, as they looked me over. Silence in an audition is always uncomfortable. I then did something I’ve never done since. I seized the moment and blurted out, “So why are you trying to give my job to someone else?”

Carroll, smiling, fired back, “Then, I won’t give your job to someone else. It’s yours.”

I grin now thinking about it. For the next six years, Ted Marcus was mine. I was Ted Marcus on a top-ten television show, still living in Birmingham and running my business.

Life was good!

For many of us on that show, it was our first time on a series. We were a weekly top-ten television show and we all enjoyed the spoils. Around some of the Atlanta night clubs it was, “Whatever you want Ted.”

During the next six years I lived and learned episodic television. Carroll was a master. He knew what he wanted from this show. He knew what the legacy of a Southern Sheriff in Mississippi could be if he so desired. In full control, he wrote some of the episodes under the name Matt Harris.

It was a wonderful ride. My favorite actor from the show was Howard Rollins, one of the best actors I’ve ever worked with. I met many of the older stars, Carroll’s friends, Tippi Hedren, from The Birds, and Larry Hagman, from Dallas. Carl Weathers (Apollo Creed in Rocky) and I exchanged Christmas Cards for many years. Randall Tex Cobb, the heavyweight Boxer who took an awful beating from heavyweight champion Larry Holmes did a couple of episodes.

When The Heat phased out around 1995, I went back to my business full time and waited for the next phone call. It wasn’t long before it came. This time it was Miss Ever’s Boys with Alfre Woodard and Laurence Fishburne for HBO. I rode that one all the way to Hollywood.

Shortly thereafter, I became the title character Israel in the Emmy winning episode of NYPD BLUE: Lost Israel. I continued with Fight Club, Jeepers Creepers 2 and several recurring episodes of Boston Legal, Closer to Home, Jack and Bobby and recently Containment on top of many more episodes of television and hundreds of commercials.

It had all begun with an itch, a phone call, and the nerve to ask Carroll O’Connor, “Why are you trying to give my job away?”