Reality's Pen: Reflections On Family, History & Culture

By Thomas Rush

The Law of attraction is real when one looks at one's life and sees that Black History has acted as a gigantic magnet to bring unversal themes, famous people and historical events to one's life through God's granting of this gift to Thomas D. Rush.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Rush
• Release date: Dec 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386733683

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Reality’s Pen:  Reflections On Family, History & Culture

By

Thomas D. Rush

Copyright 2012 by Thomas D. Rush

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from Thomas D. Rush.  Inquiries or comments should be directed to [e-mail].

Table Of Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction: Reality’s Pen

Chapter 1—The Words To Say It

That’s What You Write About

Writing To Yourself

Chapter 2—Momma and Daddy

Mother Knows Best

A Magical World Unfolds

Back To The Future

The Model Of His Example

Live Your Life To The Fullest! Make Your Life Extraordinary!

Taking Care Of Your Own

You’re All I’m About

Chapter 3—The Law of Attraction

It Is What It Is

The Doctor Does Make House Calls

My Meeting With Malcolm X

You Never Know Who God Wants You To Meet

A Change Is Gonna Come

Chapter 4—Inspiration

The Beauty Of His Eyeglasses: The World Through The Eyes Of

Malcolm X

A Love Of My Own

The Feast Of Black History

Race First: An Idea For A Chain of Black Bookstores

Chapter 5—A Reflection

Life Moves On

Chapter 6—Robbins, North Carolina

Coming Home

Chapter 7—Aunt Mary

The Sharpness Of Her Mind

She Kept Her Word

Most Wanted!

The Right One

Chapter 8—Principles

Be Careful With Assumptions

Don’t Let Others Tell You What You’re  Capable Of

It’s A Matter Of Respect

Half Empty or Half Full?

The Picture On The Wall

Chapter 9—Excellence

Stealing Home

I’ll Be There

Music And Me

The Legend of David Thompson

One Incredible Human Being

Showing His Ass

I’ll Take A Look At It

Afterword—A Job Well-Done

Relevant Sources

About The Author

Acknowledgments

This work is not an autobiography within the strict meaning of the word, but is instead a collection of anecdotes, a number of them autobiographical in nature. When it comes to writing autobiographical stories, the ego is tempted to give off the impression that the focus is on the individual.  In my case, nothing could be further from the truth. I am the fortunate product of remarkable parents, two of the most substantive people that I’ve ever known.  In addition, I’ve been blessed with family and friends of character, many of them adding to the puzzle pieces of my life, with quite a number leaving their indelible imprints upon me.  Therefore, in completing this work, I have put in the effort to deliver the best within myself, while simultaneously offering the richness I’ve obtained from the many who have touched my life.  I want this to be a work of accomplishment not only for myself, but for all of those who have blended their personalities into my life to add vibrancy and meaning. 

I am thankful to my siblings, my extended family and friends, many of them identified by name within these pages.  This work would be lacking if I failed to shine a spotlight on my life-long best friend, Greg Dunn, for no one has been a more consistent fan and encourager of my writing, as he continues to find a way to balance honesty and encouragement in his assessments.  I have been both a teacher and student in our countless conversations, knowing that the depth of friendship that we share is truly rare.  Greg has the distinction of observing my evolution both as a human being and as a writer, since he was one of the first people that I ever allowed to read the things I had written. My memories are packed full with the things that we’ve been through since our beginning at the age of six.

My gratitude is extended to my special editor, my sister, Mrs. Callie Teresa Rush Jones, for having the patience to go through this entire work, making suggestions here, adding something there, and just generally doing a good job of being my proofreader.  It helps to have a perceptive, older sibling to fill in little facts of family history, much of which I was too young to be aware of.  In addition, I’d like to thank Ms. Lynette Shoffner for going through this manuscript as an additional proofread.  If there is something amiss or lacking within this book, I take full and total responsibility. All mistakes are mine. 

This work is aided by a special attribute.  Greatness is a phenomenon that comes in many forms and I am a person who looks for and admires it in any of its manifestations.  When I observe it I feel like I am granted a special privilege which allows me to look over God’s shoulder as He stands in the mirror.  I relish that momentary glimpse at His reflection. There is acknowledgment accompanied by excitement, with mysticism saturating the environment.  I have been fortunate in my exposure to greatness because I have been blessed with my fair share of it, beginning with my parents.  In many respects, this book is a tribute to this characteristic because I know that it is one amongst the infinity of God’s attributes.

I want to thank my parents, Mr. Pearl Rush and Mrs. Hortense Chrisco Rush, for making my life possible, and for letting me have the experience of having solid folks behind me.  In life, it is often unfortunate that death sobers our thinking, while creating focused clarity to the depth of love we have always felt, carving it even deeper upon introspection of our loss.  No dictionary is comprehensive enough to hold the words to express the depth with which I miss my parents, for they are the two most important people to have ever been a part of my life. If I had to define a single goal of this work, the one specific thing that I want to accomplish, it would be for readers to walk away with at least an inkling of their meaning within my life.  I was blessed to have been in the presence of their greatness, a fact that I want to shine through on every page.  This book is dedicated to them for all that they bestowed upon me, because I get it in understanding the monumental gift from God when He made them my parents.

Mr. Pearl Rush  Mrs. Hortense Chrisco Rush

September 18, 1925  August 31, 1927

September 3, 2007  April 7, 1986

Introduction: Reality’s Pen

I am a writer who is not chained to a theory or agenda of writing. My interest comes from my childhood, somewhere along the growth curve as I became intrigued with the power of words and ideas, a persistent theme shadowing my life. Somewhere in the depths of my being, there has always been this impulse to write. I can attribute many sources, all aimed at my desire to be heard. Writing gives me an inherent rush, a natural high that I can’t get anywhere else. If someone was to try and engage me in an academic discussion about the The Purpose of Writing, all I can say is that I write to express my likes and interests with nothing more to it than that, though that’s plenty enough. 

The main source of my writing comes from the natural stories that I’ve experienced, things that have happened to me that I’ve chosen to share with others.  These narratives have been relayed countless times to my friends and acquaintances. There was a point in my life when I thought that relaying these anecdotes was a kind of magic that could not possibly be translated into written form.

But, one day, I asked the simple, but revealing question, How am I communicating these stories to others? When I had to answer that I was doing so through the medium of words, a light came on: Well, just take the words that you normally use to articulate and simply write them down on paper. Then, you will have the written version of what you have been creating.

This may sound trite and unremarkable, but it was a big moment in my process.  I did not create the stories from my imagination in the typical way of a novelist. My creation comes through living and thinking, processing events through the filter of my brain. I am the observer who has chosen to document. Who I am, the nature of my intelligence, emotions, spirit and experiences, along with my own unique angle of looking at things, adds to the distinctive flavor of my creations.  My reality creates my anecdotes and I am simply the tool used to convert them into words on paper. I am the metaphor. I am the pen that my reality uses to write my experiences. I am my Reality’s Pen.

Chapter 1

The Words To Say It

Writing for me is the only free place.  It’s the only place where I‘m not doing what somebody else wants or asks or needs.

———Toni Morrison from "The Black List" pg. 20

That’s What You Write About

The seed was planted in the early 1990’s when I was showing something that I had written to a friend of mine named Marvin July. He read the document, occasionally wiggling his head back and forth in disbelief.

He looked at me, Man, you’ve got to do something with that talent. You’re a born writer and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll get busy. So, what’s the hold-up?  I respected July because he was a straight-shooter who told you what he thought, whether you liked it or not. I had first met him a year or so earlier, as we worked out at the Y in Chicago. I had seen him in the weight room several times since he was a body builder.  He was a serious student of body building whose body looked like it had been chiseled from solid stone.  The first time I saw him, I jokingly referred to him as Atlas, the mythical figure from Greek mythology who holds up the world. He had come over to give me some advice about doing sit-ups and I had taken him the wrong way. I blew him off, thinking that he was perhaps an arrogant jerk who thought that he knew everything, but as I let my guard down and got to know him, I realized that he was one of the nicest and most humble people that I’ve ever met.

He was a person who looked at body building as an art, someone I once heard tell another man, I am not trying to be funny, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I like the work you’ve done on your calves. He pointed at the guy’s highly developed and muscled lower legs as he made the statement. If July told you something, he was sincere.

I have often thought that he and I got along as well we did because we are both Southern, Black men. He grew up in South Carolina and I was reared in North Carolina. There seemed to be something about the fact that we had both grown up immersed in a common, Southern, Black Culture and had similarly navigated the racial politics of our lives. We connected on a tacit level, a connection that neither he nor I could put into words—we just acknowledged it and left it at that. He and I talked about a number of different things and he impressed me both as a wise person and as a person who gave good advice, a person who really listened and cared.

I don’t remember what the document was about, but for some reason, I gave him a copy of one of my writings. He was impressed and wanted to know more, particularly why I wasn’t more productive with the craft.  My brain was stuck with some weird, underlying belief that if I was going to write, I was obligated to write fiction. As a fan of Toni Morrison, standing in awe at the imagination it took to create such hefty works of fiction, I felt inadequate to the task, thinking that my imagination was not prodigious enough to spawn a plausible work.  Since I did not feel up to the task of producing fiction, I rationalized my inertia, thus keeping myself from writing anything at all. I relayed all of this to July.

Well, what kinds of things do you write, July asked.

Mostly stories of personal interest, things that have happened to me or something that sparks a revelation or idea.

"Then, don’t worry about whether you can write fiction, or write like Toni Morrison.  My suggestion is that you write what you write, based upon where your interests take you."

Yeah, I hear you. but, would my writings be marketable? Would I actually be able to sell them if that’s what I did?

"I think so. In fact, you could create a new paradigm, in terms of the type of book that you’d write. Your book wouldn’t be themed-based. It would be a book with a collection of stories that you have written, with the only thing tying them together being the idea that the stories are of things of interest to you. Your book would cover a wide range of subjects, but, it would help to showcase your complexity, demonstrating that you’re not a narrow person. You’d show that you’re a person with a diverse personality, made up of a number of different sides.  In a lot of ways, it would be semi-autobiographical."

He had a point. Like a brilliant farmer, he was planting a seed with something that made sense. As was often the case with him, July’s idea gave me something to think about.  The fact that you’re currently holding and reading an entire book that I’ve written makes you a witness to the results of July’s advice. 

Writing To Yourself

Several years ago, while I was living in Chicago, a friend of mine named Carla Tohtz was residing on the outskirts of Buffalo, NY.  Carla was the only person I could call who lived in a colder place than I.  During one of our conversations, Carla lamented that she had left Bryn Mawr College prior to the completion of her thesis, a fact that prohibited her graduation. Once she successfully completed the document, graduation would follow.

Her chief complaint was that she had a distinct case of writer’s block resulting from her anxiety in meeting her professor’s standard.  I asked Carla to do me a favor. I suggested that she forget about her professor and project her mind to a point 20 years into the future. I encouraged her to use her imagination to read her thesis at that point in the future, taking into account its subject matter and the fact that she had written it 20 years earlier.

I requested that she ask herself the following questions, "When I read this, is it educational? Is it good as a written document in comprehensively teaching and informing me about this subject? Am I satisfied with it?  I suggested that if she could answer these questions yes," then she should not worry about the thoughts of her professor. One of the beautiful things about a four-year college education is that it forces a person to expand her academic boundaries, demanding that she establish an internal, subjective standard of expertise, one that is usually quite high for a person who operates with a depth of academic integrity. Carla was such a person.  I knew that if she satisfied her own subjective standard of expertise, if she felt that the document completed its mission of educating and informing, then most likely the document would meet with her professor’s approval.

It seems like a contradiction, but it is not: As writers, if we write something that genuinely educates and informs ourselves and that we are satisfied with, then our documents will most likely educate, inform and please anyone else who reads them.

The morale of the story is this: Write to educate, inform and please yourself, first. When you are writing, you are your own, first, and most important audience. Then, whether the story meets with the approval of others most likely takes care of itself. If you genuinely like what you have written, you should not unduly worry yourself with those who don’t. Writing is one place where it is good to be selfish. Please yourself, first. 

Incidentally, two weeks after giving my advice to Carla, she called to tell me that she had completed her thesis and that she was satisfied with it as an educational and informative piece, underscoring her confidence that her professor would like it, as well.

Chapter 2

Momma and Daddy

She’s grown.

I don’t care what she is.  Grown don’t mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What’s that supposed to mean?  In my heart it don’t mean a thing.

——-Toni Morrison from  "Beloved" pg. 45

Mother Knows Best

One of the more amazing things about my memory comes from the fact that it habitually behaves like a DVD player.  I am not sure which came first, my native concept of the unfolding of events or my socialization through movies, a process that taught me to deal with events consistent with their flow.

My mother’s legend holds a space within my memory like a carefully scripted DVD, with multiple images of her occupying spaces within our home.  She’s sitting on the right side of her bed, her right leg folded in a V, her foot tucked in as her left leg hangs over the side.  She has on reading glasses as she directs her eyes at the book sitting before her....She’s sitting at the kitchen table, a small lamp clicked on and shining down as she pores over The Bible.  The same focus and concentration absorbs her being....It’s a cold afternoon and the wood stove in The Shop is going strong, with Momma hugging herself in our old, green lounge chair, a book in her lap, as she is lost in concentration at that source of information.

These are snapshots of Momma’s existence.  Long before I could ever read or even understood what reading was, I grasped the picture of focus and concentration that Momma was modeling.  It didn’t matter that I didn’t know what she was doing.  All I knew was that The It that was capturing Momma’s focus and attention at such a deep level was The It that I wanted to be a part of. My exact words were, I don’t know what she’s doing but whatever it is, I want to be doing the same thing. 

Repeatedly, as a young child, I told myself when I became of age to read, I was to grab onto it like a lost child who has been found by security and reunited with his mother at a carnival.  At such an early age, I was not prescient enough to know the depth of what she was modeling.  In hindsight, it would be very difficult for me to think of a more profound and appropriate symbol for my life and what it has meant to me than the simple image of Momma lost in concentration, at different places throughout our household, hypnotized by the pleasure of a good book.

A Magical World Unfolds

I walked around our house for several days, periodically staring at the book. I procrastinated because I was frozen by my fear that I would be unable to read. It was a simple, first grade book given to me by my teacher Mrs. Siler at all-Black Central Elementary School. I held the paradoxical confidence that if I burst through my barrier and willed a start, it would be like a key turning to unlock the secrets of the universe, revealing the great unknown. I sat down and mustered up all of the abilities from the practice of Dick, Jane and Spot, the characters who starred in the system contained in my McGuffey reader. I started off with very simple sentences, progressing in complexity as my abilities improved.

My focus uncovered an unexpected complexity, my surprise coming from my grasp that this book was a little more difficult than our previous ones. Through dedicated application and persistence, the printed words on paper began to make sense.  Words came out of my mouth as my eyes translated the print I saw on paper into sounds, sounds into words. The going was rough, but I was determined to make this happen. I was patient in proceeding word by word.  I was able to read that first sentence...then another one...and then another. Before I knew it, I had finished the entire book, which was only several pages long. 

I rushed to my father, excited beyond belief, proclaiming, Daddy, I can read! Daddy I can read!  He wanted evidence, so I read a couple of sentences to him. He didn’t say anything, but his demeanor expressed that he was pleased.  Since that time, I have held a life-long debt of gratitude towards Mrs. Siler for the simple act of teaching me to read.  It may have been a simple and obvious act on her part, but this simplicity does nothing to negate the fact that there have been untold numbers of children who have not been taught to read effectively. Effective reading skills are entitlements of every American child, and Mrs. Siler fulfilled her obligation to her field by imparting this ability to me. Careful consideration of these issues has made it so that I have never taken my reading for granted.

The importance that I attached to my learning to read calls to memory an exact and vivid picture of our local, public library.  In 1968 patrons entered Asheboro Public Library through its main doors located on Worth Street and it’s my guess that they were there when the building initially opened.  Over the years, the library has gone through a series of renovations.  When the library chose to move the main entrance, the citizens of Asheboro viewed that as a major transformation.

I accompanied my mother to the Asheboro Public Library shortly after my magical discovery of reading, entering the main doors on Worth Street.  Although I knew nothing about the symbolism of entering the front doors at the time, I have always sensed that there was something deeply liberating about such visits. I was reinforced in my feeling of freedom during that first visit when Momma picked out several books and proceeded to check them out.  There were no personal computers and the Internet would become a phenomenon of the future. The library’s check-out system compared to today’s standard, was rather primitive.  There was a paper pocket in the back of each book.  A flat check-out card, approximately 3 wide and 5 long, fit neatly within the pocket.  The card was sturdy and resembled an index card, containing several lines, separating columns.  The first column had enough space to have a date stamped within it.  This date represented the book’s due date. The next space was long enough for a patron’s signature.  Once the card was signed, the library simply filed the card away until the book was returned.  The card was placed in the book’s pocket upon its return. If a patron simply removed the card from the back of a book while browsing, that patron could read the names of people who had previously checked it out. 

Momma was in the process of signing the cards located in the back of her books, when I pondered taking a chance. I desperately wanted a book, but I had no idea how she would respond.  I was just a little child who had been taught to behave in public and not to bring any undue attention. I feared that I would be seen as a nuisance or a bother. I held the notion that any request to check out a book would bring the exact kind of undue attention that I had been taught to avoid.  I got over my fear.

Momma, can I get a book?  She looked down at me, followed by a pause of silence. It was as if she had been caught off-guard and the expression on her face and body language spoke to me, letting me know that her pause was a positive one.  She interrupted the pause, her words accompanied by a smile, You sure can!

Immediately, it dawned upon my 6 year old brain that Momma’s response was the complete opposite of what I had expected. I expected to receive the feeling that my request would be seen as an annoyance. Instead, it was clear that Momma was excited that I wanted to read now that I had made my ability known. I sensed that her response acted as her invitation through a doorway, the doorway to reading and learning, granting me a symbolic match to the moment I had accompanied Momma through those Worth Street-doors just moments earlier. Her instincts as a mother and voracious reader led to her sense of the depth of my request. She knew that reading would open worlds to explore, galaxies of information to behold. She did more than just let me check out a book. She went further by helping me to fill out a library card, so that it would be possible for me to check out books, on an on-going, basis.  Fittingly, the information I initially provided to the library more than 40 years ago is the same information Asheboro Public Library currently has on file for me.  My information has simply been updated through technology to fit in with the computer age.

Once I filled out my library card, Momma took me to the children’s room of the library and waited patiently as she allowed me to search for books of interest. I wound up checking out 3 books.

I checked out my first library book more than 40 years ago, but the memory of that visit remains with me. Now, when I visit, my imagination remains chock-full with the warm glow of positive association, for it remains a place that I