Flo, Not Flossie – Introduction and Chapter I

INTRODUCTION

ARRIVAL

I never had the pleasure of meeting her. Her name was Lucy Carmichael, my great-grandmother—the first in a litany of women to defy expectations. Born in 1900, at a time when the life expectancy for a colored woman was a mere 33.5 years, she surpassed all odds, living until 1978.

Her daughter is my grandmother, Florence Elizabeth Carmichael Adams, born on August 10th, 1923. In 1988, one year before I was born, she was sixty-five years old, and expected to live another seventeen years. At seventy-five, a decade later, another 11.2 years of life was anticipated, equaling eighty-six or eighty-seven years old. Despite her encounters with endometrial and thyroid cancers, her ability to reach one hundred years would be doubtful. But that’s not her story.

My mother called her to let her know I was on the way.

As I arrived at Cathedral Avenue, memories flooded back from my high school days, running along the nearby trails with teammates. Leaves littered the sidewalk as my Stacy Adams dress shoes skirted them aside. I walked a few hundred steps before turning into the driveway that led up to the sliding glass doors of her building. An orange cone and a missing chunk of cement from the overhang decorated the otherwise beautiful entryway. I would rather not admit that I was out of breath by this point, but now more than ever, I was attuned to why my mother always parked in the garage underneath the building. (If you’re reading this and know my mother, please don’t tell her she was right.)

The Ethiopian doorman greeted me with his country’s traditional handshake, one he had taught me years prior. His smile and gentleness I would one day miss, but not today. Continuing inside, there was another familiar face behind the post-Covid plexiglass—a security measure post-Covid. He was dressed in a navy-blue blazer, pressed gray slacks, black sneakers, and a Dallas Cowboys lanyard worn around his neck.

“They let you work here while wearing that thing around your neck,” I commented.

He gave his recurrent non-verbal response—a smile.

“My grandmother, 1406 East,” I pointed toward the east tower she’s called home for the last two decades. He motioned for me to continue my ritual. There were another two hundred steps along an identical corridor to the one that awaited me on the fourteenth floor. I reached the elevator at the end of the hall. I paused—how many more of these walks would I have the privilege to make?

I pressed the button. The elevator arrived, and I stepped inside. As the box ascended, I peeked down at the Apple Watch on my left wrist. No new messages or alerts. The doors opened, and I stepped out onto the fourteenth floor. Like the floors below, a floral-patterned rug covered this long empty hallway. There were two lines of navy-blue doors with gold trim as far as my eyes could see. I headed towards the familiar one—1-4-0-6. Twice, I knocked, quickly pulling my cell phone out to see if my future evening plans had altered. I could hear voices inside her apartment. The Access Hollywood anchors were discussing celebrity events and recent news. Another minute passed, and the door tiptoed open. Her beautiful face emerged.

“Hello, grandson.”

“Good morning, Grandma—how are you?” I pressed my lips against her delicate cheek.

“I’m here,” she answered warmly, slowly beginning to navigate her predictable three-point turn back to the chaise my mother once bought for her. I slowly followed behind her.

I’d barely taken a few steps into her apartment when a heat wave struck me. Imagine getting on a plane fully clothed for the dead of a Chicago winter, and the pilot surprising you with the plane’s arrival in Jamaica instead. I shook my jacket off one arm at a time and unwound a gray Old Navy scarf from around my neck. There, straight ahead was my favorite chair, a light blue cloth with thin gold script embroidery older than I. I placed my knit hat down as Grandmother lowered herself into her chair. I grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her frail shoulders. She patted my hands in gratitude.

The aroma of her Maxwell coffee snuck into my nostrils before my eyes located the coffee mug. It was situated on a vanilla tray alongside her spectacles, two napkins, and a few balled-up tissues. A small eye-drop bottle and pill container hugged each other close to the tray’s edge. Her chair was angled towards the television. It rested on the same wooden stand that once held the Nintendo sixty-four video game console I played as a young boy. Next to the television was a small dark cherry stand only large enough for the black landline phone and a few photographs of my sister and me. Memories from my Emory University graduation, Dominique’s high school commencement ceremony, and other momentous Campbell family occasions. In the living room, there were two more sofas. One for general company and one for Father Thom (my dad). The sofa against the window was his. It was a safe location where he could steal a mid-workday nap out from under the gaze of my mother when he had gone over to Grandma’s with the duty of replacing one of her blown light bulbs. In the middle of the

 sofas was a glass coffee table playing shelter to two versions of the game Scrabble.

Directly behind Grandmother’s chaise was a mahogany piano, which long ago had lost the use of its main function—now serving as another milieu for pictures and trinkets of a loved and well-lived life. I went over and sat down at the piano, hovering my fingers over the black and white piano keys, imagining the colorful array of melodies produced over the years. Glancing up from the piano, I was grabbed by the picture of my aunt with former First Lady Michelle Obama, laughing as their smiles shone brightly against their chocolate skin. I can only imagine what two Black women who had both overcome the weight of this world were laughing about?

My favorite picture of Grandma Flo and me was along the same wall between the China closet and the door to her patio. In this photo, she has a soft, powerful gaze with her head slightly tilted showing off her beautiful cheekbones. Her hands are set gently in front of her. I am peeking out from behind her—nearly bald—two weeks removed from completing my pledge process for one of the prestigious Black fraternities. The last object covering the back wall was a honey-brown bookshelf where the works of Alice Walker, Ralph Ellison, Maya Angelou, and Alex Haley rested. Each wall space that was uninhabited by a piece of furniture was adorned by African canvases, framed European prints, or other mediums of artwork from the many countries my grandmother, mother, and aunt have ventured. Her apartment blinds were closed, but had they been open, I would be staring straight at the top of the famed National Cathedral where the memorial service for deceased United States presidents occurs. After studying the pearls of her apartment, I returned to the most treasured item in there—her. Her brilliant mind was surrounded by sunken temples, strands of thin gray hair atop her head, and soft brown eyes that glued to her television and Don Lemon with his nightly monologue.

Grandma: So, what’s new with you?

Me: Not much. I’m in town for a few days so I had to come see you.

Grandma: Your mother told me you were coming home. I wasn’t sure if you’d have time to come over to see little old’ me.

Me: Seeing you was a priority!

Grandma: Is that so? Well, well. I like hearing that.

Me: Have you worked on any puzzles lately?

Grandma: No puzzles, but I have been playing Scrabble with my caregiver.

Me: That was our game!

Grandma: You want to play?

Me: Not right now. Maybe later or another time. But may I ask you something?

Grandma Flo: Sure, what is it?

Me: I am curious about your life.

Grandma Flo: Well, that is not a question.

Me: I know, grandma. That picture up there, it’s a class photo of some sort?

Grandma: Yes. It’s my high school class photo from when we visited Washington DC.

I reached up and delicately removed it from her white bookshelf.

Me: It says, 1941 here…

Grandma: That’s the year I graduated high school. Just a few years ago.

We both laughed.

Me: Did every student get this? I don’t know what to call it.

Grandma: It’s called a lawn photograph. Every student didn’t get one. My chemistry teacher gave me his. I guess it was his copy.

Me: Really? Which one? Do you remember his name?

Grandma: He was my chemistry teacher. Gar? Garman? Mr. Garman, maybe?

Me: You must’ve been pretty good at chemistry.

Grandma: I’d say so but it’s hard to remember.

Me: Did you also take physics?

Grandma: Oh, I hated physics.

Me: Me too. It’s so terrible. (Still looking at the lawn photography). This photo is my favorite…

Grandma: I think Montier framed it. He was like an oddball (Don’t go telling anyone my brother was an oddball). But, he had some skills. He could do different things, but, in my opinion, he just didn’t do half the right things because he didn’t finish school and everybody in the family at least finished high school. He played hooky all the time. The officer would come to the door, and no one knew where he was, but everyone knew he was in school.

Me: When he played hooky, where did he go?

Grandma: I don’t know. Out of town, I imagine. He’d just wander around… I can’t think of anything else. I don’t think Mother knew because she would’ve told the officer… maybe that was his way of… life… do what you want to do… that doesn’t say anything.

She chuckled to herself.

Grandma Flo: Now, what more about my life do you want to know?

Me: I want to know more about your upbringing in New Jersey. Did your mother ever share stories with you about her time growing up down South? Or why did she migrate from down South to New Jersey?

I headed over to my grandmother’s closet as I continued rattling off questions.

Grandma Flo: Be careful opening the closet. There ‘s a lot of stuff in there.

Heeding her warning, I slid the door open.

Me: Ahah, let’s see.

Coats, hangers, boxes, and picture books all existed together in this tight space. I grabbed one of the picture books and closed the door. I returned to her side.

Me: How about this one?

Grandma: Let’s see. Open it up.

Me: Is that my mother in a leotard?

Grandma: Yes, your mother and aunt took ballet lessons. Lucile didn’t like it. She wanted to take tap, so we got her a tap outfit, but they still had to take ballet.

Me: Look at my mother’s face… she still makes that same face today.

We both started laughing.

Grandma: No. Mother wasn’t the kind to talk to the children. To the children? No, no. That sort of strikes me as funny. She never talked to me about our ancestors. I don’t know. She didn’t talk about the family or anything, but we knew her mother–our grandmother. See, we called her momma. She came to stay with us.

Me: So you called your mother, mother? And your grandmother, momma?

Grandma Flo: That’s correct.

Me: Ok! What was momma like?

Grandma Flo: More outgoing than mother. She would talk more. A long time ago, adults didn’t tell children anything, but she was different. And she spent many hours out in the garden. We didn’t have much of one, but that was something different from my mother. Mother was a seamstress while momma was a gardener.

Me: How or why do you think your mother chose New Jersey instead of New York or Chicago?

Grandma: Who wants to live in New York?

I laughed. Per usual, Grandma was not wrong. I loved visiting New York, but it seemed like a tough place to live.

Grandma: I mean Alicia loved New York, but your mom didn’t like New York. Maybe, she did but not like Alicia did. Alicia finished school and then she stayed

 up there.

I dragged my favorite chair over the thick rug, placing myself as close to Grandma Flo as the furniture would allow.

Grandma: I guess there are a few things I can share with you.

Me: Did you always want to be a teacher? Did you know it all those years ago?

Grandma Flo: Really, Jason, I did not know what I wanted to be. I thought I wanted to be a nurse because my big sister, Leona, was a nurse. That didn’t last long. And truth be told, I wouldn’t have made a good nurse.

Me: Leona was the nurse. How about Margaret and Mildred? What did they do for a living?

Grandma Flo: Margaret worked for the big Nabisco cookie company.

Me: Oh…

Grandma: Yes, that one. She could bring home all the cookies and crackers she wanted. I guess it was easy to buy them at a discounted price or they would simply give them to you? That’s what she did most of her working time. As for Mildred, let me think more about her, and I’ll have that answer for our next conversation.

This book is a tribute to the life of Florence Elizabeth Carmichael Adams, a woman whose legacy is tightly woven into both Black history and America’s history. Through intangible yet momentous occasions and captured conversations, her relationship with her daughters shines a light on the proud narrative of Black women—a narrative that often goes unnoticed. Just as rosemary grows in nutrient-deficient sandy soil, Florence grew through her own dry environment and cultivated an unexpected garden. Her emergence from Millville, New Jersey, to Washington DC, casts a reminder of the resilience we all have within us. In combination with such joy is a sense of melancholy knowing life is not everlasting. But, such finality can be overcome by sharing her journey. Thus, that is the fuel that ignited my desire for this book; through my desire, deep love, and admiration for her, I will cease to say anything further and will let her voice grace the following pages and tell her own tale.

CHAPTER ONE

THE CARMICHAELS, Pt. 1

“But on paper, things can live forever.

On paper, a butterfly never dies.”

― Jacqueline Woodson, Brown Girl Dreaming

We were two little girls playing in the yard. We didn’t know color back then, but we knew we were different. The one Mother owned in Millville, New Jersey–a little racist town in Cumberland County.

Each time their old white pickup drove by it sent swirls of dust into the air. Mildred picked up one of the stones and cocked her arm back. They were yelling. Mildred was silent. She was ready to hit one of the White boys straight between their eyes. She had the strength, but no aim. They did not know that though. Only I did. I also knew if she released the stone it was going to bring more trouble than we wanted. We didn’t fear these boys. We feared Mother. I walked up behind Millie.

“Get ya nigger asses inside. Stupid nigger girls. Where’s your daddy? Your momma just allows you to be out here playing alone all by yourselves? Do you even have a daddy? I bet you don’t. He’s probably run off somewhere. You ugly niggers. You ain’t got nothin’ better to do, than play some stupid nigger games.”

“Florence, stay behind me. I need to show these White boys we ain’t afraid of them,” Millie said, feeling my concern.

“Millie, we best keep those stones. We’re going to need them,” I whispered into her right ear. She stared straight ahead. She could hear me, but she wasn’t listening.

The stones continued flying from their pickup truck landing only a few feet away from us. I was nervous. I tried once more.

“Millie. We got castles to build, and these are the stones we are going to use.”

My sister lowered her arm.

“Come on Florence, let’s go to the other side of the house,” Mildred grabbed me by the hand.

Their bigotry tired for the day as they continued down the road down Delsea Drive, dust kicking up behind them. Those White boys had one road—Delsea drive—they could use to torment us with. Lucky for us we had three more sides to our home. This was my first instance of White folks going out of their way to insert themselves into our life as I heard Mother say—they were making it a point to insert themselves into our business.

There were eight of us who called her mother, four boys and four girls: Margaret, Mildred, Leona, Mollington, Montaire, Donald, Kirby, and me – Florence. I was the youngest of the girls. Born in 1923 in Trenton, New Jersey—Florence Elizabeth Carmichael. Carmichael was from my father. His first name was Wade, but that’s all I ever knew about him. I spelled out my full name for you because it will most certainly be the last time you hear it. One day one of my sisters decided all of us children needed nicknames. We were careful not to use them when mother was in hearing distance, or trouble was going to find our bottoms.

Margaret, our oldest sister, was born in 1919. We called her Peggy. Peggy and I shared a similar complexion but had a few distinct differences. God placed a mole on her right cheek and did not provide her with the height he did the rest of us, girls. I was relatively quiet. She was bold. There was a fire within her. I say that to say she wasn’t scared of much. Mildred, Leona, and I were all tall, long-legged, girls. Leona was the second oldest. We called her Lee. Peggy and Lee were both born down in Dillon, South Carolina where they spent most of their upbringing with my grandmother and Aunt Missy. In the 1900s, down South, every other lady went by Missy, so that’s what we called her. She did have a real government name, but I never learned it (and still to this day don’t know it).

Once Peggy and Lee were of high school age, they joined us up in Millville. I remember a distinct conversation with Peggy when she told me how the people at the school–our high school–required her to stay back and repeat a grade level because of her thick southern accent. Despite also migrating from the South, the school people did not decide to hold Leona back. So, in true Millville fashion, they both ended up in the same grade all because of a Southern accent.

The sister I was the closest to was Mildred. We were raised together in New Jersey, but truth be told she was born in South Carolina. Whenever any of us were annoyed with Milly, it was really simple to get under her skin.

“Florence, don’t talk about where I was born. I don’t want to hear anything about South Carolina. Ya hears,” she’d say!

That was Milly. She was born June 7th, 1920. We spent many waking hours together. As the pastor said in the church, we had joy in the morning and joy in the evening.

During summer break, Milly and I attended a bible school at one of the White churches. It was one of the church buildings where people from different churches were allowed to gather. All that meant was that Black children could attend alongside the White ones. We spent the day doing arts and crafts mostly, but each day for a few hours the pastor would teach us scriptures from the bible. There was no playtime for running around or physical activities; only art projects to be completed. Mildred and Leona competed for being the most emphatic, I was the quietest and Margaret was as bold as she was short. I was no athlete, but at a young age, I was fast. The fastest of us girls.

“Florence, you think you’re the fastest, huh? Let’s race and see,” Mildred smiled.

I was smiling, too. There were four corners to our home.

“Okay Mildred, let’s. I’ll start over there (pointing to the other side of the house) and you start here. I’ll even let you start us. Give me time to get over there, then yell go!”

I jogged to the other side of the house in my school shoes and a blue dress mother had sewn for me. I took a starting stance.

“Go!” Millie yelled.

I took off letting my legs carry me around the house. I knew I was going to catch her, but as soon as I turned the second corner of the home, there was Millie. We smacked into each other. Our heads collided and we fell to the ground. Two colored girls sprinting around their mother’s home going towards each other—what’s the worst that might occur?

“Mother!” my big sister yelled out.

No tears were shed. We were tough. We were mother’s girls. However, there was blood and an unnecessary trip to the doctor’s office. We held towels against our heads as tight as possible knowing we’d be in even more trouble if we got any blood on the bus or any other piece of furniture on our journey.

We sat in the waiting room as a White gentleman in a white coat approached the mother.

“Yes, ma’am. Please bring your daughters right this way.”

He led us from the waiting room into a small examination room with a green table in it and a bunch of unfamiliar instruments. This was the first time I had ever been inside a doctor’s office, and it would be the last for quite some time. Mother didn’t believe in going to the doctor’s. The doctor asked what happened, looking at Mildred and I, but we knew better. Mother did the talking. We, the children did the sitting quietly and listening. She simplified the story by disclosing to the doctor that her daughters were playing and somehow had collided with each other. Both Millie and I needed three stitches each to be put back together. When we arrived back home Montaire and Molington were waiting for us.

“What did you two knuckleheads do?” Montaire gloated.

“Y’all got matching bandages, Florence,” Mol nudged.

“I think you two have something better to be doing than bothering your sisters,” Mother stated.

Mildred and I retired to our room to sleep off our recent adventure and the unfortunate circumstances. We shared a room while Mollington and Montaire had their own room.

“Let’s go see Mr. Green,” Montaire had already started out the screen door, and Mol closed in step behind him.

I called my brother Montaire by his full name. Our brothers and some of the boys from school called him Mont. Boy, he was as hard-headed as they come, always doing what he wanted. I guess one could say he had his own agenda. I admit he was good at fishing and enjoyed the simple life of being by the water; sitting, waiting for something to happen. (There is probably more to fishing but that’s how I see it). He’d go fishing with some of the White men who had boats. I don’t know if they liked him, but they tolerated him enough to let him on their boats. My frustration with him was that he never did anything academic. He always found an excuse for his late assignments and poor grades. He didn’t have to do it like that, but he did. I can’t remember the year he dropped out of high school. He might have been a sophomore with two years left to finish. He pleaded with his mother many evenings to sign him up for the army. One day she gave in and signed off on him to enlist. He was only sixteen years of age. I wish Mother had made him finish school. She did not. He never ended up going to fight in the war. He became a carpenter. A job that requires a little bit of math—the little a high school dropout could muster.

Molington—he was my favorite brother. It was easy for us to communicate with one another. The boys called him Mol. I called him Moxy. He was a hunter, mostly small animals, from what I recall. He would trap muskrats and sell the furs. Not for any real decent money but he made a few dollars off each fur. What was decent money back then when a loaf of bread was only ten cents? He often invited me to join him on one of his expeditions but routinely, I declined.

My youngest brothers—Donald, and Kirby—did not have nicknames. Donald was born on January 14, 1931. My baby brother, our youngest sibling, was Kirby. He stood about six foot, five inches, which he used quite well to become a high-school standout in track and field. As he grew up Kirby was home alone most of the time since the rest of us were many years older and had already left Millville. This solitude forced him to have to figure out life without the luxury of an older sibling. There was a big ol’ field near mother’s home ready for his long stride and lanky arms but he insisted on playing with his sports ball in the little yard next to this White man’s home. One day, like most days, Kirby’s ball went over into that White man’s yard. Mother told me that man was so mad he used all kinds of colorful language. He decided to keep the ball that very day. I never asked how but on a different day, Kirby got that ball back. This was Millville. This was Mother’s home. We had fun. We took our licks. And we loved each other as much as we loved our skin color.

My classmates–the Colored ones–called me Flossie. Most of the White ones didn’t even acknowledge me in passing but they printed Flossie under my photo in the yearbook. I suppose that was their unveiling. The abhorrence for my nickname like most other things I kept to myself, but if you’re reading this please know if you want to call me anything other than Florence, call me Flo.

A Love Letter to Grandma Flo: Celebrating Her Legacy on International Women’s Day

Introduction:

Florence Elizabeth Carmichael Adams was born in 1923 in the United States of America. Hailing from a family of southern migrants, her parents journeyed from Dillon, South Carolina, to Trenton, New Jersey, in search of better opportunities. Among eight siblings, she was the youngest girl but the fourth eldest overall.

It was within the walls of a dormitory central room, where men and women mingled freely, that Florence encountered the love of her life—a southern gentleman and US Army Veteran from Atlanta, Georgia. Their deep connection led to marriage in the late 1940s, and together, they raised two extraordinary Black daughters, each forging her own path as an intellectual maven and pioneer: one in the arts, the other in the sciences.

In addition to her maternal duties, Florence provided unwavering support for nearly four decades to a young man who married one of her daughters. Having lost his own mother at a tender age, he found solace and guidance in Florence’s nurturing embrace. With her encouragement, he embarked on a challenging journey to become a probate attorney, standing as the sole member of his immediate family to attend college.

Yet perhaps Florence’s greatest source of pride lies in her role as a grandmother. She cherishes her grandchildren—two former collegiate scholar-athletes who transitioned into successful careers as a researcher and an interior designer.

Dear Grandma Flo,

As I pen these words, my heart swells with love and admiration for you. You embody strength, resilience, and grace, and on this special day, I am compelled to honor the extraordinary life you’ve lived.

From the moment you entered this world, your spirit illuminated the lives of those around you. Your journey, from Millville, Cumberland County, to the hallowed halls of American University, speaks volumes about your perseverance and determination to overcome obstacles.

I fondly recall the stories you’ve shared about your time at Millville High School, where you excelled despite facing skepticism and prejudice. Your laughter in the face of adversity and your unwavering spirit serve as a beacon of hope for us all.

As you navigated the challenges of discrimination firsthand, your resilience only grew stronger. From accompanying your mother to job interviews where they were not hiring if you were Colored to finding your own path at the Quartermaster Depot in South Philadelphia and the Pentagon, you never faltered in your commitment to uplift others.

Your transition from clerical work to teaching is a testament to your desire to make a difference in the lives of others. Graduating from American University in 1963, with President John F. Kennedy delivering the commencement address, was a milestone that words cannot accurately define.

But your greatest achievement lies in the love and legacy you built with the man of your dreams—a Morehouse man from Atlanta. Together, you raised two remarkable daughters who have made their mark on the world. And as a grandmother, you’ve showered us with love and wisdom, nurturing our dreams and inspiring us to reach for the stars.

As I reflect on your journey, Grandma Flo, I am filled with gratitude for the love and guidance you’ve bestowed upon us. Your resilience, grace, and unwavering determination continue to inspire me every day, and I am blessed to have you in my life.

Happy International Women’s Day, Grandma Flo. May your light continue to shine brightly, guiding us all on the path to greatness.

With all my love,

Jason

PS:
Grandma, as I conclude this letter, I am struck by the realization of how fortunate I am to still hear your voice whenever I want. It’s the only way I know what angels sound like. Your presence in my life is a constant source of comfort and inspiration, and I am grateful beyond words for the privilege of being your grandson.

I hope you never forget this.

Monday Morning Inspiration: Channeling Muhammad Ali’s Spirit for the Week Ahead

Monday mornings often arrive like an unwelcome guest, dragging their feet and bringing with them a heavy fog of lethargy. In our quest for motivation to jumpstart the week, we often turn to the towering figures of motivation like Arnold Schwarzenegger and other fitness icons. But amidst the cacophony of Motivation Mondays, let us pause, and redirect our gaze towards the towering figure of Muhammad Ali.

Ali, a colossus of greatness even before the world acknowledged it, transcended the boundaries of sports to become a symbol of resilience, passion, and unwavering conviction. Beyond his exploits within the boxing ring, his life story resonates with lessons that transcend mere athletic prowess.

His words, like lightning bolts of inspiration, continue to reverberate through the annals of time. “The repetition of affirmations that leads to belief. And once that belief becomes a deep conviction, things begin to happen,” he famously declared, encapsulating the transformative power of belief in shaping destinies.

Of course, his immortal refrain, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” remains etched in the collective consciousness, a mantra for triumph against all odds. Yet, it is in the quieter moments, amidst the chaos of life, that Ali’s wisdom truly shines. His ability to navigate the complexities of existence with grace, humor, and unyielding determination serves as a beacon of hope for all.

In moments of doubt or weariness, Ali’s humor offers a much-needed respite. Imagine him chuckling at the absurdity of someone attempting to outrun darkness after flicking off the light switch. His infectious laughter reminds us to find joy even in the mundane, to embrace the absurdity of life with a hearty belly laugh.

But Ali’s legacy extends far beyond mere words or deeds; it is etched in the very fabric of our collective consciousness. Will Smith’s portrayal in the acclaimed movie “Ali” captured the essence of his charisma, while Billy Crystal’s poignant eulogy at his funeral painted a vivid portrait of a man who transcended the boundaries of his sport.

As we navigate the treacherous waters of Monday blues, let us take solace in the memory of The Greatest. Let us draw strength from his unwavering commitment to his principles, his unyielding belief in himself, and his refusal to back down in the face of adversity.

So, as the sun rises on another Monday morning, let us honor Muhammad Ali’s legacy by channeling his spirit of determination, resilience, and boundless optimism. For in the ring of life, as in boxing, it is not the strength of our punches but the size of our hearts that truly defines us.

Ali’s life was not without its challenges; his battle with Parkinson’s disease served as a poignant reminder of the fragility of life. Yet, even in the face of adversity, he remained unbowed, his spirit unbroken.

His legacy lives on in the hearts and minds of millions, a testament to the power of the human spirit to transcend all obstacles. So, as we embark on yet another week filled with challenges and uncertainties, let us take a moment to reflect on the life and legacy of Muhammad Ali.

Let us draw inspiration from his unwavering courage, his unyielding determination, and his boundless optimism. For in the words of The Greatest himself, “Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth.” So let us honor his memory by striving to make a positive difference in the world, one Monday at a time.

Link: https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&ved=2ahUKEwiwp53IkNuEAxWwD9AFHSATB_kQtwJ6BAgcEAI&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D7XB3sD9QJCI&usg=AOvVaw3ss-D5oybnTaD518JxCfy7&opi=89978449

The Gifts Not Found Under The Tree

Oscar Wilde once wrote, “Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.” Memories are what will afford us the ability to overcome this pandemic. Memories can nourish troubled souls and calm distracted minds. In the moment we may have been frustrated or annoyed but in hindsight the triviality of what once loomed large is clear and we cannot help but smile and laugh at ourselves. Sacrificing holiday gatherings this year for many more in the future is what is being requested by the CDC, healthcare workers, and a neighbor with a chronic health condition who could suffer if hospitals are at maximum capacity.

Picture frames break apart, newspaper articles tear, and photographs fade, but memories are ours to keep. COVID-19 has forced many to use memories of their loved ones sooner than they expected. Despite guidance from the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), many Americans unwilling to relinquish familial traditions traveled for Thanksgiving and now U.S. hospitals are in the process of halting elective surgeries again as another surge appears imminent. As cases rise across the country virtual encounters, small gatherings, and limited travel are all highly recommended as we move into December. But, with the winter holiday season now upon us, will anything change?

In February before the pandemic, I visited a small shop in Seaside, Oregon. As I entered the Christmas room in the back of the shop, I saw a piano ornament on the store’s shelf—nearly identical to the one sitting in the box labeled ornaments in my parents’ pantry. Thousands of miles apart from my family, while holding this 4” ornament in my hand, I could not help but think back to those snowy, spirit-filled holidays spent with them.

One night, when I was a young boy, a frostbitten air swirled around me as I waited on our front steps for my father’s arrival. He had been tasked with returning home with a Christmas tree. As time passed I realized in his usual spirit he had chosen to drive all around town searching for the “best deal”—as opposed to going straight to the tree sellers less than a half mile away. When his car finally pulled up his headlights greeted me, shining directly in my face. Together, we dragged the tree out of his car and down the wood steps into our rugged basement. From the first glimpse I knew the tree needed to be trimmed but my father reassured me it would fit our short ceilings. In actuality, my sister and I believe the ritual of the tree scraping the ceiling is one he would surely miss too much. Thus, once we trimmed the tree, in one of his recent athletic achievements, my father got on the ground and adjusted the tree as I held it upright, my sister standing eight feet back working as a marshal to ensure our tree landed straight in the center. Mother added wood to the fire, my sister grabbed the box of ornaments, and I started the Christmas playlist. Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, Michael Bublé—the gang had arrived for another year of tree lighting. 

Health, humanity, and sacrifice are the most important gifts this year. These gifts cannot be found in Santa’s bag but are gifts we can give one another. This is an all-or-nothing moment in the history of American public health. Either we come together by staying apart and making fact-based decisions to tackle this pandemic or this pandemic will overwhelm us in ways we can envision and in ways we cannot. It is time to teach grandmother how to use Zoom or show her how the FaceTime icon on the iPad can bring her into the same room as her grandson 2,600 miles away. We must embrace change, caring and sacrifice this holiday season or suffering will most certainly embrace us. 

Being with family is everything I desire right now, but one day in hindsight I will see that sacrifice was the right choice.  

Is the Road to Becoming A Physician Still Worth It?

In a simplistic answer, “Yes, it is. But it won’t be easy.” As my former track and field coach would tell me before an arduous workout, “If it were easy, everyone would do it.” Many are drawn to medicine with an affable desire to help others, but this task has a significant weight associated with it. Sadly, the mental anguish may lead some physicians to tell hopeful doctors that they should turn away and pursue a different occupation forgetting the excitement and enthusiasm they once felt. 

Naturally, over the course of a time period there are certain parts of our lives that change. One day you fall asleep at 20 years old, and the next day you wake up 21, now considered legally responsible enough to drink, gamble or even adopt a child. In contrast, the road to becoming a doctor is a long series of intentional and mindful decisions. Few of these decisions are big, some are medium and unlike the television shows most are small and boring. If you’re reading this you may wish, as I think I did at times, that we could instantaneously wake up a physician. But, the beauty in becoming a physician is in transforming into the version of yourself that will best fulfill this life of service. This becoming requires sacrifices in the form of no; no to certain parties, trips, weddings, and relationships. Instead, one will say yes to long, unappreciated and unapologetic hours with concomitant late nights in windowless rooms surrounded by books instead of people and silence instead of noise. Sometimes, I said yes to the no decisions and years later had to work much harder to make up for those responses. Furthermore, there are also decisions one will need to make during moments where we are no longer in control. 

Writer Anne Lamott, once penned, “When God is going to do something wonderful, he always starts with a hardship; when God is going to do something amazing, he starts with an impossibility.”

From a post-baccalaureate, non-traditional, student studying in a Starbucks coffee shop in Manassas, Virginia to addressing the audience as student body president at the Ohio State University College of Medicine graduation I had to navigate my failures to arrive at my successes. However, each piece of adversity I faced sculpted me into a more compassionate and understanding person and ultimately a better physician.

The first African American patient I treated, sixty-years in age, told me he had never seen a physician who looked like me—like us he meant.

If this dream will make you happy and give you the life you desire, then this field is for you. No one can answer this question for you, and no one should. The time will go by regardless. One day I walked into the auditorium for my first medical school course. The next, I was performing a nasal intubation in a patient with severe Down’s Syndrome readying the patient for the dentistry team to extract his diseased teeth. There is nothing like what I see or do on a daily basis. It is simply amazing, frightful, enlightening and humbling all in the same breath. As I said before, “Yes, it is worth it.” But, it’s up to you to decide that for yourself.

Visible Man: An Illumination of My Black Father

“I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.” The subtle yet remarkable line from Ralph Ellison’s book Invisible Man published in 1952 continues to be a declarative voice in today’s society: Black men do not play a role in raising their children. There are so many, including my grandfather and my own father, who have proven this stigma to be incorrect.

Despite being considered invisible, black fathers have remained beautiful statues to emulate for their children. It was the year 1972 and a young black man, trunk packed and ticket in hand, boarded a bus headed towards Philadelphia with his parents’ directives echoing in his head’— “Work hard and good luck, son.” For the first time in his eighteen years of life Thomas Campbell was leaving home in pursuit of a college degree—the first of his siblings.

The opportunities many black fathers have generated are now profoundly evident in the accomplishments of their children. One of eight children, Thomas Campbell was born in 1953 in the Northeast corridor of Washington D.C. A year after his birth in 1954, the Supreme Court reversed Plessy in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka declaring segregation in public schools unconstitutional. Fifty-three years later, I was graduating as one of a few African-American students from a private high school in Washington D.C.—a vicarious atonement of what may have been for my father had his parents been able to afford the tuition when he was accepted to a similar school. “I wanted you and your sister to have more than I could have ever dreamed of as a kid. When I grew up my family never had a car and never went on family vacations,” he remarked.

There are a multitude of young black men changing the world owing the qualities that have made them successful—dedication, commitment, and perseverance—to their black fathers.

“Jason, remember you can be whatever you want when you grow up.” As he tightened my tie on that Easter morning looking his ten-year-old son in the eye. “If you put your mind to it, then it’s yours.” Nineteen years later as I climbed the six shallow stairs in the auditorium at my medical school graduation ceremony my father’s words reverberated. A story nothing short of recurrent and delivered dreams: receiving a private school education followed by three more degrees—the last one permanently attaching the initials MD to my last name. What even I struggle to fathom is what my father must have felt when I walked across that stage and was declared a ‘Doctor.’

The magnificence of my achievement truly belongs to my father. Despite having grown up in a home where his own father could neither read nor write he journeyed to earn his law degree. Subsequently, he cemented a path for me and my sister to earn five degrees between the two of us. My father’s example serves as a declaration for my sister and I that boundaries do not exist.

Like a multitude of black fathers, Thomas Campbell exemplifies a vision of the world where the finish line is not dictated by the starting line.

Once invisible men—now visible. They are black fathers.

A Beloved Team & A Beloved Mentor

The last time the Cleveland Browns won, I texted Dr. Kevin Olson.

During the 2016 season, I arrived very early one morning, to a small clinic on the West Side of Columbus. As I knocked on the side door, I was greeted by a middle-aged red-headed woman named Tina. This was Dr. Olson’s right-hand woman–sweet as pie but tough as nails–knowing exactly how to give Dr. Olson a dose of his own medicine. She tried to prepare me for what would happen next, but none existed. The back door to the clinic flew open, entering a man yelling what I heard as offensive football play-calls, and the more I got to knew him, it became the most accurate assumption. After he sat his black briefcase down in his office, I went to greet him. “Good morning, sir. My name is Jason Campbell.”

“Jason Campbell, the quarterback?” he posited.

“Something like that, sir” I smiled.

I felt automatically accepted. Jason Campbell, my namesake, had played for the NFL Cleveland Browns at one point in his multi-team career. From that day forth, I was the former QB from his beloved football Browns—young Jason Campbell—as he referred to me. Each day Dr. Olson would share a piece of Browns’ history, which included rattling off the entire list of players who once carried the reigns for the Browns.

Sipe. Kosar. Ryan. Graham. Couch. Nelsen. Phipps. Plum. Anderson. Testaverde. McDonald. McCoy. Weeden. Frye. Hoyer. Kizer. O’Connell. Holcomb. Quinn. Ninowski. Dilfer. McCown. Garcia. All men who have hurled the pigskin for the Browns for at least 10 games and Dr. Olson knew each one, their college institution, and their NFL winning percentage (occasionally off by .1).

Every day in clinic was filled with yelling, laughter, frustration and insight. Once, after we had addressed a patient’s rotator cuff tear with multiple physical exam maneuvers, the patient went on to list four or five more problems he wanted Dr. Olson to assess. “You just tore up, from the floor up, aren’t ya?” Dr. Olson said, aloud. With no delay, the patient responded, “Yes sir. I am!” Dr. Olson’s patients had come to love his lighthearted demeanor interwoven with the knowledge of a medical savant.

For me, these little moments have become threads of memories, which are woven into a picture that show the legacy of a great man. A man who embodied the true character of a doctor. Family physician trained, Dr. Olson received a master faculty appointment by Ohio University for his exceptional contributions to clinical training in this sphere. But there was more to Dr. Olson than any award could describe. He made his patients feel whole even when they were the most ill, just like only a die-hard, ever hopeful Browns’ fan could. I walked into countless patient rooms where the entire family had been treated by Dr. Olson—grandmother, daughter, and granddaughter. This all-encompassing trust was shared by more than a few in the community.

If I wasn’t sure of it before the memorial service, I was absolutely certain of it after. Lines and lines of people flooded the funeral home: from the bustling main hall, the filled lobby, and through the parking lot. Multiple photographs of Dr. Olson and his wonderful family, friends, and colleagues were on display. The most lasting one…the one of him in his Cleveland Browns sweatshirt.

A beloved physician proudly representing his beloved team.

A few weeks ago, as I watched Baker Mayfield perform in his splendid brash manner, as he had done for the Sooners of Oklahoma, I knew a cheerful Dr. Olson was reliving the 1986 days of Bernie Kosar, with an incomparable grin on his face. Finally, his team looked like the team he grew up loving.

For me, Thursday September 20th, 2018 was more than a football victory & more than a team overcoming the weight of the world; it was manifested joy by a beloved and unforgettable man.

After his passing, it is near impossible to fathom a Browns’ win without imagining Dr. Olson’s excitement. I always had difficulty understanding his love for the Cleveland Browns with what I saw to be their errors, burdens and faults. But, now I realize those were the exact human qualities that made him love his team and his patients. As a physician, his passion for his patients—through their sickness, addictions, and infections—gave him purpose so, they too, would heal again.

 

sanc·tu·ar·y

“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the lion or a gazelle-when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.” 

That quote hangs on my wall in my childhood bedroom.

I first started running with my mother as “punishment.” I don’t know if I thought, at the time, it was a form of punishment but looking back I think that is the most accurate classification. I truly only have one distinct memory of running with her although I know it happened multiple times (I guess like other heinous acts, I have blocked those other times out). I was attending one of the American Association for Cancer Research (AACR) conferences with my mother in which, like most research scientists and physicians, she used these annual 4-day conferences as a family vacation. We were in Orlando, FL and my mother and I left the hotel setting out to glide under the hot blue sky. If you’ve ever been to Florida, you know how long and incessant those black roads are lining the roadways in this never-ending fashion with the sun of the sunshine state glaring down. A few minutes into the run I was tired, frustrated and annoyed by the pace she had set troubling my short-legs and untrained lungs. I remember a school bus driving by and I thought, “They’re going to think I’m slow behind her.” As a result of my despair, she quickly became irritated with me as I was disturbing her peace. She always used to articulate how running was her escape from the perils of life—it was her sanctuary. I didn’t understand that then.

Not until one night when I walked out the doors of the Emory Athletic facility—The WoodPEC—onto the track. A cool spring Atlanta evening greeted me after a long day of medical training. Before I even stepped onto the track to begin warming up for my workout, I went into the bleachers and just sat there. My eyes circled around the red track, from curve to straight to curve to straight away. I can’t remember what I thought about but I know I was calmed. From that moment on I always viewed the track as a safe haven, a place where, even if everything was wrong in my world, the track was always right.

A few minutes from my present home, there’s a track here in Portland at the Under Armor Satellite Headquarters. I always drive by it on my way home from the hospital. It is not the most direct route, but it soothes me after a long intern day. The track represents so many memories—joy, sadness, humor, accomplishment, and defeat. Whether it was my mother pinning my racing bib on my 14 year old self at my first official race as my on-looking teammates teased me from afar, or watching the University of Michigan relay team run 16:04 with a 3:52 anchor leg for the 4xMile or running third leg on the 4x400m relay team that led us to a comeback conference win for our Emory’s Men team or being named captain of the Emory University team or being a part of the coaching staff for the first Ohio State Men’s Track and Field Big Ten Championship since 1993. The memories flow as I do when I am on the track.

One of the greatest races of my career came at a Junior AAU meet in Florida. The night before, I had run a 1500m time, slower than some of our 11-12-year-old girls, that resulted in me finishing second to last. I didn’t know how to “hurt yet,” or maybe I didn’t want to experience the pain and agony that is necessary to race the middle-distance events well. The next morning, I woke up ready to respond. As I began my warm-up today felt a little different. I spoke with Mikias Gelagle, one of my teammates at the time, who went on to be one of the best high school runners out of the state of Maryland in the 2004-2006 era. He gave me a game plan of which mostly I do not remember but I remember him distinctly telling me if I started out way in the back that’s where I was going to end up. He urged me to “go out near the front and to believe in the training I had under my belt.” This was a 3000-meter race I was lining up for, and most of my teammates were still back in their hotel rooms. As the gun sounded, I shot to the 5^thor 6^thposition and found my cadence. Lap after lap I was in it and as the race began to thin out I found myself running alongside a runner from another DC track club—The Pioneers. In his all-purple uniform, his crowd, situated opposite my contingency, would cheer him on as we ran past, giving him the motivation to pull a step ahead of me. As we rounded the track, I would do the same as my DC Redwings’ coaches implored me to “do what I knew I could.” Three laps later, this dance routine continued, but the only difference was that most of my teammates had now arrived from the hotel. Probably to their astonishment I was in the race, and to my delight they began cheering for me as we closed in with two laps left. Our cadences had become one at this point, synchronous like the Olympic swimmers, but I knew only one of us could cross the finish line first. As we approached 200 meters to go I started quickening my stride and using my arms to drive my tired legs forward. Down the straightaway we came, and I barely crossed the white line before him. I think I finished fifth in the race. The glory was all internal, but externally, the congratulations from my teammates and coaches, was the prize I needed. I finally felt like I belonged—one of the sacred feelings in life. It’s the emotions, the coaches’ turned fathers and the teammates turned brothers and sisters that make me proud to call myself a runner.

“Once a runner, always a runner.” For me, that motto transcends time. Whether you’re an Olympian or a has-been/never-was, if you’ve spent time lying on the ground in exhaustion, eyes closed, swallowing your saliva because there was no water in sight, then you’re a runner.