It wasn’t about the money. It never is. It was about the sheer audacity of people to be offended.
I wanted to run to the bathroom and burst into tears at the arrogance of a people with no interest in their own history. There was even an interracial couple who walked by, him Black, her white.
Chile, do you know this man looked at his white friend/wife/woman and asked if she wanted the book while laughing as they walked on?
Trifling does not even begin to describe the moment.
But then…
There was an older Black man. He walked by my table and dropped a crinkled 20, whispering, “Keep doing what you are doing.”
You have to understand how he did it.
In African American families, elders (grandma’s, grandpa’s, aunts, uncles, etc.) will hug you and whisper in your ear, “How you?” While slipping cash into the palm of your hand.
There is no conversation about it and they are not interested in your explanations. It is simply an act of love wrapped tight in spiritual discernment. You need this even if you don’t think you do.
You could be struggling with bills.
You could be frustrated.
You could be facing any unforeseen tragedy, and this person who has lived long enough to know what love looks like in the flesh slips you with just enough money to cover whatever was bothering you.
Now, I was not in a financial catastrophe but a spiritual one. An emotional one. One that almost made me pack up my things and walk out the door.
There is something about not being appreciated that sends me boiling.
My tolerance is zero.
But then, here comes an angel, dressed casually, with a brimmed hat and gray beard wrapped in golden black skin.
He drops a 20 on my table like it was the sweaty palm of my hand and whispered words of confidence into my spirit without losing stride. He spoke while walking, always keeping sight of his mission.
This man’s simple act gave me everything I needed to keep going.
People took notice, stopping at my table suddenly, almost like they had been commanded to.
There is no moral to this story that you have not already read.
The internet. We all know it, and in 2024, babies are born with it in their hands.
In today’s world, looking something up on the web is normal behavior, and for some, the first thing they do when they wake up in the morning. Whether you grab your phone or use the computer to log in at work, we don’t go a day without typing something into a search bar or scrolling on social media.
But it was not always this way.
Before anyone ever heard of the internet, its seeds were planted in 1957 in the historical context of the Cold War. In the 1960s, government researchers also used it to share information.
Today, we are learning about the man who created the computer code for .com.
Emmit McHenry was born in Forrest City, Arkansas, in 1943 and was raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma, renowned for being a prosperous Black community. While McHenry came of age years after the Tulsa Race Riot, footage from Pastor Solomon Sir Jones shows that by 1925 and even into the 1940s, Black Wall Street was rebuilt.
Thus, McHenry grew up surrounded by people with a strong sense of community and entrepreneurship.
“It was in a way kind of an extended family and they took pride in your doing well. So if you did well, the teachers really got excited about that and worked with you on it. Yeah, it was a really wonderful experience for me.”
– Emmit McHenry on growing up in Greenwood
The Victory of Greenwood
Emmit McHenry
McHenry’s great-grandfather was a carpenter and whiskey still operator by trade. Great-grandmother McHenry was a businesswoman in addition to a farmer. When it came time to bring their crops to market, the Black farmers and sharecroppers in Arkansas knew they could rely on her to negotiate fair rates for them.
Emmit McHenry graduated from Booker T. Washington High School and pursued a Bachelor of Science in Communications from the University of Denver on a wrestling scholarship. He majored in physics, but when he discovered communications, he changed his major. He graduated with a degree in communications in 1966.
McHenry and his partners established the engineering firm Network Solutions in 1979. However, like many other black-owned businesses, they had trouble getting funding. McHenry and his associates maxed out their credit cards and mortgaged their residences. The business prospered. Still, a deal with the National Science Foundation was the diamond in the crown for Network Solutions. The first internet domain name addressing system for the US government was covered under the contract.
That’s when McHenry created a complex computer code that was not complex to ordinary people searching the web. It allowed those of us without communications degrees to understand the internet and send and receive emails without having to study computer science.
We know McHenry’s invention today as .com.
Emmit McHenry’s work paid off on Dec. 31, 1992, when Network Solutions was the only bidder on a National Science Foundation grant to further develop the domain name registration service for the Internet. Network Solutions was granted an exclusive contract as the sole domain name registrar for .com, .net, and .org. These top-level domain (TLD) names continued the work Network Solutions was already doing.
As I read the latest review of my new book, I stumbled across the word historian and paused. “Historian? Me? Nah.”
“Yecheilyah Ysrayl is a renowned author and historian known for her commitment to uncovering and sharing the untold stories of Black history. Her expertise and passion for the subject matter are evident throughout the book, making it a credible and authoritative source of information.”
-Vigil Honor, Amazon Review
“Wow,” I thought, an eyebrow raised. Really? Me? He can’t be talking about me. I am no one’s historian.”
When I think of a historian, I think of a person with a wall crammed with degrees from every university on the planet and a vocabulary that would terrify the most seasoned thesaurus. I see an elderly person who is wise and perceptive about how the world came to be. They sit down to write 500-page books and devour scholarly articles for breakfast.
And let’s not talk about memory.
Neil deGrasse Tyson, aka the smartest man in the world, lol.
Historians, I suppose, have perfect recall and spiritual compasses that allow them to travel from portal to portal and retrieve relics from the past. These folks recite information like a machine. When I think of a historian, I think Neil deGrasse Tyson.
But me?
I can’t even remember where I left the remote half of the time.
While I did well in history class, I wasn’t too interested in it. It was just a class to get through, but nothing I thirsted for outside school. I didn’t seek it out like I did books. I didn’t eat it up like I did poetry. I didn’t love it like I did literature.
Ahh. There it is. Books. It always comes back to books.
My love for reading, particularly about my people’s history, has led me to write about it. Writing about it has led me to research it. Researching it has led me to document it. Documenting it has created in me a fascination to share it.
I got a revelation while watching a podcast episode with Donni Wiggins and Jessica Dupart, and I found myself laughing at Dupart’s candor. She dropped a few F-Bombs and talked about her life growing up as if she and Wiggins were sitting in their own living room. She doesn’t speak corporate or exhibit the characteristics that someone might consider appropriate to be a CEO, yet she runs an 80 million-dollar business.
While I didn’t finish the entire episode, watching it made me think about how dope it is that in today’s world, people are redefining what success looks like just by being themselves. I realized I never considered myself a historian because I didn’t think I knew enough. (I also dislike titles)
I was also clinging to an aged stereotype.
I learned I don’t have to look like that old-school, white male version of what a historian was once thought to be to qualify as such.
It didn’t occur to me that writers are historians, too, documenting history and archiving them into books that live forever.
According to Google, “a historian is a person who studies and writes about the past and is regarded as an authority on it.”
“Her expertise and passion for the subject matter are evident throughout the book, making it a credible and authoritative source of information…”
Well now. I suppose historian doesn’t sound too bad after all.
“The book’s storytelling approach brings history to life, making it accessible and engaging for readers of all ages. Ysrayl’s narrative style ensures that the experiences and contributions of Black Americans are not just facts to be remembered but stories to be felt and understood.”
Sneaking out of the house to ship books during Covid 2020.
Time is one of the numerous advantages of self-publishing. Self-publishers set their own schedules, in contrast to traditional publishing, which enables them to release books fast and often.
And the better an author gets at publishing high-quality books, the more they publish in a shorter time.
However, I caution authors not to rush their current book on the way to the next one.
Some authors only have one book out, but what they’ve been able to do with that book is more than some authors with ten or twenty.
From consulting and coaching to classes and workshops, these authors have turned that one book into a powerhouse of expertise and services, multiplying their income.
But they would not have been able to do this if they had given up too quickly.
They would not have been able to do this if they published the book on Amazon and then forgot about it on the road to the next one.
They would not have been able to do this if they worried about making the best sellers list. (Some authors are making good money selling their books consistently and have never been a Best Seller.)
They would not have been able to do this if they focused on what’s next instead of what already exists.
When we give in to shiny object syndrome, the continual distraction brought on by an ongoing belief that something new is worth pursuing, we miss the blessing right in front of us.
The grass is not greener on the other side. It is greener where you water it. It is greener where you cut it. It is greener where you pluck out the weeds.
It is greener when you give it the time and attention it needs to thrive.
Sometimes, new ideas are not intended for us to act on immediately. Some thoughts need to be written and executed later.
Give that book you worked so hard to produce the time and attention it deserves to grow and develop before moving on to the next best thing.
We believe publishing success is about quantity and hustle. That might work short-term, but the long-term victory is about quality and strategy.
You can spend a lot of time and energy hustling to break the Guinness World Record for the most published books, or you can be more strategic about turning that one book into a full-blown brand. This may require a long-term plan where you might not immediately see results.
May has always been an exciting month. As a kid, I looked forward to the school year ending and the warm weather welcoming me just in time for my birthday at the end of the month. Summer also means swimming and dancing in the water from the fire hydrant and water guns!
Introducing Lonnie Johnson, the inventor of the super soaker!
Lonnie Johnson was born in Mobile, Alabama, on October 6, 1949. Signs of Lonnie’s brilliance could be seen when he was a child reverse-engineering his sister’s baby doll to understand how the eyes closed. He also built his own go-cart from a lawnmower engine he attached to scraps he found in the junkyard.
Before enlisting in the Air Force, he worked as a research engineer at Oak Ridge National Laboratory. He also worked at the Air Force Weapons Laboratory in Albuquerque, New Mexico, as the acting chief of the Space Nuclear Power Safety Section.
Johnson holds a B.S. degree in Mechanical Engineering, an M.S. degree in Nuclear Engineering, and an honorary Ph.D. in Science from Tuskegee University.
In 1989, Johnson formed his own engineering firm and licensed his most famous invention, the super soaker. It generated over $200 million in retail sales and became thenumber-one-selling toy in America.
Today, Johnson is president and founder of Johnson Research and Development Co., Inc., a technology development company, and its spin-off companies, Excellatron Solid State, LLC; Johnson Electro-Mechanical Systems, LLC; and Johnson Real Estate Investments, LLC.
As of 2023, Lonnie Johnson’s net worth was an estimated $160 million. This substantial fortune is primarily the result of the royalties he received for the Super Soaker, which generated billions of dollars.
So the next time your child plays with a super soaker, be sure they know about its amazing inventor!
Supporting a fellow poetess at the Atlanta African American Book Festival, 2019.
In my years of consulting with authors and working with them on their books, I’ve discovered that the most difficult challenge for many is not writing the book (many of them have been writing their entire lives) but finding innovative ways to market and promote it.
With so many hats to wear, the last thing an Indie Author wants to do is strategize about how to promote their book day in and day out.
And you know what? We don’t have to!
Everything does not have to be part of some grand strategy that only a rocket scientist could understand. The secret to wisdom is often in its simplicity.
Considering it as relationship-building and connection-making rather than marketing and promotion could help you focus on the reasons behind your book. It involves thinking up creative ways to draw in and hold the interest of those who are already searching for solutions to the problems your books address.
Not only can these connections help you meet new people who buy books, but you might also find a business partner or lifelong friend.
Since your identity as an author is heavily influenced by who you are personally, it might be beneficial to present your individuality and draw on real-world experiences to engage readers on a deeper level.
Dr. Jackie Walters does this well.
Award-winning OB/GYN and star of the hit TV show Married to Medicine on Bravo, I reviewed her book a few years ago. The Queen V: Everything You Need to Know About Sex, Intimacy, and Down There Health Care goes into detail about our precious lady parts and all the ways to stay healthy. She has these videos where she reveals something informative about the vulva, sex, and intimacy.
Here’s the important part: She only sometimes mentions her book in these videos! Sometimes, she’ll just have it sitting to the side, or it won’t be in the shot at all.
Dr. Jackie understands her expertise, and by educating her people and entertaining them with her props (she uses fruits and everything, chile), people are increasingly interested in her topic and her book without her mentioning it in every post.
She just shows up as herself.
In the end, we must show people why they should buy our book, not just that they should. This builds genuine connections and strong relationships that help our books to sell without stressing us out.
“I give a holler to my sisters on welfare Tupac cares, if don’t nobody else care”
You know, it’s funny when it rains it pours They got money for wars, but can’t feed the poor.”
-Tupac, Keep Ya Head Up
Even though life tried to take me out in a toilet, I got here healthy, drug-free, and a head full of hair.
After two weeks in the hospital, Mama was allowed to take me home, if that’s what you wanna call it. Our building had been built in the 60s, but it wasn’t much of a building by the late 80s and into the early 90s.
Rats and roaches plagued our apartments, and the housing authorities couldn’t care less. Brand-new babies like me were brought home to nothing but drug dealers and addicts, children sprawled about like clothes somebody left on the floor and forgot to wash, so it wasn’t no surprise when The White Lady came.
That’s what people said when the social workers came to inspect the low-income apartments, “The White Lady.” They ain’t never have a name.
The woman stood in the kitchen, talking to Mama, and looking around our place with distaste. She gazed at the Crisco on top of the stove, as well as the dish rack, which was piled high with plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery. It wasn’t cute, but it was clean.
Her gaze moved to my brother and me, who were playing on the thick blanket on the floor we called a pallet. Well, he was playing, and I was doing whatever it was babies do.
My Uncle Rome hid in the closet next to the bathroom cause he wasn’t on the lease. Black women weren’t allowed to have a man in the house in those days if they wanted to get the Welfare. We also had to hide the new toaster, dish rack, and telephone so they wouldn’t take away any money.
“Mrs. House, your son is developing slowly for his age…”
The short, green-eyed blonde balanced a clipboard in her arms and scratched her nose with the tip of her writing pen. The hoop ring in her right nostril and the sunflower tattoo on her exposed arm caught my Uncle Jerome’s eye.
My favorite uncle and unofficial babysitter, we called my mother’s little brother Rome for short. He thought he was Romeo to every woman’s Juliet. His dark chocolate skin tone and thick lips drove them crazy. Mama said if he took the time to read Romeo and Juliet’s story, he might want to be somebody else.
“Ain’t nothing romantic about no Romeo and Juliet,” she’d lecture him when he bragged about his latest escapades.
“Why is that?”
“They both died fool.”
Uncle Rome said he wasn’t into white women like that, but this one was “sho-nuff fine.” Unk was lying. He loved him some white women. He just wanted to know why she was so young and how long she’d been working with social services to where she could take his sister’s kids.
“…and your 2-month-old is malnourished,” said the White Lady.
“It’s Miss House,” said Mama, taking a drag of her cigarette, inhaling smoke, and blowing it out of her nose. “Since you know so damn much.”
Uncle Rome did one of those fake coughs you do to cover up a laugh.
The lady ignored my mother. “Miss House, have you been using the Food Stamps?”
Unk said Mama frowned, “Yes, I use my stamps. Fuck I look like not to use Food Stamps?”
“I just wanna make sure you didn’t sell them, is all,” said the white lady.
“Oh, so you my judge now? I look incompetent to you?”
See, that’s what I loved about Mama. Yeah, she was a heroin addict, but she wasn’t no fool. A wordsmith with a mouth like a two-edged sword, she’ll curse you out every which way but loose and diversify her vocabulary while at it so you can know she’s cursing because she wants to, not because she doesn’t have the words to say what’s on her mind.
Mama used to write poems and stories before she got pregnant with Aaron. She also went to school to do hair. There wasn’t nothing my Mama couldn’t do. I wished she would get back to her art. Maybe that would help keep her away from the drugs.
“Look, are you done? Cause, as you can see, I have kids to look after.”
The woman scanned the apartment once more, frowning at a roach crawling on the wall. “Let’s just hope you are taking care of these children. This is your final warning, Miss House. If I have to come back here again…”
“Yeah, I know,” interrupted Mama, blowing out more smoke. “Are we done?”
The woman nodded, “We are.”
As she walked toward the door, she stopped to look once more at us and then back at my mother. “Probably not a good idea for you to smoke in front of the children.”
Mama rolled her eyes, dropped the cigarette on the floor, stomped it with her foot, and waved the woman off.
According to my uncle’s story, the woman left us alone after that. But, in my fifth month, someone new came to visit, and I was taken away from Mama and placed in foster care, where I would stay for the next five years.
The PBS Blog 