The One You’re With

By Carly Pete

In Loving Memory of
MaryLynn Conrad
11/4/55 - 2/16/15

I don’t like too many complications or too much expense when it comes to my hair, so I still choose natural styles.

Recently, I had a conversation with some of you about whether I should let my hair go gray because I was getting tired of coloring it, especially with locs because it damages them. Now, if I could end up with beautiful silver locks like Toni Morrison – that could be worth it – going gray, I mean. But, no, gray hair is just not for me, not yet, as my hair is more like salt and pepper steel wool at this age.

Of course, I colored it. Because I realized the real issue I feel and the one that’s really been on my mind more lately, again, and which ends where all roads must end for us all, is aging.

Since I was six years old, aging and death have played out a beautifully tragic consciousness in my life: The only way I’ve ever learned to cope with death is by turning aging into living, to live ‘til I die, sometimes moment by moment, as gracefully and gratefully as I can – but first, to live, as most things in life are choices, and all choices have risks.

Tammy Hardin (l) with Jessie Mabe
 Go Red Event, Salem College

Friday afternoon February 13, 2015 on the eve of Valentine’s Day, Tammy Hardin, a friend, and not-for-profit management major at Salem College, hosted a Go Red event attended by faculty, staff, and alumnae in Huber Theater of the college’s new student activity center. February is American Heart Month, and Tammy was recently diagnosed with heart disease. My own mother, Abbie Peterson, died from rheumatic heart disease, non-hereditary illness, complicated by diabetes, which I inherited and have managed for the last 14 years.

“Nine out of ten women, that’s 90%, suffer from heart disease or stroke at some point in their lives,” Tammy informed us. “One in three women dies, more than all cancers combined,” she said. “But, the good news is, eighty percent of these deaths are preventable.”

WomenHeart of the Piedmont Triad hosts a monthly support group for women living with heart disease. Meetings are held every second Wednesday at Moses H. Cone Memorial Hospital in Greensboro. Lunch is provided. No registration is required. For more information, please contact womenheart@conehealth.com.

Ladies, you’re the one who is always with you and the one you should always love and take care of first. Please, if you’re 50 or older, get the pneumonia vaccine; I got mine yesterday.

Happy Valentine’s Day. 



Thanks for listening.


Carly Pete

About Carly Pete: Carly, a 2013 graduate of Salem College, earned B.A. degrees in Communication and Creative Writing. She resides in Winston-Salem, where she works as a communication consultant, lyricist and writer.

Who Really Lost Super Bowl 49

By Carly Pete

I had no distractions, no quantities of snacks to prepare, no college homework. For the first time ever, I watched the whole Super Bowl at home alone, without male commentary in the house, yet understanding the plays because of having raised sons whose lives for lengthy periods of time while growing up revolved around football, both playing and watching. Football in our testosterone filled home had always been an occasion for celebration. And, the Super Bowl? If another family member or friend wasn’t throwing a Super Bowl party, it was because our family was hosting one that year. Even those of us, mostly women and girls, who neglected to follow along religiously through the whole season became fully conscious by the Super Bowl and knew which teams were playing and who we wanted to win.

Personally, I liked the community the game built across teams, even nations, through a display of sportsmanship, fairness and reward – the one goal one bowl of it all. Over the years, I saw the Super Bowl as a worldwide event that millions of people, including couples, families and friends, watched together – the cooking equivalent of black-eyed peas and collard greens on New Year’s Day for a foodie like me.

By game time I was all set – with tuna salad, red-skinned potato kale cheese soup, and homemade buttermilk cornbread – leftovers from my grandchildren’s sleepover the night before. I watched Super Bowl 49, from start to finish, contentedly alone, for the very first time…yet knowing my people near and far would be watching, too.

The game was spectacular throughout, until the last minute.

The next day, my brother said the losing play call came from the owners’ box, not the Seahawks’ coach. One son said, “bleh,” he had been busy with his family and had only half-watched the game. One said the outcome was Russell’s fault! The third son and I didn’t get a chance to talk until Tuesday night (although I’d seen a Facebook post from him Sunday after the game referencing slantgate, haha). He elicited a different issue: Christopher informed me that Pete Carroll formerly coached the Patriots, previous to Belichick. Whaaaaaaat? I did not know that…

So, had only one owner won? Had everyone else lost, in addition to Pete, like the 2000 US Presidential Election, which, in my opinion, was ultimately decided by a single vote among the five/four majority on the Supreme Court, possibly Clarence Thomas’s decision? Or, had one of these coach frenemies simply lost a bet, like in the movie Trading Places? Did Pete Carroll lose a bet and have no choice but to call that slant play? Therefore, were we – fans, quarterbacks, teams, coaches – all of us, merely pawns in their high stakes power play?

Whoever was responsible for the bad call during Super Bowl 49, that person had no meaningful relationship with the Seahawks Team and is not a winner. That part is clear.

My son, Lawrence, a football enthusiast from way back, presented an even more complex scenario to me. He pondered what might have been had the quarterback defied the powers-that-be and run the ball that last yard himself. Whew! Now, that’s real leadership, the caliber of a man who knows under which circumstances – for the people he loves and when it’s the right thing to do – to break the rules.

I give my heartfelt congratulations to Richard Sherman, Marshawn Lynch, and Russell Wilson, in that order…also, Malcolm Butler.

Overall, it’s irrelevant that Pete Carroll and Bill Belichick coached the Patriots in consecutive years. But, for pete’s sake – Pete, your love/hate relationship with Bill was pathetically apparent by the play you called. And, if the owner of your team or another of your coaches is responsible for that play, neither of you has a substantive relationship, understanding, nor respect enough for the Seahawks.

Hell, I think I could have coached that last minute better than you, and I’m just a girl called Pete. That last minute, as Lawrence would say, “Was crucial.”

Thanks for listening.

Carly Pete

About Carly Pete: Carly, a 2013 graduate of Salem College, earned B.A. degrees in Communication and Creative Writing. She resides in Winston-Salem, where she works as a communication consultant, lyricist and writer.

We Are They by Carly Pete

By Carly Pete

So he answered, "Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them." 2Kings 6:16, New American Standard Bible.

The above scripture was the theme for the C.H.A.N.G.E. 
https://www.facebook.com/CHANGEIAF meeting I attended on January 20, 2015 at First Baptist Church on Highland Avenue. It is a much needed reminder as we continue to strive together to build

Dr. King’s Dream into the 21st Century.

A reckoning has come
A hurt to be undone
Tomorrow has begun
Who have we become?

A tender voice is heard
A legacy in words
Emboldened loud to speak
Until our hearts can reach in black and white and gray.

                                 Excerpt from Gray©2012, CBWilliams, all rights reserved.

We are the aftermath of Selma, a ragtag coalition of dreamers who are changing the world. This righteous struggle has always been about us – what we feel is most important, who we are becoming…day by day. We, who have been wounded by injustices from the past, especially those perpetrated on our watch – we, who have had the privilege of spending time together, intentionally, across isms.

We walk together, with dignity for all. We are they. Glory!

About Carly Pete: Carly, a 2013 graduate of Salem College, earned B.A. degrees in Communication and Creative Writing. She resides in Winston-Salem, where she works as a communication consultant, lyricist and writer.

The Night We Became King

(As we remember the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (1/15/29 – 4/4/68), whose powerful words continue to embolden us to speak and to act to end racial injustice into the 21st Century, I share the following true event from the life of my family which happened on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, 1996. In the aftermath of Ferguson, et al, the point of my sharing this story, again, is to show how any city in America could potentially be or have been a Ferguson, even Winston-Salem.)

The Night We Became King by Carly Pete

My then twenty-year-old son, Lawrence, knocked at our bedroom door, then rushed into the darkened room; it was after 1:00 in the morning.

“Turn on the light,” I said.

He flipped the switch on the wall, rushed over to kneel at our bedside and whispered over his sleeping dad to me, “Ma, the police just chased me up the path and I didn’t do nothin’! I promise!” he panted. I sat up in bed, for the moment forgetting about the verbal chastisement I’d planned – how Lawrence was disrespecting our house rules, needed to find a job or go back to school, and should set a better example for his younger brother.

“Chased you? What for?” I said.

Mike, my husband, woke. “What happened?”

“Lawrence just got home.”

There was a knock at the front door.

Lawrence paced the floor, raking his fingers through his inch long dreadlocks, eyes bulging, wide and frightened, “Ma, Daddy-M! I promise you, I didn’t do nothin’!”

Unlike the weed smoking, sometimes disrespecting, high school dropout he’d lately become, this Lawrence standing before me reflected the innocence of young Loncy, his preschool self, the child who exclaimed in a moment of epiphany in the parking lot of his daycare center, “Good grief, today is tomorrow!” when he’d forgotten to bring his toy for show and tell. I believed him; he hadn’t done anything wrong. So, why were the police chasing my son?

“Alright, go upstairs,” I whispered. Quickly, Mike pulled on a pair of jeans, I threw on a robe and we answered the door.

Two uniformed officers, both Caucasians, were standing on our front porch. One of them informed us there had been a robbery at the store a block away on Baux Mountain Road, that the attendant said the two suspects were young Black males, that they had seen a man fitting that description enter our house through the side door. We should  give them permission to search our house.

I said, “No.”

“But, ma’am, do you realize these men could be dangerous and might harm your family?”

Before my garrulous Chicago-born husband could engage the officers in menial chit chat about the details of the robbery, possibly even tell them the person they saw enter our home was our adult son, I interjected calmly, “No one’s here, but our family.” 

I meant no disrespect to my husband, but felt this situation demanded the expertise of a Winston-Salem born Black woman who loved and understood her Black men. I had credentials as a daughter, sister to five brothers, wife, and mother of three sons – Michael, Lawrence and Christopher. I knew firsthand that Black men face many pitfalls in American society simply to grow up undefiled, find decent jobs, and raise a family.

The officers threatened to call headquarters to get a search warrant. We said they needed one. I turned on the television in the living room drowning out the crackling of the police radio. CNN had begun reporting on the life of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., broadcasting excerpts from his “I Have A Dream” speech. The sound of Dr. King’s voice bathed us in a balm of serenity, strengthening our resolve to protect our son and the sanctity of our home. It was King Day for the Banner-Williams Family.

After multiple CNN broadcast loops, the officers returned. When my husband answered, one of them implored Mike to check our house for intruders since we wouldn’t let them do it. Mike obliged; he checked the laundry room area, the adjacent bath and guest room. No, our home was secure from intruders he informed them. He then thanked the officers for their concern, said, “Good night,” and shut and locked the door, rousing ten-year-old Christopher upstairs, who leaned over the banister and asked what was going on. I told him everything was fine, for him to go back to sleep.

Mike and I sat together on the sofa waiting for the officers to return for what seemed a very long time, listlessly awake, while CNN droned over and over again its news reporting interspersed with black and white footage of Blacks and Whites protesting against segregation and for civil rights, the images and commentary spurring us to greater vigilance: We became Civil Rights.

At dawn, the policemen returned and told us they’d found the two suspects hiding under the woodpile of our next-door neighbor’s house. Together, our family had advanced justice, procuring a portion of the Dream, for our sons, for one night.

About Carly Pete: Carly, a 2013 graduate of Salem College, earned B.A. degrees in Communication and Creative Writing. She resides in Winston-Salem, where she works as a communication consultant, lyricist and writer.

Joy Cometh

By Carly Pete

So, it’s about forgiveness?

After submitting my first blog to this publication, I checked in on Facebook where I read a post from a friend about a St. Louis, Missouri police officer, so happens he’s black, saying he witnessed racism firsthand while on that city’s police force which caused him to resign after five years…an eyewitness account from a police officer regarding the Ferguson grand jury decision.  I paused. The friend who shared the post is a white male human being, the husband of a friend from church. We three share a mostly virtual acquaintance: we share information we care about on Facebook; we read.

And now, I write; I’ve begun a conversation with you.

Before signing out of Facebook that night, I saw a photo shared by another friend, someone I hadn’t seen in a while who hadn’t posted anything on Facebook for months. She looked fantastic! We distanced ourselves from each other last year. I clicked “like” on the post.

Instantly, I was overcome with emotion, ready to let bygones be bygones.

Ten days later, before she and I could reconcile, I learned through a Facebook post on her page that Carolyn passed away from complications with a medical procedure, ending her life abruptly.  Her family was devastated, and I, inconsolable. Reaching out to my adult sons in a private Facebook chat, I asked where they believed the energy and life force of a loved one goes when the body dies so suddenly. Michael and Lawrence, oldest and middle sons, allowed their younger brother Christopher to respond. Mike, my second husband, Christopher’s dad, passed away four years ago. Christopher wrote: “The energy goes through us and still lives through.  That inspired thought, or coming inspired actions, that “spirit” is what inspires because it has been implanted in you and everyone she’s touched.”

Everyone she’s touched…he was empathizing with me by gently reminding me he knows the pain of a sudden loss, too, their dad. Instantly, I’m reminded of the sacredness of my sojourn, of the amazing people whose lives have touched mine. I remember the joy, bask in it, and let it flow.

About Carly Pete: Carly, a 2013 graduate of Salem College, earned B.A. degrees in Communication and Creative Writing. She resides in Winston-Salem, where she works as a communication consultant, lyricist and writer.

Christmas Carolyn

By Carly Pete

A dear friend, Carolyn, passed away a few days ago; I learned about it on Facebook. We lost touch last year after she and I had a couple of spats. Now, I feel she intentionally created that distance, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Carolyn and I met in 2003 at Martin Luther King Jr. rec center here in town. We took aerobics classes together twice a week until I began classes at Salem College in the fall of 2009. We were among the more highly motivated women in our class who attended religiously; I’d been diagnosed with diabetes in 2001, Carolyn was a breast cancer survivor.

Carolyn’s my best new friend since childhood. Her constant encouragement reminded me of how my life might have been had my mother lived to raise me, although Carolyn was only a year older and didn’t look her age. She complimented everything about me: my hair, the way I thought, talked, dressed, my cooking, singing…on and on; it was almost embarrassing. She loved me. I can’t remember ever in my life being so unabashedly celebrated by another human being (not related to me) as by Carolyn. Her acceptance was validating, personal, and startlingly real. Whenever I sang somewhere, or hosted a jam session at my home…and spectacularly when I graduated from college in 2013; Carolyn was there, cheering wildly as I crossed the stage.

Best of all, Carolyn is the keepsake of our birth name; I relinquished Carolyn to her safekeeping when I became the singer and college student Carly to newer friends, plus it reduced confusion when she and I were in the same spaces, which we often were, until last year.

I’m certain she knew how much I loved her and how hard losing her would be on me. I only pray that she passed peacefully away without much physical pain.

Touch the sky, fly girl. Say hi to our mamas. Always know I love ya!

God rest your souls, easy, dear family of our loved one. Take comfort in beautiful Carolyn memories and let your hearts be strengthened by the everlasting joy of Christmas. We send condolences and our love.

OpEd: Race Relations in the Piedmont Triad ~~ Waiting for Thanksgiving

By Carly Pete

Thanksgiving is my favorite food event not counting family members’ birthdays. This year’s planning was interrupted by an announcement the Monday before that the grand jury in Ferguson did not indict the murderer of Michael Brown, an unarmed local teen.

Bamboozled, duped, hoodwinked. What?

How could this possibly be? There were multiple eyewitness accounts to the killing, one even contemporaneous to the shooting. But the 12-member grand jury – six white men, three white women, two black women and one black man – voted no indictment; nine votes were needed to indict.

Do the math.

I’m troubled about the three-month delay announcing this decision, as well as its timing, choosing to announce during the week of Thanksgiving. Were black people supposed to drown our sorrows in turkey, dressing, gravy, and other comfort foods? Maybe, eat cake and get over it? I can’t swallow.

White policemen are killing black boys.

During their teenage years was when I first noticed a change in the way my sons were treated by white police officers. As they grew, which coincided with them leaving the safety of our yard, they sometimes met with friends on the corner where we lived: Policemen told them they couldn’t “congregate” on the corner. The further they strayed into society – high school, the park, the mall – unaccompanied by my husband or me, the more attention they attracted from police. My sons constantly complained that the police officers harassed the black kids, but seemed oblivious to what the white kids said and did. My sons survived; however, potentially life threatening encounters with local police did occur. My sons now have sons.

Black men are men.

Let’s face it. Generally speaking, it’s not black officers or female officers who are killing young black men, it is white policemen. In fact, many black officers working undercover have themselves been killed by fellow white male officers. Something is deadly wrong here; we need to fix this, for all our sakes.

Waiting for Thanksgiving…

I boycotted Thanksgiving and Black Friday this year. I’m waiting for justice.

About Carly Pete: Carly, a 2013 graduate of Salem College, earned B.A. degrees in Communication and Creative Writing. She resides in Winston-Salem, where she works as a communication consultant, lyricist and writer.