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We Fishis the tale of a father and son's shared dialogue in poetry and in prose, memoir and reflection, as they delight in their time spent fishing while considering the universal challenge of raising good children. Their story and their lesson have the power to teach today's young African American men about friendship, family, and trust; and the potential to save a generation from the dangers of the modern world and from themselves.

We Fish is the tale of a father and son's shared dialogue in poetry and in prose, memoir and reflection, as they delight in their time spent fishing while considering the universal challenge of raising good children. Their story and their lesson have the power to teach today's young African American men about friendship, family, and trust; and the potential to save a generation from the dangers of the modern world and from themselves.

Examines the extent to which children who were enrolled in Head Start made behavioral and character attributions to White and African American related personal names. It explores whether personal names serve as stimuli for young children to make race-related stereotypical responses. (GR)

Suggests that Ebonics has been mediated in ways that clearly reveal American racial politics, which remain hostile to African Americans, describing the dominant strategies used to mediate Ebonics and locating those media strategies within the cultural context of racist circumstances, the racist political history of African Americans, and African Americans' linguistic heritage in America. (SM)

Grandma Mattie Flippin did domestic work for a White Virginia family. Her primary duties were cooking, cleaning, and whatever else she was told to do. Her husband died, leaving her alone to raise her extended family. Mattie Flippin spent more time at the White family's home than she spent at her own, but what time that she did spend at home was \"quality time.\" Not having sufficient food for her family, Grandma Mattie Flippin used well the resources available to her. Before leaving the White family's home, she often stuffed her extraordinarily endowed bosom with fresh biscuits which she had made that morning. These biscuits remained body temperature warm, and, as reported to the authors by her grandchild, Ms. Martha Carter (May 14, 1991), the butter had melted and turned the biscuits' white insides a beautiful golden color. Sometimes, these warm, buttered, bosom biscuits were all the family had to eat.

OMARI WAS in junior high school, and I hoped the coming Memorial Day weekend would be the first time this year we would have the full complement of our camp’s members: Uncle Nash, Uncle William, my brother Stephen, my friend Henry Harris, and several other men who had been part of this group for years. Full of excitement, I telephoned Uncle William to find out if he and Uncle Nash were going to meet us at the camp for the weekend. He answered after one ring, and full of zest, asked, “Where the hell you been boy? We’ve been waiting

FOR ALMOST two decades, being in camp had meant freedom from all forms of psychological discomfort. Now, each time I came to camp, I was excited about spending time with Uncle William, but was troubled by the prospect that each trip might be his last. During the summer of 1993, I met Uncle William at the camp only once; he had, by then, a number of diagnosed and undiagnosed illnesses. His digestive disorder required major surgery and it was followed by a series of complications. During a hospital visit, Mama asked what he wanted, and Uncle William replied, “Hell, Grace,

MAMA AND Daddy didn’t have a car, and so relatives always came down home to bring us back to Johnstown. Who came for us depended on whose church was holding revival the third or fourth Sunday in August, and which of my uncles with cars could get off from work. Because of small congregations, the African American churches took turns holding revivals in August. A revival was supposed to focus on God, but for most people it was really a big family reunion and general social event. Uncle Tom always said that, at revival time, “more corn liquor got poured

DEACON ARMSTRONG, my younger brother Stephen’s godfather, didn’t laugh or say much to me other than, “Son, listen to what God is trying to tell you.” One day, while he was visiting my parents, my father got him talking when he said, “Come over here son, and tell Deacon Armstrong about those fish you caught with Rhinehart. Deacon Armstrong, this boy is a real fisherman.” Deacon Armstrong listened patiently to my description of how I caught the first chubbies, all the others, the sunfish, and rock bass I had caught since, and then said, “If you think it’s good fishing