John W. Fountain
35 followers -
Professor, Author, Columnist, Publisher
Professor, Author, Columnist, Publisher
35 followers
John W. Fountain's posts
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My latest column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times:
...I was racing for bragging rights. Or was it my attempt to show my son that “dad’s still got it”? Maybe. Or maybe it was to prove that even though gray hair lies at my beard’s roots, I’m not quite ready to be put out to pasture.
...I was racing for bragging rights. Or was it my attempt to show my son that “dad’s still got it”? Maybe. Or maybe it was to prove that even though gray hair lies at my beard’s roots, I’m not quite ready to be put out to pasture.
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My column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times--a letter of clarification to Father Pfleger:
...Truth? There is no pastor I respect more.
I once belonged to a church where I found it easier to reach the CEOs of Fortune 500 companies than my pastor. I am a son of the Churches of God In Christ but am rarely if ever invited to speak, not even at the family church where I grew up...
...Truth? There is no pastor I respect more.
I once belonged to a church where I found it easier to reach the CEOs of Fortune 500 companies than my pastor. I am a son of the Churches of God In Christ but am rarely if ever invited to speak, not even at the family church where I grew up...
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My latest column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times:
..."Stanza 2 (Preacher Man)
Hey, Preacher Man, I’m a believer. But help me see again. Beyond this hypocrisy of men. Who preach to me about what Jesus said. But who live like kings
on poverty’s bread.
Brothers blind to black soul fields where the harvest lies. Where peace ain’t still. Where chaos reigns. And bullets fly. Where the people cry. And children die.
Hey, Preacher Man, we suffocate, annihilate, while you pontificate and offering plates circulate on Sundays. But the church house is closed on Mondays...
..."Stanza 2 (Preacher Man)
Hey, Preacher Man, I’m a believer. But help me see again. Beyond this hypocrisy of men. Who preach to me about what Jesus said. But who live like kings
on poverty’s bread.
Brothers blind to black soul fields where the harvest lies. Where peace ain’t still. Where chaos reigns. And bullets fly. Where the people cry. And children die.
Hey, Preacher Man, we suffocate, annihilate, while you pontificate and offering plates circulate on Sundays. But the church house is closed on Mondays...
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My latest column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times:
...But if the system’s sights were set on the black man, it’s aim was to destroy, at least cripple, the black family.
There seemed to be a shifting of moral ground. The emergence of pimps and players in the movies, which nearly every boy in my neighborhood went to see, chipped away at what moral foundation remained....
...But if the system’s sights were set on the black man, it’s aim was to destroy, at least cripple, the black family.
There seemed to be a shifting of moral ground. The emergence of pimps and players in the movies, which nearly every boy in my neighborhood went to see, chipped away at what moral foundation remained....
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Dear church,
...What of those black men imprisoned who will never be free
to enter the doors of a church ever again?
What of those who have felt deserted and abandoned
And whose hearts for “the church” will never mend?
...What of those black men imprisoned who will never be free
to enter the doors of a church ever again?
What of those who have felt deserted and abandoned
And whose hearts for “the church” will never mend?
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My latest column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times:
...I am aware of the prevailing pre-narrative about black folks in America. About every black male slain by thug or cop. That “he” must have had coming what he eventually got.
It is a demented tale about who we are and from whence we came. That perceives our worth and existence as inconsequential and counts us as America’s bane...
...I am aware of the prevailing pre-narrative about black folks in America. About every black male slain by thug or cop. That “he” must have had coming what he eventually got.
It is a demented tale about who we are and from whence we came. That perceives our worth and existence as inconsequential and counts us as America’s bane...
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Here's my latest column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times:
...I stand on the shoulders of my great-great-grandfather Burton Roy, born an African-American slave. I hear the spirit cries of the Middle Passage. The blood of my ancestors flows through my veins.
I hear the whispers of my great-great-grandfather — his faith-filled prayers that for future generations there would be better days. This I’ll always remember...
...I stand on the shoulders of my great-great-grandfather Burton Roy, born an African-American slave. I hear the spirit cries of the Middle Passage. The blood of my ancestors flows through my veins.
I hear the whispers of my great-great-grandfather — his faith-filled prayers that for future generations there would be better days. This I’ll always remember...
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My latest column in this weekend’s Chicago Sun-Times:
…Life and time, however, have taught me that fatherhood is not for the faint of heart. That, honestly, sometimes you can “feel” like quitting. For fatherhood comes with its share of hurts, deep wounds and tears sometimes shed in secrecy, or simply swallowed…
…Life and time, however, have taught me that fatherhood is not for the faint of heart. That, honestly, sometimes you can “feel” like quitting. For fatherhood comes with its share of hurts, deep wounds and tears sometimes shed in secrecy, or simply swallowed…
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Here's my latest column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times...
Amid our death and demise, I hear the cries that wet my eyes. For I remember a time when only old folks died.
When living in the ghetto, we still had pride. Before “drive-by” became part of our vocabulary. Before we buried a nation of murdered sons in the cemetery...
Amid our death and demise, I hear the cries that wet my eyes. For I remember a time when only old folks died.
When living in the ghetto, we still had pride. Before “drive-by” became part of our vocabulary. Before we buried a nation of murdered sons in the cemetery...
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Here's my latest column in this weekend's Chicago Sun-Times:
...Coach parked in the chair next to me, wearing his beloved New England Patriots cap and speaking in that mellow bass in which, for years now, he has rattled off sports statistics during the morning man chats we once called, “The Roundtable.”
Coach had news… Some good. Some bad. I plucked out my white earplugs...
...Coach parked in the chair next to me, wearing his beloved New England Patriots cap and speaking in that mellow bass in which, for years now, he has rattled off sports statistics during the morning man chats we once called, “The Roundtable.”
Coach had news… Some good. Some bad. I plucked out my white earplugs...
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