Woebeit I never thought I would write this long when Richard Moore turned me pro in the first week of September 1953. A quest to learn newspaper skills led me to work for free, because our schools didn’t even teach us to spell journalism. However, the moment Mr. Moore gave me the $15 I needed for tuition, I became a professional journalist. Do the math and we’re talking 49 years watching on the wall. For sure, there’s an interesting story behind that story, because I was a 19-year-old high school grad. Mystery aside, I’m still considered a 1952 Wheatley grad, as well as a graduate of Aldine ISD’s G.W. Carver’s 1953 class.

Even so, it was pure fate that I met George McElroy when I followed my brother to work at the Houston Informer. McElroy learned that I was an aspiring writer and recruited me for TSU’s first journalism class. Quite frankly, I was pondering basketball scholarships to either Wiley or Bishop College, but after talking with Jay Don Davis, my course was set.
I won’t bore you with particulars, but, I began writing with the big boys when Mrs. Carter (Doris) Wesley came looking for “the best writer” in our fledgling journalism class and hired me as a freshman. Hell, besides McElroy I was the only journalism major in the class. Ironically, I was already working at the the Informer’s circulation department after school and still writing for the Reporter. Naturally, being a jock I was put under the tutelage of Davis, (one of the greatest sportswriters of his era )and Lloyd C.A. Wells. Wells had read about me in the glowing articles that Frank Torry, who now can be heard throughout the week on KTSU 90.9FM, had written about me. Damn, Frank, that was over 49 years ago.

I guess the gay, incestuous old Roman poet Publius Ovidus Naso (43 BC-17 AD) was right on time when he wrote, “Time flies.” Especially when you’re having fun. And, since it’s fun writing for African-American News&Issues, Texas’ widest circulated newspaper with a Black perspective, I think I’m going to run on another year.
Then too, there’s a matter of that 5-year, no cut contract I made with God in 1998, that can’t be renegotiated until 2003. Seriously, you best consider tuning into my Twilight Zone musings, because God knows that there shall never be another Bud Johnson. Hey, I’m not saying there will never be another bold, tell it like it is Black journalist.
I’m saying that I wasn’t just taught Black journalism, but my journalism teachers were Blacks who hadn’t been contaminated by integrated education. In that separate and unequal era, Black journalists wrote like preachers preach. My mentor, (Davis), told me if my writing didn’t evoke strong emotions, I might as be doodling on an outhouse wall.
Thus, I wasn’t chosen. I chose. I chose to make sure my people wouldn’t perish for lack of knowledge. God apparently anointed me to reach out and touch my people’s spirits. Surely that’s why Yahweh made me such a helluva communicator.

Bragging aside, if I didn’t think I was good, I would be dishonoring the legendary Black newspaper giants that (for reasons only the good Lord knows) took such a very special, up close and personal interest in honing my writing skills. And, lest we forget, to God be the glory for using a hard-headed Fifth Ward thug, rather than have rocks cry out. No! I’m not saying I’m the last real Black journalist.

There are plenty African-Americans journalist who are Black and proud. But that’s not enough. To be a Bud Johnson, you must also be proud to be what bigots call a sho’ nuff, “ghetto nigger.” Moreover, I worked in the mainstream media and learned their game and have experienced enough (in life), to truthfully declare that there’re very few things I could possibly write about, that I haven’t done, or seen done personally.
But, alas, lest my rough edges fool you, I actually was educated and not domesticated. Today’s Black journalists mostly have been indoctrinated to ignore implied messages or subliminal suggestions, therefore they unwittingly become part of the conspiracy (dividing and confusing our people), when they regurgitate the system’s intelligence. Old-timers (like me) are very objective: The oppressed learn it’s safer to observe, rather than participate.
Today’s journalists become personally involved, thus their credibility suffers when they start deciding who’s right or wrong, rather than objectively reporting without fear or favor. Sadly, today’s Black communicators are wont to swallow TV/ radio sound bytes, mainstream print media’s propagandized stats and clichés whole. Hey, don’t blame me for my Outer Limits ministry, because I’d much rather go out like that reprehensible 72-year- old millionaire, whose final will and testament bequeaths $250,000 to whichever woman is sharing his bed when his heart fails after a night of wild and salacious sex.

Square business, I vowed that I would retire after 40 years of watching on the wall and work for nobody but God (and on my autobiography), after I turned 60. But, alas, although we’re almost three years into the 21st century of a new millennium, I think I’m going to run on a little while longer. If, perchance you’re comparing me with those “has been” athletes who can’t give up, mayhaps I should introduce you to God’s superannuated biblical heroes, esp., Abraham and Moses, who did their best work in their dotage.

After watching Black journalists for years, I’ve concluded they either can’t or don’t want to communicate like us old timers. And who better to teach those, who really and truly desire to write from a Black perspective, than me? In addition, just like Abraham and Moses, the Internet takes me into unexplored territory and gives me a stronger voice to shout, LET MY PEOPLE GO!
Dramatics aside, henceforth, I’m obligated to enlighten them via my columns. Not to mention, at age 68, my Eyeview is shared with 1000 times more readers weekly than I reached before the Internet. It truly energizes me when that Nigerian teacher at Ryan calls each week and says, “The drums are beating. Keep writing my brother,” or when I connect with delightful young, deep-thinking youngsters like 21-year-old UH student LaKrista Gaskin. They’re the sunshine in this old African warrior’s life and that’s why I’m gonna run on. I wonder if anybody knows where I’m coming from?