The Trouble with Sound Bytes: Missing the Bigger Picture

Let’s talk about something that really gets under my skin: Sound Bytes. You know what I mean—those frustratingly brief snippets of longer statements that often leave out critical context. It’s like someone trying to describe a delicious, multi-course meal by only mentioning the salad. 😩

Sound Bytes are typically 15 seconds or less, and they can be downright misleading. People hear a tiny fraction of a statement and jump to conclusions, making assumptions without taking the time to investigate the entire context. It’s a classic case of “the devil is in the details,” and unfortunately, many people seem to have forgotten how to read beyond the headline.

For example, during Kamala Harris's recent appearance, her full response to a question about the cost of living and homeownership was far more nuanced than what you might gather from a quick Sound Byte. Yet, many will form their opinions based solely on those brief clips.

If you're curious about the full scope of what she had to say, I’ve got you covered! Here’s a link to the full transcript of her appearance. 📜 [Insert link here]

And just for clarity, I’ve also broken down her complete answer in a concise outline. Here’s what she actually said:

• Acknowledgment: Thanked the couple for sharing their story and recognized the struggles of young Americans.

• Key Issues Identified: The American Dream is increasingly elusive, highlighting the importance of aspirations and hard work.

• Strategies for Change:

  • Lowering Everyday Costs: Focusing on reducing prices of necessities, particularly groceries, and addressing price gouging during crises.
  • Supporting Homeownership: Proposing $25,000 down payment assistance for first-time homebuyers.
  • Empowering Small Businesses: Committing to support small businesses with a proposed $50,000 tax deduction for startups.

In a world that loves to consume information in bite-sized pieces, let’s not forget to dig deeper. For anyone willing to listen, there’s always more than meets the eye—or ear!

So next time you hear a Sound Byte, ask yourself: “What’s the whole story?” Because missing the context could mean missing the truth.

The Story of Willard

If you were standing on Smith Lane in Charenton, Louisiana on a September morning in 1935, you’d probably hear cicadas buzzing, smell something frying, and feel the humidity trying to choke the life out of you. But somewhere in the cypress-thick swamps of St. Mary Parish, a baby was being nursed not with milk, but with bean juice. That baby would become a man whose name would echo through our family like a church bell during Sunday service—Willard Jacquot, better known as “Shonk.”

The Great Depression was still whooping America’s behind, Franklin Roosevelt was busy inventing Social Security, and Black folks in Louisiana were farming land they didn’t own while living under laws designed to keep them in their “place.” But Mama Laura and Papa Norbert were not about that life. They took in Willard when his mama couldn’t nurse him and raised him on equal parts prayers, chores, and whatever beans were left over.

Papa ran what we like to call The House of No Discussion. If he said “No,” there was no follow-up meeting. Mama Laura, on the other hand, was like a backwoods lawyer—quick with a laugh, quicker with a smack, and always negotiating peace treaties between Papa and the kids. The Jacquot household was crowded: siblings Margaret, Irmanine, Wilson Jr., Woodrow, plus a rotating cast of orphaned cousins—Calvin, Leroy, Samuel, and Mary. You couldn’t walk three feet without tripping over a barefoot kid, a mosquito, or a chore you were supposed to be doing.

Willard started school in a one-room shack next to the church. He read by oil lamp, wrote letters for Mama because she couldn’t read or write, and memorized addresses like they were Bible verses. But sometimes, hunger won, and he’d tie a biscuit around his neck, eat it before lunch, and just walk home. That little trick ended when Mama Laura and Irma staged an intervention.

Out in the fields, Papa enforced The Corn Rule: exactly three kernels in each hole. Drop two? The belt. Drop four? The belt. Toss the seeds under the bridge to skip planting? The belt and a lecture. Willard only tested that rule once.

Fast-forward to the 1950s. Willard moved to Houston as part of the Great Migration. He got a job, but more importantly, he got a glimpse of Irma—a nurse from Kashmere Gardens via Smithland, TX—at a segregated bus stop near Rice University. Willard’s eyes went straight to the front where Irma was. Through a chain of connections worthy of a soap opera, he got her number, endured Houston heat for bus-stop encounters, and sealed the deal.

From 1954 to 1968, they had seven kids: Esther Pearl (the instigator), Evelyn (the quiet storm), Willard Jr. (gone too soon), Michael (the talker), Ronald (the protector), Laura (the reporter
), and Gerald (the loyalist). This was during the Civil Rights Era—Dr. King was marching, Medgar Evers was assassinated, and Willard was at home raising his own little army of opinionated, hardworking children.

Work-wise, he started shining shoes, moved up to janitor at Rice University (cleaning the marble halls of privilege), then to supervisor, and finally to the Southern Pacific Railroad—where he never called in sick unless there was a funeral. He was baptized, sat in church every Sunday, and raised his kids on Mama Laura’s mantra: “Do good, and good gonna follow you.”

He faced heartbreak—outliving three children. He faced disaster—when his house burned. And when a shady contractor tried to hustle him, Willard hit him with the Louisiana version of a cease-and-desist: “I ain’t giving you nothing upfront.” The man backed down. The house got rebuilt. Paid in full.

In his final years, Willard was still giving orders. “Don’t wait on me. Be ready. Handle your business.” He remembered everyone who helped him and regretted not thanking some of them sooner. His stories weren’t for pity—they were life instructions.

Sure, the census once got his name wrong as “Willard Jacks.” But no census can capture a man raised on bean juice, who planted corn with military precision, raised seven kids, buried three, rebuilt a home, and loved one woman for life.

So on his 90th birthday, we don’t just remember him. We tell the truth—loud, funny, and proud. Because in this family, “Shonk” doesn’t just mean Willard Jacquot. It means grit, love, and the right to laugh through all of it.