(BALTIMORE – June 21, 2026) – My father, Donald Edward Glover—known to everyone as “Doc Glover”—was a highly skilled mortician and funeral director. He owned Glover’s Funeral Chapel, first located at 1701–1703 Patterson Park Avenue. That was the first place I called home. Later, we moved to 712–714 East North Avenue, between Boone and Homewood, where I lived until about 1974, before returning to my mother’s home at 1526 Moreland Avenue in West Baltimore. Doc Glover was a tough man, but he loved his family deeply. He went to church every Sunday—not what some would call a “holy roller,” but a principled man who stood on business. He believed a man’s word was his bond. He believed in fairness: if someone paid you ten dollars an hour, you gave them ten dollars’ worth of work; if they paid a hundred, you gave a hundred. When I was seven years old, I asked him a question I’ve never forgotten. We were standing in the alley behind the funeral home on North Avenue. I said, “Daddy, do you hate white people?” He told me, “I don’t hate anybody. I hate what some people do, but I don’t hate anybody.” Now, more than fifty years later, I understand the weight of that answer. If he had said otherwise, it could have shaped me in a very different—and damaging—way. Hate is poison, and when you carry it, it gets on you. I thank God my father was grounded, principled, and guided by something higher. He believed in education and made learning fun. I remember in seventh grade at Lemmel, we made a deal: if I made the honor roll, I’d get a CB radio. I made it—and I got that CB. He also taught me entrepreneurship early, putting me on one of the largest Afro newspaper routes in West Baltimore. I sold papers from Moreland Avenue to Edmondson and Warwick, then re-upped and went down Calhoun and Lafayette, even selling on buses at Penn North back when you could hop on and ride a few stops. That was real training. And he stayed on me, even when I left home. My first semester at Morehouse, I forgot his birthday—September 20. That man called me up and read me the riot act. I tried to explain where I was, what I had going on. He cut me off: “I don’t care where you are. Don’t you ever forget my birthday.” That was Doc Glover—family first, no excuses, no lapses in respect. My upbringing was well-rounded. I spent time at the Druid Hill YMCA, went to Camp Oswego, and camped at Patapsco State Park. I was in the Boy Scouts. My father always said travel was the best education, and because of him, I saw Canada, Florida, and New York City at a young age. My mother took me to Brooklyn. My parents made sure I had exposure, opportunity, and perspective. This Father’s Day, I reflect with gratitude. I had a father present in my life every…

SHINA PARKER: Gone Too Soon

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