Be Better

Friendship is a funny thing. Some friends make perfect sense, others sometime make you shake your head in amazement. This past weekend, I had a visit from one of my head shakers...Deen Entsminger. 

I met Deen seven or eight years ago when my son went down to Belmont University for his audition. Deen would become one of his favorite music professors. We were walking through one of the music buildings on campus when we passed by his office. There he was, dressed in shorts, a festive and quite loud Hawaiian shirt, wearing bright red Converse Chuck Taylor high tops. Instantly, I knew I was gonna like this guy. In the following 4plus years, Pam and I were down for practically every chamber singers concert, partially because we wanted to visit our son, but also because the music that would come pouring out of that group was transcendently beautiful. Much of that beauty was a direct result of this chaotic, passionate, whirling dervish of a conductor. Before long, we became friends, not just acquaintances. Every chance we got, we would volunteer to house his choirs whenever they came through Richmond while on tour. The great thing about our friendship is that we don’t have a long list of things in common. I mean, we both love music, and we both love my son, and we both are quite fond of beer...but that’s about it. We probably don’t vote the same way, or worship the same way. But, none of that stuff matters. He’s just super cool and a blast to hang around.

While he was here over the weekend, I took him over to Big Al’s for a beer and we talked a mile a minute, catching up. We started discussing the sorry state of our politics and all of the hatred that seems to be dividing us. Out of nowhere, he told me a story that I want to share in this space. It was very moving, the kind of story that stays in your heart and mind long after the telling...

Deen is 8 years older than me. When he attended middle school in Virginia Beach, he was there when the first black student was admitted. Deen, like most middle schoolers in the early 60’s in Virginia had had very little exposure to black people. In the weeks leading up to the big day, his parents tried to prepare him for what it might be like. They warned him that because of the poverty that the kid probably lived in, he might not be dressed very well, might not have decent shoes...or shoes at all! Deen had no idea what to expect. When you’ve had no interaction with anyone of a certain race, naturally there is a bit of fear and apprehension. The entire school was filled with tension and anxiety.

The first few days after his arrival, Deen never saw him. But a week or so later, while Deen was at his locker between classes, he spotted him down the hall headed right for him...My heart began beating hard in my chest. I could see that we were going to pass within inches of each other. I was too nervous to even think about speaking! But, I did notice something immediately. He was wearing freshly ironed pants, and a madras shirt, which for an eighth grader was considered high fashion back then. He was impeccably groomed. But, when he passed by something amazing happened. It was the smell that I remember as if it happened yesterday...the fresh, familiar smell of...Ivory Soap. It was amazing, something like a revelation for me...he washed his face with Ivory Soap...just like I did, just like almost all of us did. Maybe we were more alike than we were different? To this day, whenever I smell Ivory Soap, I think of that brave boy...

Maybe this story needs to be told again and again as we approach this election. Despite the screaming headlines, and the voices raised in hatred, when we strip away all the noise, we are more alike as human beings than we are different. The love that is possible between us has got to become stronger than the hatred that so easily ensnares us. We can do better. We can be better.