Am I a Racist?

On March 24, 2012 in a blog entitled, “A Conversation About Trayvon Martin”, I wrote this:

 Why is it that nobody in their right mind would dare be caught walking around in any predominately black neighborhood in America after dark? If I am walking with my wife, from a restaurant to my car downtown after dark and I see a group of three black teenagers in baggy pants, hoodies, smoking cigarettes on the corner, is it racist of me to be scared? If I cross the street to avoid having to go near them, am I guilty of a hate crime? Actually, in my mind, if I saw three white teenagers similarly dressed on that same corner I would experience the same fear, however if the instinct for self-preservation means anything at all, it means that my fear isn't racist, but rational.

A couple of days ago, Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban said this:

"I mean, we're all prejudiced in one way or another. If I see a black kid in a hoodie and it's late at night, I'm walking to the other side of the street. And if on that side of the street, there's a guy that has tattoos all over his face -- white guy, bald head, tattoos everywhere -- I'm walking back to the other side of the street. And the list goes on of stereotypes that we all live up to and are fearful of. So in my businesses, I try not to be hypocritical. I know that I'm not perfect. I know that I live in a glass house, and it's not appropriate for me to throw stones."

Mr. Cuban has had the wrath of the racism industry brought down upon his head for his observations, becoming the latest NBA owner to be branded a racist.

So, does that make me a racist too? Before you answer, maybe you should take the time to read the following quote:

‘There is nothing more painful to me at this stage of my life than to walk down the street and hear footsteps and start thinking about robbery, then look around and see somebody white and feel relieved.”

What mouth-breathing bigot said such a thing?

Jesse Louis Jackson Sr.

Stress

In times of great stress, some people bite their nails; others suffer debilitating headaches, while still others have full-blown, call-the-guys-in-the-white coats nervous breakdowns. Then there are those of us who suffer with things that can’t be spoken about in polite company. I had one such episode this afternoon.

Noticing the impending storms in the forecast, I thought it might be a good idea to get the grass cut. The fact that it was 91 degrees and humid and I have been worried sick about my Dad for nearly two months never entered my mind. All I saw was tall grass and lots of green and orange spots on the radar.

About half way through the job I begin to feel a bit light headed. A more prudent person might have taken a break and gotten something to drink. An even more prudent person would have hired some slack-jawed kid from the neighborhood to cut the grass for him, but that wasn’t going to happen…because I’m too cheap and not at all prudent. So, I continued on and finished the job, feeling worse and worse by the minute. By the time I put the mower away, I was sweating like Donald Sterling at a Bojangles franchise in Watts.

I made my way up the stairs and about the time I got to the bedroom I felt the lights going out and luckily had the presence of mind to get on the floor before I fell. I lay there for a minute or so, and then managed to get myself onto the bed where I finally called out to Pam for assistance. She saved the day by applying cold washcloths to my face, the same stuff my Mom used to do whenever I got sick when I was a kid. Then she noticed it…the towel I was laying on. I don’t actually remember doing it, but apparently, when I rose from the floor, despite extreme discomfort, I had the presence of mind to walk into the bathroom, got a bath towel, and spread it out on the bed before collapsing onto it.

“I can’t believe you thought to put a towel down before lying on the bed!” she beamed. “I’ve trained you so well.”

“Are you kidding? Did you see how much they charged you last week to dry clean this comforter??”

See, I told you I was cheap.

I’m fine now, crisis avoided. I managed to feel well enough after dinner to go over to see Dad. I fed him some ice cream, gave him a shoulder rub and took him for a spin around the nursing home in his wheel chair.

He had no idea who I was.

A Confession

Despite the fact that I am currently in the midst of a four year no-ticket streak and am accident free for over ten years, I must confess that I have become a terrible driver.

I recently drove to Princeton, New Jersey and back. It was not pretty. Granted, that trip is about as horrible a drive as exists in America, and the traffic was off the charts, but in all candor, I drove like a maniac.

Here’s the thing…the older I have gotten, the more maniacal I have become behind the wheel. When traffic becomes worse and worse, I become more and more aggressive. Part of the problem is I’m used to driving a Cadillac CTS with a huge and powerful engine, so when I get in the old family Pacifica I try to drive it like a sports car. It’s kind of like running a sprint in army boots.

Pam and Kaitlin were unanimous in their negative opinions about my too aggressive style, not to mention my smart-mouthed sister in the car behind us trying to keep up. Thanks to walkie-talkies, I was plagued with two cars full of back seat drivers!

I’m not sure why, but whenever I’m on a long trip in the car, I become a crazy person. I start weaving in and out of traffic, changing lanes for the pure hell of it and driving much too fast. It’s like I become obsessed with conquering the trip at all costs and woe be unto the poor slob who makes the mistake of putting his Prius in the passing lane doing the speed limit!

I have a feeling it has to do with stress. Maybe my aggressive driving is a release of some sort, or maybe I’m turning into my Grandfather, John Dixon, who was once pulled over at age 80 going 95 mph the wrong way down route 29 near Amherst, Virginia. So, maybe it’s in my DNA.

“You don’t understand Officer, it’s not my fault. It’s genetics!!”

You Can't Fix Stupid

Ok…here’s the difference between me and this world.

This morning, I read the story of Markisha Jones and Gene Edwards of Chicago who were arrested for criminal child neglect. Their twin girls, Mia and Mya were celebrating their first birthday in a shared crib in the basement of a rundown apartment while Mom and Dad were upstairs playing video games. Apparently the alleged parents were quite fond of video games, as they had been so transfixed they had forgotten to feed their children. Father Gene finally noticed that his girls were starting to look “a little skinny” so he called 911, whereupon he and his gaming girlfriend were promptly jailed as Mya passed away on the dining room table. The unmarried couple was charged with involuntary manslaughter and felony child endangerment. Mia has been placed in protective care.

Our world will look at this story and immediately began constructing excuses. Like vegetables flying around inside of a blender, the facts in this case will be obscured beyond recognition by any number of tangential issues having nothing to do with anything as follows:

1. Jesse Jackson will show up soon bellyaching about the fact that the couple’s mug shots were published along with this story in a racist attempt to stigmatize the African American community.
2. A spokeswoman from Mothers Against Video Games will assail the manufacturers of whatever game they were playing while the kids starved in the basement, proclaiming this tragedy as undeniable proof that video games contribute to poor parenting.
3. Mayor Rahm Emanuel will take the opportunity to call for more spending on poverty programs.
4. President Obama will point out the fact that if he neglected to feed his girls for weeks while playing video games, they would look an awful lot like Mia and Mya.
5. Somebody from Planned Parenthood will point out how this whole sorry tale could have been avoided if only Markisha had had an abortion.
6. Somebody from Focus on the Family will decry the fact that Gene and Markisha were, in fact, unmarried and living in sin.

Meanwhile, we have a dead one year old child.

This is not a case of “babies having babies.” When the twins were born, their mother was 18, their father 21. Considering the fact that fifty years ago, this couple might have been on their second or third child at that age makes that argument sound ridiculous. My mother had two kids by the time she was 19 and four by the time she turned 27. Neither is this a tragic case of lack of adequate poverty programs. This couple qualified for free formula along with a plethora of other city, state and government handouts that could have provided all of the nutrition required for two growing babies. This is also manifestly not about the race of the parents. This couple could just as easily been Bubba and Jolene from Chicken Scratch, Kentucky. The only real, true culprits here are these two moronic pieces of pond scum slouched back on their sofa trying to get to the next level of Mario Kart while two innocent children perished from neglect in a cold clammy basement warmed only by a space heater. I’ll let all of the poverty pimps and the root cause crowd figure out how to blame this on the Koch brothers. I’ll let the politicians try to score cheap political points by spinning this tragedy into a fund-raising letter. While they are doing all of that, I’ll tell you what I would do if I were King. I would arrange to have Markisha and Gene hung by the neck until they were dead, or at the very least spend the rest of their pathetic existence behind bars. Then I would cut through all the red tape so that Mia is given to a family of responsible, loving parents who give a damn about children.

Sometimes, you just can’t fix stupid.

I Got Married Thirty Years Ago Today

Thirty years ago today I was standing in the clammy, molded basement of Winn’s Baptist Church with my best friend, Al Thomason, listening to organ music, and feeling my heart beating in my chest. For a second I completely forgot what my cue was supposed to be, adding panic to nausea. Then my Dad said, “Ok, that’s us.” It was finally comforting to be the son of a minister. Al and I followed him up the stairs, down a little hallway and into the blinding light of what seemed like a thousand faces. Every living soul who I had ever known was there, dressed to kill, grinning serenely at me as I followed Dad to the spot on the red carpet marked with a masking tape X.

I looked into the crowd, seeing everything and seeing nothing. Suddenly, the piano and organ sounded triumphant and everyone rose to their feet. Then, I saw her at the end of the aisle holding on to her father’s arm. For a brief moment I considered the possibility that I might either cry or flee… neither a consummation devoutly to be wished. I quickly recovered when she began to walk slowly down the aisle. The closer she got to me the calmer I felt.

I had spent the morning playing full court basketball with the assorted knuckleheads who comprised the male contingent of the wedding party, enduring a cascade of slurs attacking my manhood, judgment and intelligence, all informing me that my life was about to be over with the arrival of the old ball and chain. This is the way guys deal with sober, life altering events, with trash talk. When I made the mistake of informing them that I had arranged to have a dozen roses delivered to her house an hour ago, the news was greeted with howls of derision…”Awww, ain’t he just the most romantic guy in the world?? Let’s all go have a wine cooler and watch The Way We Were!” Now these very same knuckleheads were standing all over the platform in tuxedos, jealous that I was the one marrying the beautiful blond walking down the aisle.

The next thing I know, I hear my brother at the piano singing a song that I had written for the occasion. I hardly recognized my own composition, so mesmerized was I by this vision standing next to me in front of God and man. In that moment, before children, before cars and houses, before success and failure, before dogs and cats, there was just the two of us listening to a poorly written but heartfelt love song. For the first time in nearly a month, I relaxed.

The whole thing would be over with in twenty five minutes. I remember little of what happened after that song. There were vows and the lighting of candles and at the very end we stood there for what seemed like forever waiting for Roger Harris to finish singing the Lord’s Prayer. Then it was over. I had married the most beautiful woman in the world and the earth was still spinning round. Despite the predictions of most of my groomsmen, hell had not frozen over.

Of course, getting together is a lot easier than staying together, but thirty years later, here we are. The kids are grown. She’s still beautiful, and I’m still here.

The very best decision I have ever made.

New Jersey

This morning I make what I hope will be my very last trip that features New Jersey as the destination. I mean, I don’t mind passing through the Garden State on my way to Maine, but going for a long weekend in New Jersey isn’t the sort of thing you brag about around the office. This will be the sixth or seventh such trip I’ve made since my son enrolled in grad school up there two years ago and let me tell you, it’s been an education.

For example, I’ve learned to fill up with gas in Delaware or Maryland before entering NJ, because once you cross the Soprano’s state line you have to pay a dollar more per gallon. Why? Well, it seems that a law passed in 1920 that restricted consumers from pumping their own gas is still on the books. Therefore, every gas station in the entire state is full service only and somebody has to pay for that attendant. I’m told that the pumpers have their own union, to protect them from any potential changes in the law that might eliminate their jobs. Of course that may be one of those urban legends, but when you observe how slow these guys move and discover just how little the word “full” means in “full service”, you have no trouble at all believing that these guys are union men.

Then there are the famous traffic laws that plague this state. One day years ago in Trenton, a committee of New Jersey’s finest public servants went out and tied on a 5 martini lunch. Then they all stumbled back to their back room in the capital building and devised the traffic plan from the pits of hell whereby somebody slurred, “Heyyyy, I gots an idea…Why don’t we make it illegal for anyone in New Jersey to make a left hand turn?!” This made perfect sense only to drunk legislators; nevertheless it became the law of the land.

So, when I’m driving down number one highway just outside of Princeton and I see my hotel on the other side of the highway, I can’t make a left at the light. No, I have to continue driving, oh I don’t know, another ten miles or so until I come upon a “loop road.” This is a creation born of the aforementioned 5 martini lunch whereby someone wanting to turn left must first turn right, negotiate a sweeping loop around to a stop sign, then merge onto another road that takes you back to number one highway where you sit for five minutes at a red light. Only after all of these steps can you then turn back onto your original road going in the opposite direction. This scheme is administered by the New Jersey Traffic Commission, a bureau under the auspices of the New Jersey Transportation Administration and Laundromat. This also explains why New Jersey’s Governor’s biggest scandal involved not kickbacks or sexual sin but…traffic.

Incidentally, the reason for this trip is actually a glorious thing. My son is graduating from Westminster Choir College with a Masters Degree in composition. I couldn’t be more proud of his talent and hard work. I also couldn’t be happier that he’s soon moving to Nashville.

Hard Questions

My gut instinct tells me that this blog is no place to hash out great theological questions, but spend enough time watching your father die, and theological questions become unavoidable. I suppose I’m tired of debating with myself, tired of questions that have no answers. For the past three and a half years this blog has been my own personal therapist, and much cheaper than going to a real one, so I will open up this topic to you in the hope that one of you will be able to provide a workable answer.

I have noticed, especially on Facebook, that whenever a favorable wind blows through someone’s life, whenever difficult circumstances suddenly work out for the best, or whenever some serendipitous event or fortuitous windfall arrives, no matter how trivial, Christian people are quick to give God the credit, usually with the horribly tedious formulation, it’s a God thing. However, when God is silent in the face of great unspeakable tragedy, when desperate prayers go unanswered, when the imponderables of life arrive on the stage, God is given a pass. We are told that it isn’t in God’s timing, or that God is trying to teach some valuable lesson to someone, somewhere, or what we are asking him to do isn’t in his will.

Over the past six months as I have watched the sad deterioration of my Dad’s health, I have searched for answers to the question, “why?” For what purpose does Dad endure such a pointless and debilitating ordeal? For what reason is this part of God’s plan? I pray every night for God to allow Dad to be reunited with my Mother. I pray that God will take him home, peacefully in his sleep. But each day brings fresh suffering. I am forced to the conclusion that God’s silence in this matter is either some form of benign neglect, or that my Father’s suffering pleases him in some way, a possibility that disturbs me greatly.

While I am aware that God is under no obligation to answer every prayer that tumbles out of my imperfect heart, after all God isn’t some cosmic vending machine. But with each passing day as I see what Dad’s life has become, I sink further into despair and anger, and my feelings about God become more and more ambivalent.

Maybe we have lapsed into too modern a conception of who God is, proscribing ever more loving and compassionate characteristics to him than are justified by the biblical record. You want to know what’s a God thing? How about judgment and wrath? And from what I have observed over that last six months maybe pain and humiliation are God thing’s too.

So, there you have it. It’s the classic problem of pain I guess. Why do bad things happen to good people? If the purpose of Dad’s suffering is to teach someone a lesson, then whoever you are and wherever you are, please learn it already. We’re dying here.