Not Black Enough??

Let me begin by stating the obvious. As a white male I must be careful commenting on race relations. When doing so I feel the need to preface my opinions with the caveat that I know very little of the interworking’s of black culture beyond what I see from Hollywood and what I observe in the world from the vantage point of white privilege. It feels silly but I also feel compelled to point out the fact that I have had many black friends in my life and no shortage of black role models, including the single best teacher I ever had, Mrs. Winston at Elmont Elementary School.

But an article I read yesterday has disturbed me greatly because it concerns someone I respect and feel a certain kinship with because of his local connection. Russell Wilson, Super Bowl hero, has apparently upset a segment of his team by not being “black enough.” According to a story written by a local reporter, a rift has erupted in the Seahawk locker room between players who supported recently traded Percy Harvin, and those who supported Wilson. Some insisted that the only reason that Harvin was traded was because he couldn’t get along with Wilson. Not being “black enough” is apparently a real thing in black culture. Sometimes it involves skin tone, but other times it concerns behavior. Blacks who happen to be “well spoken” are suspect, their authenticity called into question by other blacks who prefer a more tortured English.

I must here confess that I’m pretty sure that I haven’t spent even thirty seconds of my life pondering whether I am “white enough.” My whiteness seems self-evident. When I look at Russell Wilson his blackness seems equally self-evident. As far as I know both of his parents were black, although I never met his Mom since she died a when he was quite young. So, there must be something in his deportment that has caused his racial authenticity to come into question.

Here’s what I see. Everything this kid has ever done has demonstrated that he is an exceptional person. As a quarterback, there are few who have his dynamic skill set. As a student, first at Collegiate here in Richmond, then at N.C. State and Wisconsin, he excelled academically. Everywhere his life has taken him, he has overachieved, and demonstrated that rarest of qualities…leadership.

So, in what way precisely is he not black enough?  Did the fact that he married a white girl, his high school sweetheart, damage his black brand? Maybe. Is the fact that he has become the face of the Seattle franchise made some teammates jealous? Probably. It can’t be money since he has not signed his first big contract yet and actually is one of the most underpaid athletes in America. Why exactly does his erudition make him a target of some of his black teammates? Would they prefer him to act dumber than he is? Would his teammates prefer him to rough up a few women, get caught driving drunk, or get caught up in a few fights at strip clubs? Would this authenticate his blackness to their satisfaction?

Russell Wilson is one of the few professional athletes in any sport who I would want my children to emulate. He works hard, is courteous and polite in conversation and behavior, and through his low key work at local hospitals in Seattle, seems to give a damn about the world around him, unlike most athletes (black and white) who care only about themselves.

I don’t get it.

Ammesty?

Going to bed with the beginnings of a headache is bad. Even worse is waking up at 4:30 in the morning with a fully formed one. In this particular variety, there’s a spot behind my left eye that pulses with dull pain in perfect rhythm with my heart beat. The remedy for this condition is three Advil, a cup of strong coffee, and hope.

Reading the news from overnight in such a condition is almost always unpleasant. Bearing witness to the daily absurdities of 21^st century life with a blinding headache takes away your ability to laugh, for one thing, which has always been my best defense against despair. So this morning I must face news about the President’s post-election plans to grant amnesty to 12 million illegal immigrants without a laugh track…no easy task. In this effort he has the full support of the Chamber of Commerce, an unlikely ally, along with many pro-business Republicans. It is an issue that perplexes me. Part of me thinks that since we have neither the ability nor the desire to round up 12 million illegals, we might as well grant them amnesty so we can start taxing them. But there’s another side of me that thinks that when a Democratic President and the Chamber of Commerce agree on something, it smells like an unholy alliance up to no good.

The Chamber likes amnesty because it likes business, and what’s better for business than a never ending supply of cheap labor? A Democratic President likes amnesty because with a stroke of a pen he can create 12 million new democrats. I suppose we should all be grateful that he has shown enough restraint to wait until after the midterms. No need to get greedy I suppose.

Lest any of you think that I am anti-immigrant, I would like to point out that no American can be anti-immigrant with anything approaching a clear conscience. All of us were immigrants at some point. My ancestors came over from Germany and Ireland or wherever a couple hundred years ago. As an American, I am proud to belong to such a country, a place where people have been plotting and scheming to get to for generations. I am especially proud at dinner time on the weekends when I am presented with restaurant choices from every corner of the globe.  

But something has changed in our country over the years. I don’t get the sense anymore that those who come to America have any desire to become Americans. We are hyphenating ourselves into enclaves where ethnicity trumps citizenship. America has become a nation that has lost its knack for assimilation. Instead of demanding more and more civic virtue from us, instead of expecting more and more responsibility from us, our government seems hell-bent on making it easier and easier to become one of us.  

With or without a headache, this isn’t good news.

The 2014 Midterm Election

I understand that there’s an election coming up. For me the races are to find a replacement for Eric Cantor, and a U.S. Senate race between the incumbent Mark Warner and his challenger, Ed Gillespie. Decisions, decisions…

The Congressional race is between two Randolph Macon professors, which sounds like the punch line of a joke. Actually it’s kind of nice in a way since neither of them are career politicians…yet. I don’t know enough about either of the two gentlemen to have formed an opinion, although generally speaking, it doesn’t look like a good year for the party of government. So unless the Democratic professor is running with the slogan, “I’m not like the rest of my incompetent Party,” I think I’ll probably pass.

The Senate contest is more difficult for me. On the one hand there’s Mr. Warner, the Democrat, who has largely kept his nose clean so far, seldom making the news which is a good thing. I like the fact that he followed the Founders vision of going into government only after making something of himself, in his case starting and running a very successful business. I can’t think of anything the Senate needs more than someone with some actually real world experience in the business world, the kind of business that has to make a product and sell it at a profit, not the other kind of business which brings me to Mr. Gillespie.

Ed Gillespie probably is closer to me on the large issues of the day, but represents everything that I loathe about our political system. In his campaign ads he is fond of pointing out the fact that he has “started two successful businesses.” What he doesn’t tell you is that one was a lobbying firm that traded on his own lifelong connections in DC to sell influence. The fact that he formed that business with a Democrat only means that he was a bipartisan influence peddler. The other business was something called “Ed Gillespie Strategies,” a consulting firm also devoted to politics. In fact, it would seem that Mr. Gillespie has never held any meaningful employment outside the bubble of Washington in his entire life. Now, there are two ways to look at this. One, you could view this as a plus, demonstrating as it does a keen understanding of how Washington works, a nice skill to have in the toolbox of a freshman Senator. On the other hand you could see this insular political resume as an indictment, proof that Mr. Gillespie is about as far removed from real world problems as Harry Reid, and conclude that the last thing we need in DC is another careerist.

So, it looks like once again I will enter the ballot box with my brain tied in knots.

Highway 66...an education

The Great Smoky Mountain Adventure is over and as a souvenir I brought home a lovely cold complete with scratchy throat, irritating cough and runny nose. It was a small price to pay for such a fun four days. I’m afraid to step on the scales this morning since I’m sure that I brought back more than merely the sniffles. But, that’s why God created American Family Fitness. When I am 80, infirm and broke, I hope that my children will remember all of these fun trips when pondering the question, “Where did all of Dad’s money go??”

Previous blogs have detailed the great fun we had so I won’t repeat them here. However, there was one major downer to the whole Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg experience. Highway 66. This is the major artery that leads you to the area off of Interstate 40. Whether by accident or design, it seems to be the only way to enter, sort of like the Pearly Gates. Actually it’s more like the way that department stores set up their floor plans, forcing you to meander through rows of high profit margin junk before you can find the package of underwear you’re looking for. Well, highway 66 is a 20 mile stretch of high profit margin junk that you must endure before you are rewarded with your cabin. This 20 miles takes roughly one hour and fifteen minutes to traverse. That’s right, in the time it takes for you to drive from Richmond to DC, the visitor is treated to 38 pancake joints, a dozen go-cart tracks, 16 tattoo parlors, enough doughnut shops to give all of China a sugar high, the “largest Christmas shop in the south,” three water parks, five helicopter ride pads, two Elvis museums, three psychic readers, and a giant remake of Mount Rushmore replacing the Presidents with the four icons of Dixie…John Wayne, Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and Conway Twitty.

Highway 66 is an education. You want to learn about America? Forget the Smithsonian, forget National Parks. Just take Highway 66 from Interstate 40 to Wears Valley Road and soak it all in. No tolls, lots of waiting!

Zip Lining with Snoop and Opie

Having a wonderful time here in the Smoky Mountains doing all the stuff that I could never do back home. That’s always my goal on any vacation. I mean, why would anyone go to Hawaii and eat dinner at Shoneys? So, when I am in Pigeon Forge I want to do Pigeon Forge stuff like go zip-lining.

I saw a sign on one of the winding roads leading up here that advertised something called “Zip-Line Adventures” with the provocative invitation to “zip-line through history.” Turns out that the zip-lining through history part was bogus since the original owner with the big plans to build giant replicas of iconic images of American history in the valleys below the lines had moved on from the enterprise and the current owners had never bothered to change the road signs. It’s this type of bracing honesty that I find so refreshing down here. Imagine how differently we would all feel about government if they would just admit that they are incompetent every now and then instead of blaming every screw up on a lack of proper funding. But, I digress…

The best part of our zip-lining adventure was the ride in the back of the pickup truck to the top of the mountain. This brought back a flood of memories from my childhood when grownups were fond of throwing gaggles of middle schoolers in the backs of pickup trucks with nary a seat belt in sight. Only this particular ride was even more harrowing since the “road” was nothing more than an oversized foot path and the driver of our vehicle was named “Snoop” and drove like someone who had made this drive so many times he could do it in his sleep, which is to say…way too fast!

Once at the top we found the company headquarters which used to belong to a 90 year old woman who lived alone until her children insisted that maybe she might be too old to make the trip into town every day. Now the place looked like a perfectly beautiful home that had been transformed into a crack house/hostel that doubled as a meth lab. All previous customers had been allowed to inscribe their names to every flat surface of the place for posterity with permanent markers which gave the place a certain post-apocalyptic look.

Jon was having none of it. He opted out of participation despite the presence of a six year old child in full harness. It would be just Patrick and me. If Jon lives to be 100, I will probably never let him forget it.

The aforementioned Snoop and his assistant…wait for it…Opie, started with a safety demonstration which included the wonderfully reassuring phrase, “We have an 82% survival rate!” It was unclear whether this statistic included the truck ride up and down the mountain, but that’s a quibble I suppose.

I had paid for a four line trip, since the seven line super package would have taken too long and I had plans to do other dangerous stuff on this day and couldn’t spend all afternoon with Snoop and Opie. Here are some pictures and a video of our adventure.

It was all great fun!

Birkenstock and Elvis

When Pam and I became empty nesters permanently back in July, I immediately began to plot and scheme for ways to stay close to our children. Yes, I did say children, because although both of them are fully grown adults, they will always be our children. The fact that I am no longer able to use them to help lower my tax burden does not diminish their value. The fact that I no longer am responsible for their care and feeding, does not mean that I no longer wish to ever feed them again. I have invested too much time and money in the two of them to simply let them waltz away to Columbia, South Carolina and Nashville, Tennessee without so much as a whimper of protest.

So, I pulled out a map of the United States and drew a circle around our three cities, then tried to find a spot on the map that was equidistant for all of us. The closest point of reasonable interest happened to be the Pigeon Forge area of Tennessee, in the midst of the Great Smoky Mountains, aka…Hillbilly Vegas. So, I got online and began the search for a cabin to rent and an agreeable long weekend. When I extended the invitation, both of them jumped at the chance to get away and spend some of Dad’s money.

Pam and I arrived around 4 or so in the afternoon and instantly fell head over heels for this place. For one thing, it was clean as a pin and decorated beautifully. But the view off of the three decks from each floor is a stunning panorama that stretches out for miles. The leaves are near their peak. We are at a high elevation so we can see the tops of shining yellow and bright fiery orange trees far below us. Once the sun set the vast valley lit up in a sea of lights stretching to the end of the horizon. Now, we just have to wait for the kids to arrive and hope that A. they can find this place at night, and B. they don’t drive off a cliff in the process.

Earlier this evening Pam and I came down off this mountain to get something to eat in Pigeon Forge and then pick up some groceries for the weekend. We chose a place called “No Way Jose’s” Mexican Cantina, only because the place next door that claimed to serve the “best ribs in America” had a thirty minute wait.  When we were preparing to leave No Way Jose’s, a family of 15 waddled past us on their way to a table in the back, all 15 of whom tipped the scales at a minimum of 250 pounds. None of them were much taller than Pam. This is when I knew that I wasn’t in Short Pump anymore.

This being my third trip to the area, I have been looking forward to some major league people watching in perhaps the best spot in America for such a purpose. You see it all here. For example, when Pam and I were pulling out of the No Way Jose’s parking lot we noticed a juxtaposition of two businesses that I feel certain one would never find anywhere else on the planet. There was a Birkenstock store right next to an Elvis Museum. ‘Murika.

Ready By Christmas

With the invaluable assistance of the devoted Denise Roy, I am putting the finishing touches on a book about death and dying, specifically my Mother’s death and the last two years of my Father’s life. It sounds positively dreadful when stated this way, but it really isn’t. It’s just the story of a family trying desperately to honor their parents amidst great loss and the often humiliating experience of caring for a dying Father. Most of the “story” is simply my unfiltered response to it all as it was happening…on this blog.

Compiling it all has meant living it over again in slow motion. As I have read and reread each post I have felt it all again, the frustration, the sadness, the anger and even the pride that comes with the realization of just how noble and dignified it all was, despite many missteps.

I’m hoping to have it all done and ready by Christmas. I will self-publish. There will be a physical paperback version in limited quantities, but mostly it will be a digital book available in e-book form.

Mostly, this project is intended as a tribute to my parents and my brother, sisters, nieces and nephews and a wide assortment of friends who were instrumental in insuring that my Dad’s final year was filled with dignity instead of despair. Also, the thought occurred to me that the record of our experiences might be of value to someone out there who might be going through the same journey.

There is still much to do. For one thing, I need to come up with a title, cover art…those sorts of things. Writing is the easy part, everything else is a mine field.