June 18, 2015

As I sit comfortably, even if a bit sweaty, in my humble bachelor's pad in the Fairmount neighborhood of Fort Worth, watching my youngest son play Xbox without a concern in the world, I feel a weight of sadness, knowing that tonight people mourn loved ones lost to a senseless act of hatred and violence.

Back when I was about six years old, a year younger than my youngest is now, I became the victim of racial hatred. I was playing in the yard of our Denver apartment building when a black child who must have been 12 years old or so, found me alone and attacked me, calling me words I had never heard before, words I later learned all too well. I remember how it felt when he managed to kick me in my arm pit and how shocked I was to be receiving a beating from someone I had never seen before. I don't remember much about the aftermath, just the indignation of having been hated because I was white. In the years following the attack,  my family lived mostly on Air Force bases, and no matter what negative associations I might have with those places, I can remember that they were racially diverse communities where housewives often joined one another for coffee and gossip, and where race was seldom a reason to prevent someone from playing pick up games of football in the nearest field. My parents never used racial epithets around me, and never did we talk about the attack I had suffered as being a reason to cast dispersion on anyone of color.

Visiting my family in North Carolina, however, I learned that race was still very much an issue. The first time I remember hearing the "n word," was in the small community where my dad had been raised. Years later, when my father married my stepmom, an African American woman, I learned that even though most of the people I knew there would never condone lynching, they seemed quite certain by their responses that marrying outside of one's race was a cardinal sin. I remember thinking that, as much as I love living in the South, I wouldn't want to raise my children in a community that openly belittles others because of their skin color, or because of behavior that developed as a natural result of years of oppression. I remember being in my 20s, and feeling embarrassed by the shows of deference given me by elderly black folks working in service occupations. "Please ma'am, you don't need to call me 'sir,'" I remember saying to the elderly black lady who used to sweep my classroom floor with her God-awful dust mop that carried the mustiness of million passes across the elementary school floors.

Worse yet, I remember my own carelessness with words when I insulted a man I deeply respected, believing that because everyone knew I wasn't a racist, I could say anything and it would still be funny. Sorry, but being friends with someone for a semester does not allow me insensitivity towards his personal experience of being black.

Then, today, I read a comment Father Nathan Monk had made about his outrage that Dylan Roof, the white shooter of the black church members, was able to be arrested without violence, yet police had to brutalize poor black teens at a McKinney pool party, as though the two incidents occurring separately, thousands of miles apart, were evidence of a systemic problem with policing in America. Even though I am inclined to agree with that notion, to some extent, I chose to speak up, suggesting that at the moment when a suspect is being arrested, violence can be avoided, regardless of race:  "At the time of interaction with police, no matter the crime, the arrestee's attitude can affect the officer's behavior. Someone openly defying authorities is going to be taken down. It's ugly and sometimes brutal, but people can, except in those atrocious cases of abuse, avoid violence."

The OP then replied with a hashtag: "#victimblaming."

What followed was a series of posts and replies between me and Father Nathan Monk and those who agreed with me and those who took issue with Monk's comparisons between today's arrests and other instances of police excessive use of power when confronting black victims. 

It became clear that my view was being dismissed because I dared to suggest that some victims of police brutality could have avoided their fates if they had learned to respect authority. Sadly, there have been many well-documented cases where this was not the case. What seems to happen more and more today, through the posting and tweeting on social media, is that extreme viewpoints get all the attention, and those in the middle are thrust to one side or the other. The moral middle ground has become untenable in many instances.

For the record, I am glad to hear that the Texas Rangers are investigating what happened when the infamous McKinney cop tripped over a root and started pointing his gun at people. I am glad that Dylan Roof was arrested and will stand trial. I am glad that people are empowered to challenge authorities when authorities mess up. I am not glad that many people feel empowered to blame the cops for violence when I see children being brought up without guidance or expectations of respect for authority. 

In today's online debate, I dared to suggest that some of my students listen to rappers such as Chief Keef, and that they hear more from those who make millions promoting hate and criminal behavior than they do from elders who want them to become respectable citizens. A mother responded, saying that her son listens to all kinds of "ratchet" music and he stills loves his family and respects his elders. It is good that she is able to teach him to differentiate between music and the real world, because there are plenty of kids for whom no acceptable role model can be found. When there is no one to help shape our young people into citizens, what are we to expect of our law enforcement officers when push comes to shove?

Every institution in America needs improvement, no doubt. As I tuck my child into bed tonight, kiss his forehead and tell him that I love him, I know that the change needed in America is not the abolition of our law enforcement agencies. It may sound idealistic, and for students who suffered in my classes, repetitive, but the greatest change we need is empathy on all levels.

Imagine how much change could be effected if children were taught that empathy really mattered. When I taught English, I always emphasized the need for empathy in being an effective communicator and reader. The same applies for interacting with those who are different. Imagine if police officers learned to connect better with those they deal with, seeing perps as human beings, not just the offenses they commit...and those children being raised to understand one another and to see officers as human beings, not just symbols of authority to thwart...

Victimblaming

There's a game that some play better than others, from which few can abstain...

Some play it forcefully, full tilt, pedal to the metal, their mettle tested

Others play passively, observing from the shadows, wall flowers, flowing with the go

     never seeming to commit, always aware,

but beware these players, 

     passive aggressively throwing their slugs,

     "yes sir, no ma'am, I'll do as you suggest sir,"

     They smile and look you in the eye, and they will comply if the cuffs come to shove

and their lawyers will post bail and they will survive and their charges will flutter unfettered to the floor.

Indignant, 

righteously so,

the forceful will glare in the face of their oppressors,

and they will sound their barbaric yaups

and be cut down in the street 

as their mother's weeping plays 

in the clips on the six o'clock news, 

and edited, 

they will stream in the minds of the armchair anarchists who wait their turn to play,

their ammo boxes bulging with brass casings.

And what the world needs now is love,

the halftime show begins calling upon providence and justice

and jesters sneer, mocking the causes and players of the game,

and prophets predict doom, looking to the dusty volumes of archaic wisdom,

and I'm the man in the middle of the field, trying to forfeit the game altogether,

but by some obscurity of the rules, conscientious objectors find no sanctuary, and we must choose sides, even when truth lies somewhere in the gray areas of the game.

Longboarding in Fairmount

Longboarding in Fairmount.

He surfed the sidewalk
on wheels that mumbled
over asphalt imperfections,
past poor houses
with shades drawn
to hide the nicotine-stained wallpaper
and beige ovens
and plaid-clad couches,

past rich houses
with nude windows
baring bookshelves, darkly stained
with leather-bound unread editions,
dusted and polished by a woman who knows
few English words,
and a plasma TV that is larger than his home's
garage door, but
he does not take note nor look too long
for fear he'll raise suspicion
in his hoodie and his sagging jeans,

and a lone piece of gravel grabs his wheel.

His board stops,
he flies forward,
arms like a dying ibis,
bare hands and nipples and knees and his wiry-whiskered chin
hit pavement and taste the gritty grind of road rash,
but the rich woman sipping her vodka
decides not to call 911
when he steps back on his board,
rockets red spittle into her begonias,
and surfs onward.

Why Men Become Absentee Partners in Committed Relationships.

A Facebook friend whom I've never met posted an article written by some self-help writer or psychologist with a headline that read something like "Why Women Leave Men They Love." Out of curiosity, I had to read it, and I quickly responded to the post during my lunch break, though I tried not to sound defensive. I've seen the same article reposted, and I'm sure there are a number of women who have found satisfaction in the truths the writer expresses about why women leave men who are otherwise respectable partners.

First, the main argument of the article is that women will leave a marriage or a committed relationship when the man in the relationship is absent, emotionally, physically, spiritually, etc. The writer suggests that men must be present, paying attention to their women, or their women may very well leave them.

The post was especially poignant because I could hear my ex wife's voice as she complained that I had not given her my attention. I had made her feel less than first. She respected my devotion to our children, but she resented that even when I was physically present, I was often emotionally distant. She even quoted one of her life-long friends who told her that when our family photos appeared on her Facebook feed, it was clear by the look on my face that I had already "checked-out."

In all my confessional candor, I have to say that there were many times that she was right. The writer of the posted article claimed that the roles could be reversed, but it was clearly a one-sided argument that inspires me to ask, why would a man (or a woman) check out of a relationship while remaining committed to being there physically? Also, why do so many who leave a relationship seek justification for their leaving?

I harbor very little resentment towards my ex for doing what she felt was necessary for her personal happiness. I wish for things that can't happen now, like that we had actually gone to the marriage retreats we deemed were too expensive, or that we had committed to going to counseling before we started looking for happiness outside of our relationship. Resentment isn't the impetus for writing this response. Instead, I want to challenge those who post such one-sided articles to consider the complexity of a thing such as marriage and divorce more fully before they fire away and relax, satisfied that the truth has been made clear through the words of some blog.

The truth is, I can't explain why all men who become absent in a relationship do so. I can only speak from my experience, and I can offer caveats to those who care to read.

If your partner is checking out, do you have any responsibility in creating an environment that he or she should choose to avoid? At a certain low point in my relationship with my ex, I started tallying the number of positive things she said to me each day to compare to the number of negative. When it gets to the point where you are evaluating your relationship the way an accountant evaluates a budget, the environment is no longer conducive to those warm, loving feelings that inspire closeness and a desire to remain present.

There is much to be said for choosing your partners wisely. Sexual attraction may wane over time, but it is an important part of a love relationship. At least it was for me. When your partner makes you feel tired and old and boring, the flirtations outside of your committed relationship become more tempting. When, a couple of years before our split, I had contemplated asking for a divorce, I remember my closest friends telling me that the grass was not really greener on the other side of the fence. I knew they were right, but when your yard is barren and stubbled over with the stones of strife, even poison ivy can look like a rose bush. When it seems impossible to please the person who is supposed to be your better half, then checking out is a mechanism for "doing the right thing" for your family while numbing yourself to the negativity felt in the relationship.

At some point in my marriage, I lost the desire to please my wife. I no longer felt like her lover and friend, but felt like an employee whose manager was never satisfied. So, though I seldom went away on business trips or long weekends at the hunting lease, I did spend hours pedaling my bicycle as far as I could in a day. Though I came home from work to help with supper and to be there for the kids, I did stop being there emotionally for my wife. I can remember my internal arguments for working it out: the mathematical computations about the expense of divorce, the emotional images of my broken family, the thought of sleeping under a different roof than the one my sons would share. I figured that if I could just make it through the next bitter patch, there would be a good day that would refill the emotional spring from which I had been dipping.

There may have been a number of root causes, but there were two people responsible for the breakdown in our relationship. I don't blame the outside forces and distractions, but look inward and I would challenge anyone who is in a committed relationship to do the same thing. Don't look for solace or justification in some blogger's words, but instead, ask yourself if your relationship is a place where joy is being nourished, and if not, is it worth it to you to join your partner in finding that joy together or will you pack your things and chase the dubious promises of happiness that leaving will bring?

Turnip Greens and Garrison Keillor

I used to love his show, but it was easier to commit when I was single, and a drive towards Chapel Hill to get a better radio signal required only a couple bucks' sacrifice.

Today, he is doing what I like best, giving a poet the podium, and the musical guests are folksy, bluegrass...the music of nostalgia.

The poet reminds me of AP English IV, when I was the student, not the teacher, and Mrs. Williams explained that the speaker could be free to wander the hills of his youth, even while bound to his meaningless existence, a prisoner in a cell of his own making, and I eagerly raised my hand to participate, as was my habit, and I said, "but isn't that true for everyone? I mean, no offense, Mrs. Williams, but I'm often wandering the hills of my mind while you have us diagramming sentences..."

And she would crease her lips in that smiling smirk and sigh, and remove her glasses and put the stem in the corner of her mouth, and she would say, "you are special," and the class heard her sarcasm, and I embraced her approval.

The turnip greens are steaming my tiny kitchen, as the radio chats, an incessant voice like an old familiar friend who doesn't mind my checking in and out of our conversation as I think about poetry and remember that theology conference at Duke where a Harvard or Yale lecturer discussed the role of preacher as poet, bringing the divine to the vulgar because we cannot understand God without metaphor...And I think about my agnosticism. Someone said, "Agnostics are just atheists without guts," but I rather like believing that I could be wrong about my discoveries...I choose honesty when love and faith are at stake.

I remember when all it took to be a fake was the gentle sucking in of a girl's cheeks to feign dimpled beauty like a character from a Thomas Hardy novel. Before Tinder dates could steal someone else's Instagram images, before Botox injections could plump a lip, before reality T.V. taught us that to be famous for nothing was something...and I dream of a rustic hillside town with a single filling station and the smell of the corn in the air, and I imagine crossing paths with a country girl whose smile is a dream I am willing to lose myself in, twelve hundred miles away, and twenty years later...

The ham hocks at the bottom of my turnip greens have lured the tomcat from under my house, and he paces restlessly outside my window, aware of my antipathy, yet audacious and cold, and for a moment, as a Prairie Home Companion comes to an end, as my sons celebrate a living room triumph over a digital foe, I am where I want to be.

Listening to the Rain, a Facebook Status Update

Though I know it to be a blessing,
there's solemnity in this sound.

Inescapable.

Surrounding this house,
undermining the foundations of memories of cold nights
in leaking tents when the cold could not be kept
from the quilting of musky sleepy bodies bound in
musty sleeping bags, and the shivering ensues, soul-quaking,

conjuring images of those who
find kinship under bridges, the freeway overpasses...
edging their ground sheets from the paths of icy rivulets,
iridescent with motor oil...

Survive tonight and find the high ground is cleaner...
winter rye greener,
but the lowlands will bear the shameful flotsam...
debris of our careless lives left behind to be carried
on the shivering shoulders of muddy rain-flooded creeks.

So fall, rain.

Ahead lie dryer days and summer's oven-baked earth
cracking open like the dark gaps that grew between me and you.

Arctic Dance

Today, my sons are 6 and 13 years old. My oldest is a guitar-playing gymnast with a smile and a confident attitude that make him popular with the girls. What a contrast he is to the boy I was at his age.

I remember being in middle school in Alaska. My family moved there when the US Air Force sent my dad to Eielson Air Force Base, just a few miles from Fairbanks, in the heart of Alaska's interior. I remember vaguely a middle school dance at our rec center, and I remember showing up only to find that the boy to girl ratio was about 20 to 1. If there were three girls there, I don't remember the second nor the third. All I remember was the redhead from Missouri. She stood taller than her peers by six inches, and she had worn her arctic gear with as much grace as a middle school girl can muster. Golashes shed and parka neatly hung from a coat hook, now her white sneakers gleamed in the black light from the dance floor, as did her teeth when she smiled. I remember speculating with my peers about who would be man enough to walk over to the tiny group of girls and ask for a dance.

"I bet Barney will be first. He always gets the girls," suggested one spectator in a voice that was both reverent and envious at once, because he knew, as we all did, that Barney, the shortest kid in 7th grade, had some magical appeal to girls who hugged him and giggled whenever he smiled. I remember having no concrete imagery to illustrate what "getting girls" meant for us at the time, though there were tantalizing rumors that some girls used their tongues when they kissed.

"No, I bet Josh will, he's not afraid to look like a fool..." suggested another. Josh was a jock who seemed made for the Alaskan wilderness. He could throw a perfect spiral on the football field, or kill a moose with a single shot. I once walked in on him skinning a moose carcass in his dad's garage after a recent kill. It seemed that everyone on base hunted except for me and my family. Even though I started shaving at the age of 12, I questioned my own masculinity when compared to boys like Josh, whose broad shoulders and sinewy limbs seemed hewn from the spruce trees that spent nine months of the year bearing the weight of Alaska's frozen fury. Adolescence felt like a constant comparison chest hairs and bicep curls and other tests of manhood designed to embarrass the weak and the sensitive among us.

As I listened to the boys, I suddenly and impulsively took a step into the desolate space of the dance floor, ignoring the diamonds of light that flew like fairies around the floor and up the walls from the disco ball that spun radiantly over my head. In slow motion, I saw her friends look at me as I approached, her red hair fell in waves past her shoulder, and her smooth cheek was all I could see of her face as I slowly moved closer, one request poised in my mind, waiting for her to make eye contact so that the words could be released...hopefully without blunder, because if the first request failed, as I was certain it would, I would turn around and walk back, and then keep walking past my peers, down the carpeted hallway to the frost covered doors and back out into the arctic air, never to return.

Her friends froze in stupid shocked grins, waiting for my maneuver, and she turned. I distinctly remember her red hair seeming to fly in a silken arc that would sound like a cheesy shampoo commercial if I dared to describe it today, but then, I could imagine nothing more beautiful. Her eyes assayed my approach, and her lips smiled warmly, her freckles sandy on her pale skin.

“Hi, would you like to dance?” The words, surprisingly clear and strong considering their source, were received and accepted and she nodded, taking my hand and leaving her friends behind. We walked together towards the middle of the floor. Sadly, I can't remember the song that we danced to, nor can I remember all the details of our conversation, but I do remember feeling like a king. We were the only two kids to dance, and we danced three or four times, and for one night, I was envied and respected and even hated for my luck and my daring.

I think about that night sometimes, and wonder why I spent so many of my years shyly, lacking confidence, allowing opportunities to pass me by. Nothing became of that night. The redheaded girl and I talked only once more after that dance before her father was transferred to another base somewhere on the other side of the world. That was life in the military. Friendships often forged quickly, but were mostly short-lived. I spent my youth in transition, missing the idea of a hometown, of having roots, but learning lessons about life that are common to other military brats or children of missionaries.

In contrast, my sons have grown up in Fort Worth, connected to one place. My youngest seems more afflicted with the shyness I suffered than my eldest, who routinely performs in front of strangers, strumming his guitar with grace and poise. One of the blessings of fatherhood is the capacity for remembering...as I watch them mature, they take me back to my youth, and their struggles and victories become woven into my memories and we are connected, threaded through the unwritten narrative of my perception of now and then and what may be.