Category Archives: Racial Prejudice

Rethinking the Melting Pot

07 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by in Events, Learning from mistakes, Racial Prejudice, Travel

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3 Owls

“33 Flavors,” Baskin-Robbins used to advertise, and I probably liked them all. Years ago, ice cream came in vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. Now it comes not only in multitudinous flavors, but in low and no (as well as high?) fat varieties, frozen yogurt, ice milk, and other variations. When people are put together for any long, intense period of time, you begin to note how many variations there are in us.

When many varieties of ice cream first became available, Jan and I splurged one time by each ordering a concoction. The location was Mackinaw City as we viewed the great bridge over the Straits of Mackinac. We were celebrating our safe landing after being caught in the middle of that five miles long bridge in a windstorm and watching a camper blow off a truck onto the roadway ahead of us. The fear of having our 1960 Falcon take flight off that bridge might be supposed to remove appetites, but we were on our honeymoon, so we were believers in letting our appetites expand.

In our celebration we each ordered about seven scoops of different flavors of ice cream. (They were small scoops.) They came with names like Bat Girl (licorice), Fudge Brownie, Candy Stripers (peppermint), and Black Walnut. I just remember the appearance of the bowl as they began to melt together–black, green, red, and yellow mixing. I ate mine and Jan handed hers to me to finish, after it had begun to turn into one blended shade of brownish-grayish.

Then and there I had a revelation. The melting pot was an inadequate image for people getting along together. One has to recognize and accept the differences—the different flavors—in order to enjoy being together. (Revelations after all are hard to come by.) Trying to force everyone into one “mold” is likely to produce something that looks a bit moldy. We try to remember that when we live and work intensely together. The flavors are all there to be enjoyed. Attempts to put everything together all at once may put a strain even on great lovers (of ice cream). Everything works out in due time, with patience and flexibility and fixed purpose.

Because of a car with an eagle on the hood…

28 Thursday May 2015

Posted by in Caring, Death, Events, Learning from mistakes, Racial Prejudice, Small town life

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3 Owls

The young man was two years out of high school, making a high wage as he worked in construction on the Clinton nuclear power plant, and proud of his shiny new black Trans-Am with the large eagle design on the hood. He was a brash and mouthy country boy, which was understandable. He was young, energetic, with pockets full of cash, and he came from a small town not noted for open attitudes.

Two young men, about the same age, drove down from Chicago, looking for work, but not finding. They filled out applications, but knew they were filed away at best, often just tossed into the waste can. They had more wishes than experience, and their references were not spectacular. Their car was an old beater, barely held together by Bondo and wire. They were as brash and mouthy as the first young man.

They were on a collision course, randomly, to all appearances, not by clear intent, and they had more in common than they knew, except that one had a good paying job and the other two did not. No one witnessed the event itself. We could only imagine what was said, by whom. It was in Champaign, Illinois, outside a bar. None of the three was operating with his best behavior. Prejudices and resentments fueled their encounter.

A telephone call came to me soon afterward. Would I officiate at the funeral of a young man, killed in an angry altercation, his “pride and joy” car stolen? They didn’t know who had done it, but they had ideas. A neighbor had recommended that they call me. I didn’t know any of them, but I said “yes.” They needed someone.

There was a mob at the funeral, filling the mortuary chapel and its overflow spaces. The directors had “never seen such a crowd,” they said. The young man was well-known, if not always well-loved. Grief held center stage, but it was surrounded by a cast of anger, hatred, and fear.

After conversations with his family, I had plenty to say that appreciated his life and work. I noted the absurdity of dying because of one’s proudest possession, and I named the encounter as a tragic and devastating loss for everyone concerned. I represented a “Savior who died for all,” who loved each person, understanding the mixture of guilt and good that is in each one, and who can be trusted to take what we are and to shape it for  a better world to come. It was too early to expect anyone to understand a call for forgiveness. What did they need to forgive in the young man who was murdered? How could anyone ever forgive the murderers? Mostly the crowd was silent afterward. A few made the special effort to say that they heard what I was saying. Much later, a man said that it was the one sermon that he remembered and pondered.

Shall we join the demonstrators?

06 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by in Caring, Events, Racial Prejudice, Words

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cropped-circledance.jpgWhat is a demonstration? Is it a showing, a calling of attention to something? Or is it a proof of the reality of something, bringing enough evidence together to be persuasive, as some of us would assert the validity of the metaphorical statement, “Christ is the light of the world?” Like most words we may use the word “demonstration” either way.

Some of us grew up in a world of demonstrations which grabbed our attention, and persisted in presenting uncomfortable truths, and made life more difficult for both demonstrators and others immediately involved, with positive results I would hurry to add. There were sit-ins, marches, and boycotts– many of which demonstrated effectively the presence of racist discrimination and injustice in our world. The demonstrators often had to pay a price in fines and imprisonments, ridicule and bodily injury,

loss of security and even life, in order to demonstrate the deprivations of dignity and opportunity to others. The people demonstrated “against” had to deal with a challenge to their authority, routines and attitudes.

We owe much to one who expressed so powerfully the rule of love as a means to effective demonstration, including self-giving, sacrifice and refusal of violence–  M L King Jr. He made his source in the love of Christ a central affirmation of his work, but he made no secret that he owed much to the influence of the Mahatma as well.

I think of Sheltered Reality with its focus on homelessness, youth and their capacity to express themselves, their songs and their drums as a form of demonstration. The sound of dozens of drums can be deafening, literally, when people do not protect of their ears. It can be uncomfortable and challenging, and those involved pay a price in time and energy for their effort. The obvious “target” is the people who ignore and dismiss the problem. Yet, as the years have  gone by since the group was formed, the problems of homelessness have continued to mount, and someone must make noise about it. As in the earlier demonstrations, youth are often more willing and ready to show their true colors than their seniors.

Many of our demonstrations are more polite and subtle, less brash and potentially offensive, and as a result often less effective. We have some noisy and obvious tools at our disposal– bells, lights, and whistles to draw attention. When and how will we use them? We come from many centuries of tradition calling for human dignity and mutual service, the relief of suffering and life in solidarity with the oppressed. We live with the benefits and burdens of mass media letting us know of innumerable insults and attacks on such values. Where shall we apply ourselves and our resources? Does it matter which situation of need we address or where we work as long as we do? Shall we join the demonstrators?

The first time I was shot

29 Wednesday Apr 2015

Posted by in Farm, Growing up, guns, Learning from mistakes, Racial Prejudice

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3 Owls

The first time I was shot was when I was fourteen years old. I survived, obviously, almost unharmed.

It was winter and I was walking to the west barn to feed and water the cattle that we sheltered there. I felt a painful bee sting on my upper arm. Bees don’t show up in winter. I quickly clapped my left hand over the spot, to swat the bee, finding the hole in my heavy winter coat and the bullet that had just barely penetrated my skin. I became angry immediately.

The barn sat fifty yards from the property line. On the other side was a ten acre triangle of woods bordered by our farm, the river, and the highway. An attorney and his family had purchased that land, built a house, and moved in a few months before. They were friendly neighbors and nice people. The two boys, ten and eleven year-olds, had the run of the woods, just as I had the run of the farm. I had heard them shooting their guns before, assuming they were target practicing.

When I was shot, I realized they were just shooting carelessly. Not thinking about the trajectory or range of their guns, not conscious about anything but the power of their toys. That made me angry.

After that, our parents had a talk. I never heard their guns again, and I was glad.

My father carefully controlled who was able to hunt on the land that we farmed. In hunting season we were very cautious about where we were and what we were doing, watchful for the hunters who were in the neighboring fields. Hearing about gun accidents was common. When my father brought out his guns, he used them sparingly and taught us how to use them as we became old enough and strong enough to use them..

I didn’t have much interest in guns. Raising animals to eat seemed both more efficient and kind, since shooting with poor vision and aim was always a poor substitute for acquiring meat for the family table. We considered pistols useless for anything that we needed to do on the farm, whether shooting for food or for protecting farm animals from predators or pests.

That was 1960, a different world, we think, and a different mentality, than 2015, when the typical targets for guns seem to be other people. They are often innocent children who are finding poorly stored guns, or who are watching an adult demonstrating or cleaning his gun. They are people committing misdemeanors, or minor felonies, which, through the confusion of circumstances, receive capital punishment without a semblance of due process. They are people stepping onto porches, knocking on the wrong doors, playing their car radios too loudly, “looking like threats” in the estranged eyes of suspicious people. In 1960, I thought such dangers were reserved to the racists in southern states, organized crime zones in the cities, and the accidents of hunting seasons. I learned  it could be anytime, anywhere, even when I was minding my own business, doing my chores, just like today.

When we became foreigners and the children of wandering Arameans

09 Thursday Apr 2015

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When we lived in Minonk, Illinois, which is smack in the middle of… nowhere, and all the work of Sunday morning was done, Jan and I sometimes took our two teenagers for a get-away lunch to the nearest fast food stop, which was ten miles south at Dairy Queen, El Paso. On this particular Sunday, I got in line with the orders in mind, and stood behind a man who became increasingly disgruntled, as the famiIy in front of him tried to decipher the menu and communicate their food orders with their broken English.

Ironic, I thought, that a place named El Paso could not handle Spanish. The menu design did not help much, as the pictures did not correspond with anything printed nearby, so the process was taking awhile. Sunday mornings were usually uplifting, peaceful, and energizing, so I was in no hurry, enjoying the children’s interplay with their parents, and their struggle understanding what they were actually ordering.

Mr. Impatience Next-in-line would have none of it. His muttering under his breath grew louder and soon his swearing was loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. He turned back to me, plainly seeking support for evicting the blank, blank “foreigners, Mexicans.” “Where do they get these people, anyway?”

I put on my blank face and said what first came to mind, “Mah atah rotzeh? Ani lo yodeah,” in my best conversational Hebrew (which is to say, “What do you expect? I have no idea.”). The man turned red, turned around, and didn’t say another word. It wasn’t long before he got to place his order, and after a few moments, he had it in hand and left the restaurant.

We ate in peace, enjoying each other and the lovely family nearby who were discovering their strange and not particularly healthy or appetizing new foods.

April, 1831, along the Coosawattee River in Georgia

04 Wednesday Mar 2015

Posted by in Cherokee history, Racial Prejudice

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Cherokee Nation laurel and star

The horses and the cows were grazing in one of the fenced lots near the small log barn, and the plow sat near the gate. David was hoeing in the field, and the sun was beginning its final descent into western horizon. At the edge of the field Little Wolf had his own small hoe and wielded it with the sporadic determination of a two year old. His mother, Allie, his “Uji,” was within calling distance as she worked in the garden nearer the house, lifting and resetting small green sprouts.

The sound of a trotting horse turned their faces to the road that ran by their house and farm. The rider was coming from the Southwest along the river road, and soon they could see the calico shirt, buckskin pants, and dark skin of Ezra, a trusted slave belonging to Uncle Jack.  He turned his horse in David’s direction as soon as he saw him standing in the field.

“Your brother been arrested,” he said breathlessly to David as he slipped off the horse. “Happen this morning near New Echota, when Jack out to buy some salt pork for his store. Not know what happen to him when he not come back when he said.”[iii]

“Who arrested him?”  David interrupted.

“Georgia Guard. I find out when I go find Jack. Wife of old man Sawney see it happen and tell me. The soldiers come up the road with white man who claim old man’s place belong to him. Jack not happy and get mad. Tell white men to go back and leave old man alone. Soldiers arrest both and take ‘em away. Say they will sell ‘em for slaves.”

“Do you know where they took them?”

“No. I go back to New Echota and tell Mr. Boudinot what I find out. He gets his man Caleb and they go to look for him.”

“Thank you, Ezra. Come with me and we’ll get something for you to eat. I’ve got to think about this. The Georgia Guard no longer has to have a reason to do what they do.” David took the reins of the horse and led it back to the stable.

Allie and Little Wolf had come up behind them and heard their words. Allie escorted Ezra to their house and offered him the basin, water pitcher, and towels sitting on the porch for washing hands and faces, and they each in turn used them. After she had cleaned up Little Wolf, she went inside to prepare for their meal.  Spreading a fresh muslin tablecloth, she began putting brown stamped pottery bowls and metal spoons on the table, preparing for the stew that she had simmering in a black pot hanging above the coals in the fireplace. Taking the loaf of corn bread from a sideboard she cut it into thick slices on the table. She set a pitcher of goat’s milk and four cups in easy reach at the center of the table. Next to it she placed a large bowl of mixed berries and a wooden spoon. Finally, she took the bowls to the pot and filled them with a steaming mixture of meat, broth, and vegetables. By that time, David also had cleaned up and come in.

David said, “Please sit down, Mr. Ezra. We are grateful to you for bringing us word of our brother.”

Ezra hesitated a moment,  then sat down quickly on the bench and rubbed his hands together. The others sat down after him. David thanked the Creator Spirit for the food on their table and their guest, and asked help for his brother, and they began to eat.

“You stay here tonight, Ezra. You and your horse have travelled far enough for today,” David said, after a few quiet minutes. “I will go back to New Echota and see if there is any news from Elias. If not, I will stay at Jack’s store until I have been able to learn something. I just hope that Jack is able to keep his temper under control. He could make matters worse if he loses it again.”

“I go back tonight,” Ezra said. “My horse is strong. I don’t rest here. Your brother needs me to work at store when he gone. We take road slow. Full moon tonight helps us.”

“I wish you could both wait until morning,” Allie said. “But if there is anything to be done, I know you want to get right to it. Perhaps John Martin could advise us. If he is here I will find out in the morning and speak with him. If he is in New Echota you must speak to him.”

“Yes, I will also see if John Ridge is getting back from his trip to Washington with any news.[iv] If I know my brother Jack, he will try to bribe his way out when he finds a greedy officer. Sorry to say, that is probably the best way to handle it. We don’t need yet another case that stands on principles, because Georgia has none. The governor will just stand with his back to the wall and fight like a wildcat, and keep people in prison. We have to get Jack out if we can.”

[iii] The account of John Adair Bell’s arrest comes from The Cherokee Adairs prepared by the Adair Family Reunion Book Committee, published by the Cherokee Nation 2003, page 26.

[iv] The account of John Ridge’s delegation to Washington D.C. in mid-1831 and his meetings with President Jackson are recorded in Chapter 15 of John Ehle, Trail of Tears: The Rise and Fall of the Cherokee Nation (New York, Doubleday, 1988), pages 240ff.

Letter from the “Good Old Days”…things gotta change

01 Sunday Mar 2015

Posted by in People, Racial Prejudice

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Bessie Coen

Bessie Coen

Rose Hill, July 19, 1914 [Miss Bessie Coen, Marshall Ave 3201, Mattoon] 

Dear Bessie, I will answer your most kind and welcome letter which I received last Friday and was sure glad to hear from you. How are you standing this hot weather? I suppose that you are at the park now. It is 7:30 clock. I would sure like to be with you. It seems like a long time since I saw you. I am thinking about going up to my sisters one day this week. If I do I think I will drive over next Sunday eve if I can but Bessie don’t look for me until you see me coming. 

Oh that was too bad about that colored man. I don know when things are gonna change but they got to. I had some bad luck the other evening. One of the horses run away with me but I didnt get hurt very bad. I got two ribs broken But I get out pretty lucky. I havent worked much since. I am going to try to work tomorrow. Well Bessie I must close for this time. Answer soon. Good by from your true friend, CW

 

Letter from the “Good Old Days”… sunset laws

27 Friday Feb 2015

Posted by in People, Racial Prejudice

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Bessie Coen

Bessie Coen

Mattoon, Illinois, July 15, 1914 [Mr. Carl Warfel, Rose Hill]

Dear Carl,

I received your welcome letter this week and was so glad to hear from you. I have just been helping mamma in the garden, and can hardly write. If we don’t have some rain pretty soon I don’t think that we will have much garden. I know you are glad when night comes these hot days; the air is a little cooler then. Papa is not helping bail hay now. He is working on the subway now. 

There was a lot of excitement in this part of town one day last week. A colored man got off the train and began to run. One of the police saw him and started running after him. Soon a large crowd had joined him and the colored man ran down Cottage Ave. and through the shop yards then down Marshall almost to our house then down Marion past where we did live. By the time the crowd got here it certainly was a crowd. We thought there was a big fire some place near, but soon saw what they were after. The fellow got just outside of town, ran into a corn field and dropped to rest. The police found him unable to go any farther, and they had to haul him back to town. He almost died before he got to town though. They locked him up but next morning turned him loose. Someone had told him that colored men not working here were not allowed to stop here, and I guess he was getting out as soon as he could. He thanked the police for not shooting at him. He was so polite but the people were so awful. It’s hard to believe that people can be so mean, and policemen to boot. 

Have you had any rain down there since you were here. We haven’t had any rain for a long time. They had a good rain at Charleston and Loxa not long ago, but not any here. Well I must quit writing for the postman will be here pretty soon. I write long letters and don’t say anything either. Write soon.

From your True Friend, Bessie.