Ever since the first European waded ashore on this continent, leading a black African by a chain around his neck, race has been the central scar tissue of American culture. Slavery, once universal, became divisive when the commercial/industrial North found it as unproductive as the agrarian South found it necessary. The North, with its everyman view of human worth, was plunging into the future of the industrial revolution, and the South was clinging to a reactionary system where a landed gentry lorded over peasants and slaves; the new American way, versus the old European.
Though masters of compromise, our founding fathers were unable to find a middle ground about slavery and the conventions that produced the Articles of Confederation and the Constitution of the United States ignored the subject, deferring it to future generations. This rickety non compromise of independent states propped up over time by short term arrangements, finally collapsed into the tragedy of the Civil War and with the blood of more than 600,000 dead Americans, tempered us into a new nation.
Much has been written about the reconstructed South and how “Jim Crow” emerged as a racial caste system to keep the former slaves at the low end of our society. That “Jim Crow” worked was due entirely to race. In other slave dependant cultures, such as the Roman Empire, race was not a determining factor; anyone could be demoted to slavery and any slave could be promoted to freedom. But in America skin color became a “Mark of Cain” that set former slaves aside. A foreign peasant could immigrate to this country, work hard, acquire an education, change his name if need be, and he and his progeny could prosper and be assimilated into the American system. Not so for former slaves. No matter the effort, the education achieved, despite any homogenous name, according to “Jim Crow”, if you were black, or any part black, you were a lesser human.
The Twentieth Century brought African contributions to our letters and arts which along with the Civil Rights movement produced the voting rights acts of the 1960’s. When President Johnson signed those new laws he’s reported to have told the Speaker of the House and fellow Southern Democrat, Sam Rayburn, “Well Sam we just lost the South for two generations.” Johnson was overly optimistic; the proof that “Jim Crow” still lives is the South, previously a Democratic stronghold, has been almost solid Republican for the succeeding three generations.
With the end of segregation laws and the laws against miscegenation, we now find ourselves with black and part black icons in our culture. Whether it’s the music of Duke Ellington or Ray Charles, the writings of Langston Hughes or Toni Morrison, the films of Spike Lee and Denzel Washington, the super star status of Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods, the leadership of Thurgood Marshall and Dr. King, and now the presidential campaign of Barrack Obama, it’s clear we at a watershed moment in our history.
The question is, are we to be held back by those who won’t vote for Obama, not because of his politics, but just because he’s black? Or are we to excel and usher in a new even more enlightened America by seizing the moment to plunge into a promising new future and, in doing so, finally put “Jim Crow” to death?
Friday, August 1, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
Chicken Little
In a recent speech before the National Press Club, Newt Gingrich once again told us the world is a dangerous place and we need to be afraid. I’ve tried very hard to let this pass; but I can’t. To Newt - The Fear Monger - I say no, Chicken Little, the sky is not falling; the Bogie Man is not hiding in the closet to get you while you sleep.
In 1838, Abraham Lincoln, in a speech before the House of Representatives noted that "All the armies of Europe and Asia, with a Bonaparte to lead them, could not, by force, take a drink from the Ohio River or make a track on the Blue Ridge in the trial of a thousand years. If destruction is to be our lot, we ourselves must be its authors." Mr. Lincoln is as right today as he was then.
Yes it is true; there are people in the world who don’t like us. So what? If you open a history book you’ll see that’s hardly news. When has it been different?
The real threat to our liberty, as Lincoln so apply said, is from the fear mongers within our midst. The people who would have you surrender your freedoms for what they say is security, and in the process give them control over the country and your lives. Be afraid, they say, you gotta be afraid!
I’m not afraid. Even on 911 I wasn’t afraid. I was pissed off – yes – but not afraid. I’m a natural born citizen of the United States of America, and as such, I not only have no fear - no coward like Newt Gingrich or his neo-con control freaks are gonna scare me. Not now…not ever!
In 1838, Abraham Lincoln, in a speech before the House of Representatives noted that "All the armies of Europe and Asia, with a Bonaparte to lead them, could not, by force, take a drink from the Ohio River or make a track on the Blue Ridge in the trial of a thousand years. If destruction is to be our lot, we ourselves must be its authors." Mr. Lincoln is as right today as he was then.
Yes it is true; there are people in the world who don’t like us. So what? If you open a history book you’ll see that’s hardly news. When has it been different?
The real threat to our liberty, as Lincoln so apply said, is from the fear mongers within our midst. The people who would have you surrender your freedoms for what they say is security, and in the process give them control over the country and your lives. Be afraid, they say, you gotta be afraid!
I’m not afraid. Even on 911 I wasn’t afraid. I was pissed off – yes – but not afraid. I’m a natural born citizen of the United States of America, and as such, I not only have no fear - no coward like Newt Gingrich or his neo-con control freaks are gonna scare me. Not now…not ever!
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Art of Losing Gracefully.
The Democratic Party’s dilemma is that while they desperately need Hillary to gracefully bow out of the race; the Clintons are incapable of seeing themselves as losers. However, no matter how she couches the situation, Hillary’s chances of winning the nomination are as likely as flying pigs.
Oh I know the cable TV taking heads fill the dead air between commercials with seemingly serious discussions of what if she wins Indiana and somehow manages to keep North Carolina and Oregon close; she can claim the most popular vote total. So what? The decision is decided by the delegate count and there is no way, even by the most twisted math, for her to beat Obama in that way.
The bulk of the remaining uncommitted super delegates are standing mute, not because they see the contest as still in doubt, but rather because they know that the votes of those white - over forty - females, so wholly committed to Hillary, will be needed in the fall and can’t afford to alienate them. Arguments for the good of the party make no headway with the Clintons and it’s clear they’ll continue as long as their money holds out. That being the case, Obama’s best move is to behave as though it’s over and discount Hillary by directing his campaign against Senator McCain.
Losing gracefully is not an acquired skill. It is strong character blended with selflessness and common sense. Hillary needs to understand that exercising selfless character now will pay her future dividends that going down in flames won’t.
Then, falling pig poop once again unlikely, it’ll be safe to go out bareheaded.
Oh I know the cable TV taking heads fill the dead air between commercials with seemingly serious discussions of what if she wins Indiana and somehow manages to keep North Carolina and Oregon close; she can claim the most popular vote total. So what? The decision is decided by the delegate count and there is no way, even by the most twisted math, for her to beat Obama in that way.
The bulk of the remaining uncommitted super delegates are standing mute, not because they see the contest as still in doubt, but rather because they know that the votes of those white - over forty - females, so wholly committed to Hillary, will be needed in the fall and can’t afford to alienate them. Arguments for the good of the party make no headway with the Clintons and it’s clear they’ll continue as long as their money holds out. That being the case, Obama’s best move is to behave as though it’s over and discount Hillary by directing his campaign against Senator McCain.
Losing gracefully is not an acquired skill. It is strong character blended with selflessness and common sense. Hillary needs to understand that exercising selfless character now will pay her future dividends that going down in flames won’t.
Then, falling pig poop once again unlikely, it’ll be safe to go out bareheaded.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Black man or white woman?
Every time I hear a TV talking head ask the ridiculously rhetorical question, “Why can’t Obama close the deal?” I lean toward the screen and shout, “Duh? He’s black!” They never ask why Hillary, with all she had going for her just a year ago, couldn’t put Obama away on “Super Tuesday”. If they did I’d yell, “Duh? She’s a woman!”
The answer to both questions was partially supplied by Nora Ephron in her Huffington Post column when she asked, “Do white men hate blacks more than they do women?” Personally, I would restate Ms. Ephron’s question to ask, “Do white men fear blacks more than they fear women?”
A woman or a black man as president would be an enormous change for our country. White men have been at the top of our country from its inception and now with their preeminence being threatened their natural reaction is fear not hate; though clearly hate is an expression of fear. The primal fear, fear of the unknown, is at the root of conservatism, which by definition is resistance to change.
Never forget that our culture is derivative of the old British colonial system that not only gave us the enslavement of other races, but allowed a man to beat his wife to death as long as he didn’t use a stick bigger around than his thumb. It’s a long fall from that pinnacle of power to having to stand when a woman or a black man enters a room.
Regardless of today’s Pennsylvania primary election results, it seems that Obama is going to be the Democratic candidate in the fall. It’s clear that the white male vote is going to be decisive, and so far it appears to be split down the middle. In the fall we will find out then whether or not there are enough fearless white men in this country for us to make a leap into a bright new future or take a fall back into the dismal past.
The answer to both questions was partially supplied by Nora Ephron in her Huffington Post column when she asked, “Do white men hate blacks more than they do women?” Personally, I would restate Ms. Ephron’s question to ask, “Do white men fear blacks more than they fear women?”
A woman or a black man as president would be an enormous change for our country. White men have been at the top of our country from its inception and now with their preeminence being threatened their natural reaction is fear not hate; though clearly hate is an expression of fear. The primal fear, fear of the unknown, is at the root of conservatism, which by definition is resistance to change.
Never forget that our culture is derivative of the old British colonial system that not only gave us the enslavement of other races, but allowed a man to beat his wife to death as long as he didn’t use a stick bigger around than his thumb. It’s a long fall from that pinnacle of power to having to stand when a woman or a black man enters a room.
Regardless of today’s Pennsylvania primary election results, it seems that Obama is going to be the Democratic candidate in the fall. It’s clear that the white male vote is going to be decisive, and so far it appears to be split down the middle. In the fall we will find out then whether or not there are enough fearless white men in this country for us to make a leap into a bright new future or take a fall back into the dismal past.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
From Bill Moyers' acceptance speech for the The Ridenhour Courage Prize.
“Temptation to co-option is the original sin of journalism, and we're always finding fig leaves to cover it: economics, ideology, awe of authority, secrecy, the claims of empire. In the buildup to the invasion of Iraq we were reminded of what the late great reporter A.J. Liebling meant when he said the press is "the weak slat under the bed of democracy." The slat broke after the invasion and some strange bedfellows fell to the floor: establishment journalists, neo-con polemicists, beltway pundits, right-wing warmongers flying the skull and bones of the ‘balanced and fair brigade,’ administration flacks whose classified leaks were manufactured lies -- all romping on the same mattress in the foreplay to disaster.
Five years, thousands of casualties, and hundreds of billion dollars later, most of the media co-conspirators caught in flagrante delicto are still prominent, still celebrated, and still holding forth with no more contrition than a weathercaster who made a wrong prediction as to the next day's temperature. The biblical injunction, "Go and sin no more," is the one we most frequently forget in the press. Collectively, we don't seem to learn that all it takes to transform an ordinary politician and a braying ass into the modern incarnation of Zeus and the oracle of Delphi is an oath on the Bible, a flag in the lapel, and the invocation of national security.”
Five years, thousands of casualties, and hundreds of billion dollars later, most of the media co-conspirators caught in flagrante delicto are still prominent, still celebrated, and still holding forth with no more contrition than a weathercaster who made a wrong prediction as to the next day's temperature. The biblical injunction, "Go and sin no more," is the one we most frequently forget in the press. Collectively, we don't seem to learn that all it takes to transform an ordinary politician and a braying ass into the modern incarnation of Zeus and the oracle of Delphi is an oath on the Bible, a flag in the lapel, and the invocation of national security.”
THE SUNSHINE BOY
Hidden by blunted dreams,
deep in a man,
the Sunshine Boy schemes.
The maker of seeds,
he makes a plan,
to do the good deeds.
It’s he who chooses,
to down the sham,
and sooth the bruises.
He quiets the spites,
avoids the scam,
to reject the fights.
Despite the dark night,
Sunshine Boy’s élan,
enlightens the right.
deep in a man,
the Sunshine Boy schemes.
The maker of seeds,
he makes a plan,
to do the good deeds.
It’s he who chooses,
to down the sham,
and sooth the bruises.
He quiets the spites,
avoids the scam,
to reject the fights.
Despite the dark night,
Sunshine Boy’s élan,
enlightens the right.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The economy.
Every dollar spent in Iraq is a dollar we don’t have to spend here, not only repairing our own bridges, roads, and water and sewage systems, but also to give Americans access to health insurance and children access to good schools, fully funding Social Security and Medicare, investing in non-carbon based energy sources and green technologies, and borrowing less from abroad.
The real economic cost of the Iraqi War doesn’t show in the business cycle, and it's not responsible for the current recession. The real economic cost will show up years from now in a standard of living that most Americans will find significantly lower than they might otherwise have enjoyed.
The real economic cost of the Iraqi War doesn’t show in the business cycle, and it's not responsible for the current recession. The real economic cost will show up years from now in a standard of living that most Americans will find significantly lower than they might otherwise have enjoyed.
A wide difference.
The difference between the Democrats and John McCain is clear enough. The Democrats want to find a way out of the disaster, however provisional and imperfect, and McCain equates staying the disastrous course with patriotism. McCain's doomed promise of military "victory" in Iraq is akin to Wile E. Coyote's perpetual pursuit of the Road Runner. Unlike the cartoon, however, people - American people - are dying in the futile chase. This is not patriotism. The truth is, doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different result is the definition of stupidity.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Ending the War
In, “The First Salute”, Barbara Tuchman’s masterful account of our revolutionary war she writes, “Ending a war is a difficult and delicate business. Even intelligent rulers, when they exist, often find themselves unable to terminate a war, should they want to.” She goes on to say, “For rulers to stop short of the declared war aim, thus acknowledging their own as well as their party’s and their nation’s incapacity, is as problematic as the camel’s passage through the needle’s eye.”
At first glance such observations from a Pulitzer Prize winning historian would seem to dash hopes to end the current conflict. But a close examination of the situation, with Ms. Tuchman’s views in mind, may in fact supply the lubrication necessary to ease the camel’s passage.
An Obama administration armed with the shield of having been against the conflict from the beginning and having been elected on the promise to end it, will have the unique opportunity to charge the entire problem to George Bush and Dick Cheney’s incompetence account by pointing out that - “the declared war aim” – weapons of mass destruction and Iraqi involvement with 911, has been proven bogus from the beginning. And that the concept of nation building by creating a “Jeffersonian” democracy in a Middle Eastern Moslem country, with no history of secular government, which is a central requirement of anything “Jeffersonian”, is if not sophistry, ludicrous on its face.
The nation’s difficulty in dealing with what naysayer’s will charge as a retreat in the war on terror can be explained as a refit and redeployment to redirect our forces against our real enemy, Osama Bin Laden and his Al Qaeda minions. Bin Laden’s capture or death will be the best salve for our national wounds and will in the end be lauded by other nations, even Moslem countries where he’s a threat to the established governments, as a benefit to all.
Ending the Iraq War will be a difficult task, but as Tuchman points out, the first requirements, intelligence and the desire to want to, are central to Barack Obama’s campaign.
At first glance such observations from a Pulitzer Prize winning historian would seem to dash hopes to end the current conflict. But a close examination of the situation, with Ms. Tuchman’s views in mind, may in fact supply the lubrication necessary to ease the camel’s passage.
An Obama administration armed with the shield of having been against the conflict from the beginning and having been elected on the promise to end it, will have the unique opportunity to charge the entire problem to George Bush and Dick Cheney’s incompetence account by pointing out that - “the declared war aim” – weapons of mass destruction and Iraqi involvement with 911, has been proven bogus from the beginning. And that the concept of nation building by creating a “Jeffersonian” democracy in a Middle Eastern Moslem country, with no history of secular government, which is a central requirement of anything “Jeffersonian”, is if not sophistry, ludicrous on its face.
The nation’s difficulty in dealing with what naysayer’s will charge as a retreat in the war on terror can be explained as a refit and redeployment to redirect our forces against our real enemy, Osama Bin Laden and his Al Qaeda minions. Bin Laden’s capture or death will be the best salve for our national wounds and will in the end be lauded by other nations, even Moslem countries where he’s a threat to the established governments, as a benefit to all.
Ending the Iraq War will be a difficult task, but as Tuchman points out, the first requirements, intelligence and the desire to want to, are central to Barack Obama’s campaign.
Super Delegates
Governor Richardson’s endorsement of Obama’s candidacy should bring more and more super delegates to his cause for the simple reason that he turns out the vote better than Hillary. Not only do large turnouts in national elections always favor Democrats, they provide an opportunity for long coattails; something which the Clintons are not noted for.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Gerald Ferraro's coments.
Geraldine Ferraro is dead wrong; it’s Hillary who benefits from Obama being black. The truth is, if he were white and from an upper class family, instead of an obscure one, he’d be hailed as the second coming of JFK. And he would have dispensed with Mrs. Clinton as an adversary a long time ago.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Election nonsense:
So…somebody in the Obama camp thinks Hillary is a monster. Wow…whoop-de-do! I’m sure there are those in the Hillary camp who think Obama’s a creep…or worse. So what – big deal. This is partisan presidential politics, not paddy-cake. Back in the day, people campaigning for Thomas Jefferson said John Adams wore women’s clothes at night. And Adam’s supporters claimed that Jefferson was actually dead. Who cares…why should anyone lose their job over such nonsense.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Experience, heroism and the future.
Much is made, by Clinton and McCain, about their experience and Obama’s lack of it. If being a successful Senator is an attribute for a Presidential candidate then we’d have a long history of Senators going from the Senate to the White House. The historical truth is Senatorial experience has never been considered a great asset for the presidency. That’s the reason, this election being an exception, that only one serving United States Senator, John Kennedy, has ever been elected president. And JFK’s success required the counting of votes from a lot of dead people in West Virginia and southern Illinois.
Unlike an executive, being a successful legislator requires willingness to compromise. You have to vote for that other guy’s bill, despite its “questionable” value, in order to get him to vote for your “valuable” bill. Additionally, bills of quality, often overloaded with pork, are repeatedly voted down until the bacon fat is adjusted to an acceptable level. The result is a Senator, voting no and then yes on a bill, is often branded as a person who waffled on the central issue. The point is, a senator’s voting record, especially a long one, is not an asset when running for president; just ask John Kerry. And Obama’s lack of an extended voting record may, in fact, be an asset.
When Obama points to Clinton and McCain’s votes to authorize the war and that it was a great mistake, they say, Oh that’s history, and try to redirect the conversation to what to do now. But that history is the backbone of what Clinton and McCain claim as their experience; their history of bad judgments that they portray as their strength. They can’t have it both ways. If they were wrong then, what makes them right now?
If being a war hero is a real requirement to be president, then Duke Cunningham would be in the White House instead of the big house. After all, he was not only a Navy flyer, just like McCain, he was a better flyer, in that he not only didn’t get shot down, he got a Medal of Honor for shooting down the bad guys. The truth is; physical courage and moral courage are mutually exclusive.
When Congressman Lewis switched his support from Clinton to Obama, he said Obama’s candidacy is more than a campaign, it’s a movement. A 21st century movement led by a 21st century man for the future, as opposed to Clinton and McCain, especially McCain, who are 20th century people trying to tailor their old solutions to fit the new times.
Is Obama perfect? No. Is he the pick of the litter? I think so.
Unlike an executive, being a successful legislator requires willingness to compromise. You have to vote for that other guy’s bill, despite its “questionable” value, in order to get him to vote for your “valuable” bill. Additionally, bills of quality, often overloaded with pork, are repeatedly voted down until the bacon fat is adjusted to an acceptable level. The result is a Senator, voting no and then yes on a bill, is often branded as a person who waffled on the central issue. The point is, a senator’s voting record, especially a long one, is not an asset when running for president; just ask John Kerry. And Obama’s lack of an extended voting record may, in fact, be an asset.
When Obama points to Clinton and McCain’s votes to authorize the war and that it was a great mistake, they say, Oh that’s history, and try to redirect the conversation to what to do now. But that history is the backbone of what Clinton and McCain claim as their experience; their history of bad judgments that they portray as their strength. They can’t have it both ways. If they were wrong then, what makes them right now?
If being a war hero is a real requirement to be president, then Duke Cunningham would be in the White House instead of the big house. After all, he was not only a Navy flyer, just like McCain, he was a better flyer, in that he not only didn’t get shot down, he got a Medal of Honor for shooting down the bad guys. The truth is; physical courage and moral courage are mutually exclusive.
When Congressman Lewis switched his support from Clinton to Obama, he said Obama’s candidacy is more than a campaign, it’s a movement. A 21st century movement led by a 21st century man for the future, as opposed to Clinton and McCain, especially McCain, who are 20th century people trying to tailor their old solutions to fit the new times.
Is Obama perfect? No. Is he the pick of the litter? I think so.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
RACING AGAINST RACE
As a mixed race person, I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of miscegenation. Merriam-Webster’s dictionary defines miscegenation as, “a mixture of races; especially marriage, cohabitation, or sexual intercourse between a white person and a member of another race.”
In the past, the nabobs of religious dogma presumed that since they believed God had created the different races, mixing them was sacrilege and therefore a crime against God; and into the 20th century it was illegal in most places. My own parents, to use the vernacular of the time, an “Anglo” father and an “American Indian” mother, were denied an Arizona marriage license, in 1940, and had to travel to a more enlightened New Mexico to marry.
I’ve always wondered why the religious world didn’t stand up against changing any of their God’s handy work. At the grocery store, you will not find any of nature’s bananas, apples, oranges, grapes, potatoes, lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes or gains, such as rice, wheat or barley. Except for the natural wilds, there is not a breed of dog, cat, cow, sheep, chicken, turkey, horse or any other domesticated animal that hasn’t been hybridized by the hand of man. I know that those believers steeped in the Word will say it’s different with mankind for he was created in God’s image. Every time I hear that I think of Michelangelo’s painted ceiling where Adam receives the spark of life from the end of God’s index finger. I’ve looked at a print of that painting a thousand times and it always seems to me that God’s finger is hyper extended at the first joint and I’m reminded of the old saying that: “If camels had a god he’d have a hump, except of course if they were two hump camels”.
Mankind, attempting to improve the species has spent centuries breeding animals and plants for like traits; faster race horses, stronger draft stallions, cows with giant udders for more milk and more muscular beeves for their meat, and such ungodly creations as black roses, tangerines and seedless grapes. There were no more rigid bible thumpers than the slave holders of the antebellum south, and yet they used to impregnate their slave girls with their own seed in order to create slaves that would draw a higher price at the market. Or maybe they just found a way to profit from their sport. Either way it begs the question: Can the mixing of human races create better, stronger, more talented people?
The answer of course is only if you breed for like traits and not randomly as people usually do, for love and lust. Whether miscegenation from romance or passion is a plus for the human race is just now approaching an answer. While the races have been mixed many times by the rape of conquest and slavery, we are, in this country, only into our second and third modern generations of wide spread mixing of the four races of man; Mongoloid, Caucasoid, Negroid and Australoid.
As a mixed person (American Indians are Mongoloids) who easily passes for white, I’ve witnessed many conversations on race among white people, when they thought they were with just their own kind. As such, I’m acutely aware of the ingrained racism inherent in our country, especially toward blacks. We are at a time where some people actually brag about a part American Indian ancestry and at the same time denigrate anyone with the slightest dab of an African “taint”. I don’t know if that’s because of their previous condition of servitude or their more difficult to assimilate pigmentation, but the fact of it remains.
Consider for a moment the most dominate professional golfer of our day, Tiger Woods. Woods has a half-black, one-quarter American Indian, one-quarter white father and a half-Thai, half-Chinese mother. That makes him 5/8 Mongoloid, 1/4 Negroid and 1/8 Caucasoid. And yet he’s considered by most to be a black man. Remember Fuzzy Zeller’s crude joke when Woods’ won his first Masters Tournament that they’d have to change the victory banquet menu to include fried chicken, greens and chitlins.
Woods calls himself a “Cablinasian”, his word for his mix. "I'm just who I am," Woods told Oprah Winfrey, "whoever you see in front of you." But just "who I am" remains contested ground. According to Time Magazine, “Woods' coming out as a “Cablinasian” caused a mini-racial firestorm. Woods' remarks infuriated many African Americans who see him as a traitor. Some blacks see Woods' assertion of a multiracial identity as a sellout that could touch off an epidemic of 'passing.' Light-skinned Colin Powell, responding to Woods' comments, said, ‘In America, which I love from the depths of my heart and soul, when you look like me, you're black.’"
Now the very possible nomination of Barack Obama as the Democratic Party’s candidate for President of the United States of America brings us to a watershed point. It’s an indication of how far we’ve come and yet, that he is almost universally referred to as the black candidate, despite the fact his mother is as white as Strom Thurmond, is an indication of how far we have to go.
After all, who’s to say that Obama’s not a better man and Woods is not a better golfer, or even that Colin Powell was not a better warrior, for their “African taint”, than they would have been without it. In truth Woods put it best when he said, “I’m just who I am, whoever you see in front of you”.
I believe there is a very large segment of our population that is not just ethnically mixed but race mixed in hundreds of different combinations. These peoples, of whom I’m just one, need to be heard on the subject of race; for to remain silent is to except what has been, in place of what can be.
The question before the country is, are we going to live down to our race tortured, religion twisted past or are we going to finally live up to the promise our founders made two hundred thirty-two years ago, when they elevated individual liberty above the stale dogmas of their day and reached out for a better tomorrow? Are we, now in the first decade of the 21st century, to timid, to comfortable, to stale, or to frightened to reach out for a better future? I hope not.
In the past, the nabobs of religious dogma presumed that since they believed God had created the different races, mixing them was sacrilege and therefore a crime against God; and into the 20th century it was illegal in most places. My own parents, to use the vernacular of the time, an “Anglo” father and an “American Indian” mother, were denied an Arizona marriage license, in 1940, and had to travel to a more enlightened New Mexico to marry.
I’ve always wondered why the religious world didn’t stand up against changing any of their God’s handy work. At the grocery store, you will not find any of nature’s bananas, apples, oranges, grapes, potatoes, lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes or gains, such as rice, wheat or barley. Except for the natural wilds, there is not a breed of dog, cat, cow, sheep, chicken, turkey, horse or any other domesticated animal that hasn’t been hybridized by the hand of man. I know that those believers steeped in the Word will say it’s different with mankind for he was created in God’s image. Every time I hear that I think of Michelangelo’s painted ceiling where Adam receives the spark of life from the end of God’s index finger. I’ve looked at a print of that painting a thousand times and it always seems to me that God’s finger is hyper extended at the first joint and I’m reminded of the old saying that: “If camels had a god he’d have a hump, except of course if they were two hump camels”.
Mankind, attempting to improve the species has spent centuries breeding animals and plants for like traits; faster race horses, stronger draft stallions, cows with giant udders for more milk and more muscular beeves for their meat, and such ungodly creations as black roses, tangerines and seedless grapes. There were no more rigid bible thumpers than the slave holders of the antebellum south, and yet they used to impregnate their slave girls with their own seed in order to create slaves that would draw a higher price at the market. Or maybe they just found a way to profit from their sport. Either way it begs the question: Can the mixing of human races create better, stronger, more talented people?
The answer of course is only if you breed for like traits and not randomly as people usually do, for love and lust. Whether miscegenation from romance or passion is a plus for the human race is just now approaching an answer. While the races have been mixed many times by the rape of conquest and slavery, we are, in this country, only into our second and third modern generations of wide spread mixing of the four races of man; Mongoloid, Caucasoid, Negroid and Australoid.
As a mixed person (American Indians are Mongoloids) who easily passes for white, I’ve witnessed many conversations on race among white people, when they thought they were with just their own kind. As such, I’m acutely aware of the ingrained racism inherent in our country, especially toward blacks. We are at a time where some people actually brag about a part American Indian ancestry and at the same time denigrate anyone with the slightest dab of an African “taint”. I don’t know if that’s because of their previous condition of servitude or their more difficult to assimilate pigmentation, but the fact of it remains.
Consider for a moment the most dominate professional golfer of our day, Tiger Woods. Woods has a half-black, one-quarter American Indian, one-quarter white father and a half-Thai, half-Chinese mother. That makes him 5/8 Mongoloid, 1/4 Negroid and 1/8 Caucasoid. And yet he’s considered by most to be a black man. Remember Fuzzy Zeller’s crude joke when Woods’ won his first Masters Tournament that they’d have to change the victory banquet menu to include fried chicken, greens and chitlins.
Woods calls himself a “Cablinasian”, his word for his mix. "I'm just who I am," Woods told Oprah Winfrey, "whoever you see in front of you." But just "who I am" remains contested ground. According to Time Magazine, “Woods' coming out as a “Cablinasian” caused a mini-racial firestorm. Woods' remarks infuriated many African Americans who see him as a traitor. Some blacks see Woods' assertion of a multiracial identity as a sellout that could touch off an epidemic of 'passing.' Light-skinned Colin Powell, responding to Woods' comments, said, ‘In America, which I love from the depths of my heart and soul, when you look like me, you're black.’"
Now the very possible nomination of Barack Obama as the Democratic Party’s candidate for President of the United States of America brings us to a watershed point. It’s an indication of how far we’ve come and yet, that he is almost universally referred to as the black candidate, despite the fact his mother is as white as Strom Thurmond, is an indication of how far we have to go.
After all, who’s to say that Obama’s not a better man and Woods is not a better golfer, or even that Colin Powell was not a better warrior, for their “African taint”, than they would have been without it. In truth Woods put it best when he said, “I’m just who I am, whoever you see in front of you”.
I believe there is a very large segment of our population that is not just ethnically mixed but race mixed in hundreds of different combinations. These peoples, of whom I’m just one, need to be heard on the subject of race; for to remain silent is to except what has been, in place of what can be.
The question before the country is, are we going to live down to our race tortured, religion twisted past or are we going to finally live up to the promise our founders made two hundred thirty-two years ago, when they elevated individual liberty above the stale dogmas of their day and reached out for a better tomorrow? Are we, now in the first decade of the 21st century, to timid, to comfortable, to stale, or to frightened to reach out for a better future? I hope not.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The '08 election
About a year ago James Carville appeared on C-Span and said that there was good and bad news about the ’08 election. The good news is the only way the Democrats can lose is to screw it up themselves. The bad news is they, the Democrats, are thoroughly capable of doing just that. He’s right of course and that’s why the apparent nomination of either Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama troubles me.
Personally, I’m so completely at ease with the idea of a woman or a black person as president that, back in the day, I voted for Shirley Chisholm. But, I’ve spent my life working with white people; some very-very white people. The kind of white people who will make an extra effort to insure they, and their family members who would otherwise probably not participate, come down from the hills and empty the trailer parks to vote against a black man. That Senator Obama is half white is of no consequence to those who think blacks are inferior. As a mixed race person, who has easily passed for all white, I’ve heard those white to white conversations, the ones that were once shouted on street corners and are now whispered in private, that the slightest “taint” of black blood is the same as being all black.
The same people, the bigots I know so well, will oppose a female candidate with equal fervor. Women just aren’t tough enough. The idea that a “skirt” could effectively wield power, real power, is beyond their view of females as the bottoms rather than the tops, in their missionary position ideal concept of old testament male supremacy.
The Carl Roves of right-wing America are counting, and desperately hoping, that our race scared and religiously tortured country will again live down to it’s past and not up to it’s promise.
At other times I’d say, Fine; let’s have at it, see where we really stand. But this is a pivotal time. The next president will appoint two, maybe even three if re-elected, Supreme Court justices. If the righties with their old testament thinking, the best ideas the twelfth century can provide, make those appointments we’ll be plunged into a dark age that will take most of the new century to crawl out of; if at all.
The truth is we have a perfectly capable white male candidate, who will not only blunt the bigots; he’s also more liberal than either Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. John Edwards is not only the right choice, he’s the safest.
Personally, I’m so completely at ease with the idea of a woman or a black person as president that, back in the day, I voted for Shirley Chisholm. But, I’ve spent my life working with white people; some very-very white people. The kind of white people who will make an extra effort to insure they, and their family members who would otherwise probably not participate, come down from the hills and empty the trailer parks to vote against a black man. That Senator Obama is half white is of no consequence to those who think blacks are inferior. As a mixed race person, who has easily passed for all white, I’ve heard those white to white conversations, the ones that were once shouted on street corners and are now whispered in private, that the slightest “taint” of black blood is the same as being all black.
The same people, the bigots I know so well, will oppose a female candidate with equal fervor. Women just aren’t tough enough. The idea that a “skirt” could effectively wield power, real power, is beyond their view of females as the bottoms rather than the tops, in their missionary position ideal concept of old testament male supremacy.
The Carl Roves of right-wing America are counting, and desperately hoping, that our race scared and religiously tortured country will again live down to it’s past and not up to it’s promise.
At other times I’d say, Fine; let’s have at it, see where we really stand. But this is a pivotal time. The next president will appoint two, maybe even three if re-elected, Supreme Court justices. If the righties with their old testament thinking, the best ideas the twelfth century can provide, make those appointments we’ll be plunged into a dark age that will take most of the new century to crawl out of; if at all.
The truth is we have a perfectly capable white male candidate, who will not only blunt the bigots; he’s also more liberal than either Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. John Edwards is not only the right choice, he’s the safest.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Dream Party
This is a recent dream. Barbara is my wife, Michael Ann is her sister and Cait is Michael Ann’s significant other.
It was too hot for my jacket so I carried it in the crook of my arm with my duffel bag’s strap over my other shoulder. The address on the white picket gate was the same as on my note paper so I pushed through. Passing between two flowering bushes I was greeted with the sight of a long irregular open grass field, lined with trees, much like a golf course, that stretched up the long steep hill to a little stone house. I trudged along, head down to lean against the slope, and wished that my bag were lighter and the distance shorter. I looked up, expecting to be halfway there, and found I was somehow already at the top.
The tiny thatched roof stone cottage was clinging to the edge of the precipice, as if for its life, and in the distance beyond, laid the whole of the shining city. Suddenly Cait burst out of the open door to pull me from the vista. Dressed in tan slacks with an electric blue blouse she wore brown Birkenstocks and her signature Argyle socks. She lashed me with her happy smile and said, “Glad you could make it kid…you’re just in time.”
I asked, “Just in time for what?”
“The party,” she cried, sweeping past me. “What else is there?”
Cait threw her hands up and cried out, “Come on in…you’re all welcomed here!” Beyond her, down the long green slope, hundreds of men women and children – lots of children – were streaming through the poor little gate.
Drawn to the open door, by the aroma of cooking, I looked into the darkness and found Barbara and Michael Ann with their backs to me at the stoves. Yes, stoves; two old time black commercial wood burning stoves. They were side by side along the opposite wall with more pots and pans than in the store, hanging above on pegs and hooks. One huge table, surrounded by mismatched chairs, so dominated the small room it was necessary to side step around the edge to reach the other side. Dressed in floor length dresses with full bib aprons, their backs were to me as they stirred skillets and pans with both hands.
Cait touched my shoulder and said, “Stand aside kid yer blockin’ progress.”
I just managed to jump back out of the way as more than two dozen laughing people, a third of them kids, wedged through the little door and scrambled around the big table to take seats. Michael Ann whirled around from her stove and plopping a huge round platter of sizzling beef and pork ribs on the table, cried out, “Okay everybody…dig in!”
Barbara called out, “Look out…hot stuff!”, and placed an oblong plate with two huge baked Salmons on the table.
Michael Ann looked up at me, peeking in the door, and said, “We were wondering if you were gonna make.”
“Yes,” little brother,” Barbara added, “you just made it.”
Little brother? I asked myself as they turned back to their stoves. I dropped my bag and jacket next to the open door and when I straightened up I saw my reflection in the beveled glass. The familiar boy gazing back at me was no more than twelve, maybe thirteen. Strange, very strange, I distinctly remember turning sixty some time ago.
“Hey kid, you gonna help me or not?”
Cait was standing there with a big crystal ice bucket cradled in her arms.
“Help you?”
“Yes…with the Arnold Palmers - come on!”
Cait turned away and began scooping ice cubes into the empty glasses of the people seated on the grass. There were hundreds of them, many hundreds, sitting and kneeling on the grassy slope all the way down to the gate where even more were pouring through. Waving their empty glass in the air and all laughing and calling out in good cheer, like the huge flocks of birds you see in wildlife films, honking and fluttering on a river bank.
I turned back to the cottage and another door, a Dutch door, appeared out of nowhere next to the other. The top portion was slung open and on the shelf, atop the bottom half were two glass pitchers, one filled with lemonade and the other ice tea.
I heard Cait cry out; “Come on kid!”, and taking a pitcher in each hand I went down the line pouring glasses half with tea and then topping them off with lemonade. I glanced at Cait, way ahead of me, and was surprised to see her ice bucket was still full. And stranger still, no matter how much I poured, my pitchers never emptied. A drop of sweat stung my eye and I wished it weren’t so hot. Suddenly a cool breeze swept down the hill and some of the close by folks said, “Thanks that’s nice”, and I didn’t know if they were giving me credit for the breeze or just for the drinks.
There was a clatter from up the hill and Barbara, standing to the side of the doorway, where the people from inside were streaming out, was banging on an empty pot with a ladle, and calling out, “Okay…time to move up.” Everyone stood and surged up the slope as another couple of dozen disappeared into the little house. Then those remaining sat down and went back to having a good time.
My head was filled with questions and then Cait, suddenly at my side, said, “If we try to cram anymore inside, the house will slip over the edge and fall into the city.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, as if that made any sense.
It was too hot for my jacket so I carried it in the crook of my arm with my duffel bag’s strap over my other shoulder. The address on the white picket gate was the same as on my note paper so I pushed through. Passing between two flowering bushes I was greeted with the sight of a long irregular open grass field, lined with trees, much like a golf course, that stretched up the long steep hill to a little stone house. I trudged along, head down to lean against the slope, and wished that my bag were lighter and the distance shorter. I looked up, expecting to be halfway there, and found I was somehow already at the top.
The tiny thatched roof stone cottage was clinging to the edge of the precipice, as if for its life, and in the distance beyond, laid the whole of the shining city. Suddenly Cait burst out of the open door to pull me from the vista. Dressed in tan slacks with an electric blue blouse she wore brown Birkenstocks and her signature Argyle socks. She lashed me with her happy smile and said, “Glad you could make it kid…you’re just in time.”
I asked, “Just in time for what?”
“The party,” she cried, sweeping past me. “What else is there?”
Cait threw her hands up and cried out, “Come on in…you’re all welcomed here!” Beyond her, down the long green slope, hundreds of men women and children – lots of children – were streaming through the poor little gate.
Drawn to the open door, by the aroma of cooking, I looked into the darkness and found Barbara and Michael Ann with their backs to me at the stoves. Yes, stoves; two old time black commercial wood burning stoves. They were side by side along the opposite wall with more pots and pans than in the store, hanging above on pegs and hooks. One huge table, surrounded by mismatched chairs, so dominated the small room it was necessary to side step around the edge to reach the other side. Dressed in floor length dresses with full bib aprons, their backs were to me as they stirred skillets and pans with both hands.
Cait touched my shoulder and said, “Stand aside kid yer blockin’ progress.”
I just managed to jump back out of the way as more than two dozen laughing people, a third of them kids, wedged through the little door and scrambled around the big table to take seats. Michael Ann whirled around from her stove and plopping a huge round platter of sizzling beef and pork ribs on the table, cried out, “Okay everybody…dig in!”
Barbara called out, “Look out…hot stuff!”, and placed an oblong plate with two huge baked Salmons on the table.
Michael Ann looked up at me, peeking in the door, and said, “We were wondering if you were gonna make.”
“Yes,” little brother,” Barbara added, “you just made it.”
Little brother? I asked myself as they turned back to their stoves. I dropped my bag and jacket next to the open door and when I straightened up I saw my reflection in the beveled glass. The familiar boy gazing back at me was no more than twelve, maybe thirteen. Strange, very strange, I distinctly remember turning sixty some time ago.
“Hey kid, you gonna help me or not?”
Cait was standing there with a big crystal ice bucket cradled in her arms.
“Help you?”
“Yes…with the Arnold Palmers - come on!”
Cait turned away and began scooping ice cubes into the empty glasses of the people seated on the grass. There were hundreds of them, many hundreds, sitting and kneeling on the grassy slope all the way down to the gate where even more were pouring through. Waving their empty glass in the air and all laughing and calling out in good cheer, like the huge flocks of birds you see in wildlife films, honking and fluttering on a river bank.
I turned back to the cottage and another door, a Dutch door, appeared out of nowhere next to the other. The top portion was slung open and on the shelf, atop the bottom half were two glass pitchers, one filled with lemonade and the other ice tea.
I heard Cait cry out; “Come on kid!”, and taking a pitcher in each hand I went down the line pouring glasses half with tea and then topping them off with lemonade. I glanced at Cait, way ahead of me, and was surprised to see her ice bucket was still full. And stranger still, no matter how much I poured, my pitchers never emptied. A drop of sweat stung my eye and I wished it weren’t so hot. Suddenly a cool breeze swept down the hill and some of the close by folks said, “Thanks that’s nice”, and I didn’t know if they were giving me credit for the breeze or just for the drinks.
There was a clatter from up the hill and Barbara, standing to the side of the doorway, where the people from inside were streaming out, was banging on an empty pot with a ladle, and calling out, “Okay…time to move up.” Everyone stood and surged up the slope as another couple of dozen disappeared into the little house. Then those remaining sat down and went back to having a good time.
My head was filled with questions and then Cait, suddenly at my side, said, “If we try to cram anymore inside, the house will slip over the edge and fall into the city.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, as if that made any sense.
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