All posts by X Teri

Springdale & Brinkley Hold Lessons

This post evolved from a simple comparison of my geographical past. It grew to encompass parts of me and as such, is very personal. If you will pardon my generalizations and laziness toward exact writing, you might find something interesting.

I didn’t come to Springdale until the early 70s. My dad dragged our recently reconstituted family up here for the promise of a steady job, away from the geography which took the blame for so much of my dad’s heartache. His time in prison in Indiana and his involvement in the death of one of my cousins (unrelated to prison) had broken him of some of his desperate need to remain in his hometown. My dad had a brother here, my Uncle Buck, as well as a few cousins. Our move was prior to the miracle of the interstate reaching its tentacles up to Northwest Arkansas, so all trips to NWA were long, winding escapades. It seemed like we drove for days to reach the mountains of Springdale. I didn’t understand what a ‘hillbilly’ was. All I knew were the fields of Monroe County and the places my grandma and grandpa called home. Being with my dad was the last thing on my wish list.

Years take on a different meaning when I stop to consider that soon enough I will be exactly halfway between 1970 and 2070. Springdale and I both have changed immeasurably since I was young. The area of the Delta from which I came has continued a generally languid, shuffled march toward annihilation while NWA has become a beacon for commerce and lifestyle. It was sheer luck that my dad’s terrible fortune planted my feet here. And while the Delta was once the powerhouse of agriculture but found no clear footing to advance, Springdale and surrounding areas used agriculture as a springboard from which to dive into a diversified future. So many of us here live in houses situated on plots once adorned with grapes, apples, strawberries and all manner of other foods.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that the interstate running through Brinkley wasn’t always there, a fact which should have been immediately obvious. In Brinkley’s case, though, the interstate seems to have provided a convenient escape for the younger generation, as they ventured out and realized that the state had more to offer in other places. In Arkansas’ early history, roads were intensely local, often built to connect small town agricultural markets. For the affluent parts of the state, the interstate gave people and commerce alike the way to merge interests. While lifelong residents of Brinkley might wish to disagree, it is obvious that good roads shone a beacon toward better opportunities in other parts of the state. Brinkley could have been one of the jewels of this state, given its location. Even as I sometimes forget that I once loved the flatlands there, I will admit to its austere beauty.

I also forget that many parts of my early life are inexplicably entwined with those people who I deeply loved and those who were violent caricatures of real people. Geography mixes in my head and sometimes paints an unfair picture of those places, simply because the people walking across my stage were broken people. As we all do, I carry pieces of these broken people in my head, as such slivers are difficult to excise. I can hold the image of standing near a rice field near Brinkley, up to my ankles in mud, laughing; I can also imagine walking alongside a pungent Tontitown grape vine in August, my fingers cleverly stealing unwashed grapes and eating them like candies. I’m not sure which place or memory is more valid, but I do know that being surrounded by people with love in their hearts can make any geography welcoming, while immersion in the minds of lesser people will reduce the world’s brilliance regardless of where one’s feet might be. It’s how City View might have been a place of low resort for many, and a welcome mat for others.

Because of the reduced crucible I survived as a kid, on the one hand, there was so much about this town which remained unknown to me. My life was incredibly small. I could sense that it was an interesting place, though. My family moved over twenty times by the time I had reached adulthood. So many places around Springdale became familiar to me. In many ways, I feel as if this was advantageous to me, giving me a different perspective than someone who was lucky enough to remain fairly rooted in the same place growing up. In my family’s case, our ongoing moves concealed the array of abuse and violence camouflaged inside each respective new residence.

When I was in 2nd grade, I remember asking Mom what it was like attending school with black children in Monroe County. She looked at me like I had been hit with a shovel and said, “I didn’t. We were segregated.” (It was probably a lucky thing for them, though.) I wondered why Springdale was segregated, too, given that there were no black kids in class with me. How was I supposed to know that there were so few minorities living here? I was so naive. Even trying to understand that one of schoolyard buddies Danny was actually from Chile was beyond my comprehension. That’s how reduced my life was without education. Had I been born 100 years ago and remained in Monroe County, I could easily see myself in the role of unapologetic racist. My family would have raised me to believe that it was a certainty.

It’s funny now, my ignorance. In my early youth, I had never heard the word “segregated” except as a muttered curse. For most of the whites in the Delta, segregation was a word equated with government distrust. When I started learning history, it astonished me that there was such a short jump between our Civil War and WWII.

My dad took us back to Brinkley for my 3rd-grade year, to attempt to run a gas station in the no-man’s land on Highway 49 outside of Brinkley. While my home life was a slow-moving mess, school was fascinating. Just as I got acclimated to flat lands again, Dad’s failed business drove us back to Northwest Arkansas.

I remember my Uncle ___ saying that he was jealous of my dad, Bobby Dean because Springdale didn’t have ‘the plague’ of so many blacks. Other family members said the same and I only share this memory reluctantly. Perhaps it’s not wise or fair to generalize about my recollections of prejudice. On the other hand, they are my stories and as a sage once reminded us, perhaps people would behave more appropriately if they knew an observant writer was living amongst them. Truth be told, racism took a back seat when contrasted to the casual violence of my dad. I had a couple of god-fearing aunts and uncles who remind me that we should never be surprised by the sheer hatred some racists harbor in their hearts. One of the prevailing lessons they taught me was that religion could easily be twisted to justify and condone all manner of hate, all the while sitting behind a pearly-white smile and opened Bible. When I was young, I endured many a comment from them regarding my views on homosexuality, race, and language. When I grew up and realized that they were simply unadorned racists, their arguments dried up. The revisionists in life will insist they were great people and in many ways, they were the product of their times; in another way, though, they deliberately refused to change their minds, even as they paid pretense to the societal demands that they keep their boring and unimaginative racism mostly closeted.

Even though so much became second-hand to me, Springdale itself began to break away from its parochial roots; languages and color slowly entered and once inside sufficiently, kicked the door in and changed the fundamental nature of everything here. Even as I learned the town’s geography, it was already changing rapidly around me. In 1970, Springdale’s population was around 17,000. In 2015, it was on the high end of 77,000. (My hometown lost 1/2 of its population in the same time period, by comparison.) No road escaped the necessity of bulging outside of its small borders, and many signs became incomprehensible to the earlier residents. I was lucky enough to be present during many fits and tirades from Springdale residents insisting that hating the presence of another language wasn’t a sign of prejudice. They seem ignorant to almost everyone now, but the angry spew of their spittle was a sight to behold back in the day.

Springdale was akin to a debutante sent away to school in some exotic location; upon her return, she was unrecognizable as the same person. But almost everyone could look upon her and admire the changes. It’s almost impossible to turn back once someone or somewhere has caught a glimpse of the vastness of the world.

I’ve heard many people refer to Springdale as once being a Sundown Town. I don’t remember seeing such signage. On the other hand, I didn’t need to. My family provided all the exclusionary language anyone would ever need. Their distrust for minorities was amplified by our move to a white community. As strange as it is, I remember when my mom started working for Southwestern Bell (AT&T) in Fayetteville as an operator. She often came home, angrily ranting about blacks in her workplace. It was the same language she used in Monroe County except now she had a home base to retreat to, one which seemed to encourage her racism. Mom was an angry person most of her life, so the language was a symptom of her defect more than any commentary on her surroundings. Both my mom and dad fled back to Monroe County in the late 80s, after a long succession of disappointments.

Before I forget to mention it, my mom’s last job was as a custodian for Brinkley schools. The person who treated her the most kindly there was one of the black teachers there, proving that truth is stranger than fiction. Like so many racists, Mom’s racism tended to intensely situational. She couldn’t understand why I, as a white person, would ever stoop so low as to learn another language, much less love its differences. Her life was reduced by her prejudices.

The differences between the racism of Springdale and Brinkley were striking. It wasn’t until I was much older I surmised that Springdale didn’t need to be overtly racist. The whiteness of the faces walking the streets communicated a clear message as to the population. Springdale was a town waiting to be changed both monumentally and one person at a time, whether it saw the tidal wave approaching or not. It confused me how two places in the same state could be so markedly different, yet both have residents generally fixated on differences based on skin color. I’m generalizing of course, but I know that you understand the distinction I’m drawing. Most of Springdale’s residents weren’t prejudiced, of course, just unsure as to how to accommodate the changes to their towns. Racism tends to discolor a disproportionate number of people around it, giving it a larger circle than reality warrants. This circle of influence sometimes gives the wrong impression of tolerance toward prejudice and many of those practicing it become adept at hiding under its umbrella.

It’s strange to me that both Springdale and Brinkley had so much to build upon. Frankly, Brinkley had the advantage when I was young, and if a few visionaries had the temerity to act upon it, it would be flourishing now. Instead, Northwest Arkansas seized these opportunities.

Against the backdrop of economy and money, Springdale acquired deep populations of Latinos, Marshallese, and other minorities. Most of us who were paying attention and curious were amazed at the changes brought to us by different cultures. Since I’m naturally curious, I loved the overlap of cultures and couldn’t wait for it to become entrenched. Others, though, peered at it through narrowly-turned blinds, wondering if the small town they grew up in was gone forever. Thankfully, the answer was ‘yes.’ Change brought a greater viability to our town. The overlaps of other culture became so large that in many cases people felt conflicted about which culture was their primary one. That is the ‘melting’ we claim to honor as a country. The melting works much better when it is in both directions, with those who were here first welcoming the inevitable changes brought by new faces.

The same didn’t happen for Brinkley, despite it attempting a few rebrandings. The remaining base shifted out from under when it lost its Wal-Mart. People continued to flee, even if meant they’d be exposed to a greater variety of cultures elsewhere. For those who left, many have an idealized memory of what it once was. The truth, though, is that it was never really that place. People voted with their feet and the results are the only conclusion which needs no clarification. One day, hopefully, Brinkley will discern a path toward revitalization but all such paths are dead ends without new faces and new opportunities.

Springdale, albeit with a few hiccups still to come, is a place which can be a foundation for everyone to look back upon and feel a sense of community. It defies an easy definition, precisely because other groups came here to stay.

 

 

 

 

The Friendly Racist On Social Media

Because I’ve wearied of both trying to shorten this post and get it right, I’m going to do what I often do: put it out there and let anyone who finds anything of value read it. Others will snipe it, and perhaps rightly so.

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I have a smiling friend from high school on social media who posts only clever anecdotes and innocent life commentaries on his own social media… Behind the curtain, though, I see his handiwork of prejudice and harm. Most of the time, he’s subtle, cleverly ensuring his remarks don’t go wide. The time I spent learning to follow the breadcrumbs with FOIA requests and ancestry leads me to the clues he’s left behind. Although he’s clever, he’s not patient. His impatience and intolerance draw him into diatribes he might otherwise avoid. I don’t actively follow his lashings. The news tends to draw him out, especially as tempers flare. It’s a sceanario I’ve seen play out a dozen times this past year.

Especially over the last year, I’ve had friends get caught in the crosshairs by “Robert,” as I’ll call him. They’ll struggle to understand why he’s turned on them or chosen them to blast, all the while keeping his own page clean of controversy. If they attempt commentary on his social media, he immediately lashes out at them for being childish or failing to understand the etiquette of social media. Robert is not the only one – there have been many. Once I explain to my friends that Robert’s goal is simple intimidation and to delete his comments, ignore him, or adopt his tactics back at him, most trollish behavior fades and they move along to new victims to intimidate. Weirdly enough, almost all of these people are white males and members of what I term the “Black Sock Mafia.”

Robert keeps his own space free of controversy and lashes out at anyone who brings up anything controversial, even if he first introduces an implied bit of hate. He visits other people’s spaces, though, and lectures all of them about how wrong they are, their ignorance, and how as a rich white man things have become really tough for him in this modern climate of minority over-sensitivity. Because his ego and identity are secret and invested in something he can’t easily admit in public, he faithfully learns the code and lingo of those who possess intellect and free time afforded by a privileged life. His words become his dagger and he jabs frequently, assuming no one is following his trail. He’s wrong. He’ll drop the veneer if he’s talking to people one-on-one and assumes they share his closeted prejudices. He will take a moment sometimes to bash those who use social media to discuss controversial topics; yet, paradoxically, he will visit other pages and relentlessly hammer the person on their personal space. He’s also one of those who visit news sites and groups to spew his fervent brand of prejudice.

Most such people who comment angrily on their friend’s social media invariably do the same on fringe new sites or groups. They need an outlet, especially one in which like-minded people can slap one another on the back and egg on their imaginary quest to make the world look like the faces they see in the mirror. If you are methodical, you can find the crumbs of their visits and tally them up for an accounting.

Robert and I share a friend I’ve known most of my life. Our mutual friend is oblivious to the racism in the heart of my high school social media friend. It seemed like the prejudice would be obvious to anyone observant but I’ve found this to be untrue for many social media users. One of these days, Robert will be in one of those instances like the tiki marchers in Charlottesville; it’s inevitable as he seethes in discomfort at being told “you’re wrong” by those around him, even if many don’t know or pretend to not know how deep his hatred goes.

So I wait, knowing that the backlash against racists and ignorance has him fuming. As many of us know, most racists have convinced themselves of their own practical prejudice; their prejudice is rooted in reality, or so they believe. Their fervor will eventually boil over.

I take note of instance after instance of those times when he simply cannot resist the temptation to insist that racism isn’t real and that minorities are their own worst enemy. He circumspectly runs across the line implying that other religions are somehow the center of a monetary conspiracy. Innuendo is his most frequent ammunition. It’s rare to find a case wherein a racist holds no beliefs regarding the other usual suspects in the minds of prejudice.

He would never pick up a tiki torch and march with those who proudly identify themselves as known racists. His brand is more insidious. He won’t hire minorities unless he must and he subtly steers claims of such prejudice back toward those questioning his increasingly visible motives. Any opportunity he can seize to belittle anyone of color is his for the taking.

The next-to-last paragraph was added after Charlottesville. The rest was a post I’ve rewritten a few times. I was right. Once the events of the weekned subsided, I saw that Robert couldn’t help himself. His anger became a fire that he insisted on unleashing. His racist brethren, albeit of a lesser intellectual stripe, had been revealed as debased human beings and his wrath became unleashed. But his own social media? Only rainbows, talks of wife and family, and details of his life, all presented in a new row of deceit.

Over the last year as Trump’s ascendency became pronounced, I’ve outed many racists to mutual social media users. They display the symptoms of being gaslighted – but once I let them in on the secret of the person accosting them, they are thankful and can sometimes even laught about it.

Knowing a person is racist is different than suspecting such a thing to be true. The label, once proven, grants us power over the racist. I almost always tell people of my discoveries privately because it’s no use starting a word war that will only escalate. People learn at their own pace if they ever learn at all. A very intelligent racist tends to have a long memory for grudges, too. I usually start by asking my friends if they generally trust their instincts about people. (Each of us sometimes speaks lazily or crosses a line – these instances don’t count as evidence of prejudice if they are singular or negligent in tenor.)

After observing people like Robert punch at a social media friend, I reach out and subtly point out that they are being gaslighted or treated like a lesser person. I use the list of logic defects to specify how they are being mistreated. Finally, I point out issues of common courtesy and respect. Most people get the message after a few such encounters and up their deamnds for the closet racist to go away if he can’t behave. There’s a ball of fire and smoke before people like Robert walk away. They need people to know that they have been wronged. Despite their constant nagging about victim behavior, they’ll play all the cards before finally shutting up.

If you have social media friends who do this to you, don’t ignore your instincts. You’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg. We let these things pass out of courtesy, usually avoiding the reality that our collective pass at calling them out is only worsening the soundtrack of prejudice in their head.

 

Early Morning Delights

To all those who followed me later on the trails, you’re welcome. I didn’t do the spider dance voluntarily but I did it repeatedly and with great enthusiasm on the dark trails, most of which was carpeted with a dank tapestry of leaves from last night’s torrential rains. I’m assuming the spider dance counts toward one’s cardiovascular regimen. There were 2 or 3 spots where the fallen leaves hid the dimly-defined edges of the trail. These were particularly laden with spider webs. Some of these spiders are enormous and when they have the time to do their work without interruption, their webs become as thick as my grandma’s favorite thread.
 
The only other vehicle or person I encountered the entire length of my walk was a patrol car exiting an access road leading to a school as if the officer had returned to brush up on his ABCs. (‘A’ is for arrest, ‘B’ is for breaking and entering…) Had the officer seen me a few minutes before, doing my spider web electrocution dance, he or she might have stopped to ask if me I was alright. As it was, I was probably just a silhouette in the eerie darkness.
 
I parked my car at was once Silent Grove Church. The church has long disbanded, once a hub for fervent locals to share their community gospel. One late night, over 3 decades ago, I parked my Dodge Fury there and ran for miles, so many that I could barely lift my legs when I finished. This was before the road was anything except a serpentine and narrow road which was sparsely populated before Springdale had aspirations of even reaching its municipal tentacles to those places on the periphery of anything substantial. The thought of a trail access in that area would have been ridiculed by everyone except the most visionary back in those days. When I finished my run, I laid across the hood of my car and somehow fell asleep, as it was probably 4 a.m. or later on that night so many years ago. The next morning, the sound of a honk and a school bus door swishing open awakened me. I’m sure I was quite a sight to the kids on the bus; the driver certainly was wondering whether I was dead, drunk, or dead drunk.
 
I recognize my privilege. I have the good health to walk, a car which gets me to these new places, and energy leftover from working, and a city which grew out its parochial insistence toward maintaining the imaginary “what-once-was.” These trails and places would not have been possible if those who demanded allegiance to the past had been the most effective voices.
 
Now that I’m older, I find myself laughing at the ease with which I could fall asleep in strange places. (Before my back began to groan like a dissatisfied older lady waiting at the store register, her 16 items stacks neatly on the counter, waiting for her impatient turn to question the cashier about each and every item.) As we age, almost all of us demand our nightly rituals, with each pillow fluffed just so, the fan at the exact speed to comfort us, and our world categorized around us. Our affluence estranges us to adventure.
 
This morning, there was no meteor shower nor anything particularly eventful – just an array of small delights: the sliver of a slowly rising crescent moon on the horizon, the rush of the creek underneath, an immense tree fallen next to the bridge, probably having surrendered to the insurmountable push of water yesterday evening, the feeling or smooth and yet uncertain footing across an infinite number of fallen leaves. The air was so heavy with moisture that I could trick myself into believing that it was pushing back against me as I walked.
 
Out there in the darkness, there was an absence of bickering saltines, no one making fatuous arguments regarding predatory relics in our evolving midst, no pointing fingers of superiority toward other beliefs. Just the methodical hum of a billion insects and feet moving forward, step, step, step. I walked much further than I intended to. The miles, though, seemed to accumulate without notice.
 
Alone, with my thoughts, wondering and with wonder.

Locals Underestimate The Minority

Recently, I had a friend severely underestimate the minority population of a local town. Before saying anything I of course looked up the information from three different sources. The % of minority population was markedly higher than even I had supposed.

I knew my friend was wrong in the assertion, though, even before verifying. Latinos had arrived at that town in force even 20 years ago. Jobs drew them there, even if the locals greeted them with distrust and frowns. Economics opens most doors in both directions, even if guests must ignore a few grimaces.

It’s common for the majority to severely misjudge the presence of minorities or minority viewpoints. Until they hit a critical level which impacts them, they tend to fail to appreciate that the fulcrum is moving underneath them.

Even though I’m a white male in my early 50s, it is a delight for me to see the region being renovated from the inside. I do not share the apprehension and fear which seems to have invaded so many of my contemporaries. The new faces, language, and cultures only serve to widen my world, not shrink it.

I hope the fulcrum shifts sufficiently underneath so as to make the minority overtake the majority in this region. This world belongs to us all.

Yet Another Take On “Leave If You Don’t Like It…”

It’s disappointing to see those who believe their claim to action bears more merit than those who arrived a year ago, either from New York or Somalia. The time your feet have graced a particular plot of land does not constitute a greater constitutional right to one’s opinion or the exercise thereof.

You have seen the rants, the ones telling us who disagree with their heritage arguments to get out of their country as if their claim to these lands is greater than that of other people with whom they disagree. It’s such an over-the-top denial of how democracy works in this country. It’s also an unwise way to live one’s life.

All such irrational demands are directed at minorities or at least the minority opinion. This is doubly dangerous because only resistance to the status quo has ever resulted in progress or improvement in our overall human condition. We don’t advance through universal agreement. Only rigorous and constant challenge has ever yielded gains to all of us as a group. It’s the reverse of angrily storming out of a room in a rage because in this case, you are insisting that the person questioning a perceived wrong be ejected from the room.

You, of course, can blithely pretend that we all don’t play for the same team and that things we do or allow to continue have lasting effects on members of our team. Whether this team is a family, a town, a state a country, or a planet does not negate the fact that harm to any is harm to all.

Beware the danger of assuming your current status has anything to do with the superiority of your moral position or the rightness of insisting that things continue as they always have.

If you are part of the majority, a warning bell should sound in your conscience in those circumstances wherein a minority accused you as a group of insensitivity. Each of us, regardless of how we came here or when, have the right to the same seat at the table, without qualification. In a democracy, you must accept the pinch you might feel as newcomers come to expand your culture and heritage. It’s easy to accept the validity of another person’s viewpoint if they share your color, religion, and language.

It’s illogical and harmful to resort to a demand that other people either leave or leave the argument solely because it strikes you directly in your comfort zone. if nothing else, these United States are dedicated to the principle that all who come and participate have a voice. It is up to us collectively to change our minds as circumstances change. It’s important that one does not poke a finger in the eye of a group of people as they insist that their viewpoint is incorporated.

History is not as straight or logical as you would insist it to be. It is an error to presume that you understand history sufficiently enough to believe that human nature has shifted accordingly. When you find yourself in the majority preaching or insisting that a minority is imagining that racism, prejudice, or harm has befallen them, there’s a great danger that you fail to see what it evident to observers.

Lest we forget, Native Americans walked these lands for millennia before we came here. For whatever myriad reasons we eradicated them from these places. As modern Americans, we should not succumb to paralyzing guilt for what happened but we should feel accountable to honor and cherish the idea that we should never slide into a situation that in any way reflects what we did to our own indigenous people here in the United States. It is only because we are indeed capable of equal brutality that we must be vigilant to protect everyone in our society.

Those cherished things you feel so protective of, the ones erected to ‘honor’ those who fought on the wrong side of history, they are merely things. As a swastika evokes violent emotions in the hearts of Jews, so too can granite reminders inspire anger, shame, or degradation in some members of our society. It is quite unbecoming for the majority to deny that the minority experiences negative emotions in response to relics of our brutal past.

If enough people insist that we need to move forward, we owe to ourselves and them to be better human beings, even if we feel a pinch for doing so.

Confederate Stones, Withering Trees, and Change

Observing the long view of history and social forces:

“A city or town isn’t the past, who founded it, or who once lived here. It’s who is here now and the children they’ll have. Those who were here first have no greater say in its disposition than those who moved here to be one of us. It’s one of the most overlooked lessons of history. A family changes as it accepts new members and towns can be no different. Roots grow into trees and those trees must adapt to the changing environment or wither to become the firewood for those who need it.

You can fight change with all your vigor or you can understand that all things perish, even ones carved in immortal stone. The things that we hold dear are not things at all. They are flesh and blood, love and hope, compassion and intellect. Those things which do not advance us and bind us together must be willingly set aside in favor of the great invisible.

Nostalgia for the way things were is the most human of traits. But we must always remember that we share these fields and places with those who look upon us with new eyes. Even our children will one day peer back with wonder at the things we valued over one another as people. As we are renewed, so too must our attitudes flourish, blossom and envelop those who do not share our history and culture.”

Peace

A Snarky Response to Hypocrisy

I’m not a good person.

I can’t be.

Today, I read a social media post from someone lecturing his friends about posting false claims about drinking from copper mugs. You’ve probably seen these posts yourself. The specifics don’t matter – not really.

My friend ranted about people not checking sources and making untrue claims. He undoubtedly was standing on a literal soapbox as he typed his post to berate his friends for being so ignorant. His eloquence rivaled that of a drunken sailor reading a Portuguese dictionary while blindfolded.

I almost choked on my coffee.

I waited, hoping to hear the clap of thunder and lightning from where I was sitting as it came from the sky and struck my friend for hypocrisy. I finally started breathing a little later as I realized that no cosmic justice was forthcoming.

This admonition came from the same guy who fervently believes that this planet is only a few thousand years old, that nothing about evolution can possibly be true, that racism isn’t real (unless you count the prejudice that white males now suffer in society), that the car industry secretly hid a vehicle which would get 100 miles to the gallon, etc. Also, I almost forgot to mention that he thinks climate change is totally bogus.

But I did forget the big comment: he dips tobacco. Tobacco is all natural, so it can’t possibly harm you, he would say. I guess uranium would be next on his list to sample?

But hey! Stop trying to tell people on your own social media that you think copper mugs are poisonous. He was quite clear in his implication that you are a degenerate moron if you do.

I don’t have any interest in the argument. I don’t care if copper mugs are poisonous or if looking directly at one will turn my grandmother into a vampire.

I think I’ll visit the local chapter of the Flat-Earth-Society, though, and save this guy a seat. Somehow, I just KNOW he’s a charter member.

 

Charlottesville Is Us

I take exception to the idea that the racists in Virginia were an anomaly. They are not unusual examples of ignorance – they are typical. These are our fellow citizens. They listen and watch, waiting for the moment which allows them to vent their anger on others. They often are garbage workers, but they are equally likely to be police, teachers, nurses, lawyers, or writers. People don’t answer the call to racism through logic. Likewise, condemnation of their beliefs often serves to galvanize their legitimacy.

We can look to Virginia and shake our heads, wondering what stupidity brought them to that place. While we are doing that, though, there are people around us secretly wishing they could be there in solidarity, shouting out their agreement. Even if it seems odd to some, there are people who think that being white somehow is a matter of pride, as if skin color is a determinate of anything substantive as a human being.

You don’t want to believe that people you know harbor such hatred in their hearts. They do, though, even as they continue to beguile you into complacency after you see a symptom of their ignorance and raise a red flag. Those who subversively conceal their true feelings of superiority toward minorities, other religions and races surround you, waiting. They’re disgusted that they can’t be true to their anger. The internal monologue in their heads has played so long that they can’t distinguish their prejudice from reality. If they live in a place where there is a cluster of like-minded small-minded people, they learn to push the boundaries of acceptability more often. If you are playing the banjo in a room full of banjos, you don’t look so unusual, but if you are playing the only banjo in a room full of cellos, you are the only person getting attention.

Sometimes racists gather in groups and act out. Mostly, they lash out in a million small ways, often indirectly observed. They gaslight you, innocently insisting, “I’m not a racist.” After repeated protests, they get angrier, turning the accusations against you. What they really want is to say, “So what? I am better than those people.” They know they can’t, though. Many use their intelligence to change the nature of truth, often at risk of your sanity. They have lengthy and complicated arguments they repeat endlessly. The signs are there; they grumble about foreigners, language, or convolute the nature of the Civil War, drop small comments about the real story of the Jews, or simply defend their ignorance as tradition or heritage. They point to Chicago as proof of inferiority or refuse to see the difference between Black Lives Matter and hate groups. They say they don’t have a problem with interracial marriage, but… Many have blacks or minorities in their social and business circles which camouflage them. If you are tuned in, your instincts invariably give you pause with most of them.

I grew up around a lot of racists. The dangerous ones aren’t the ones who distract you by gathering in noisy groups in other states. This isn’t a “there” problem. The dangerous ones are the ones you see at the supermarket, at your kid’s Friday night football game, or posting vaguely disconcerting insinuations on social media. They excuse away their particular racism by implying that everyone is a racist or that their version is indeed rooted in truth. They smile, year after year, falsely believing that much of the world reflects how they think. They know that hissing the “N” word will immediately identify their ignorance, so they artfully step around it, learning the nuances of language and presentation which will continue to allow them to live among us without being outed.

So, as time passes, you drop your guard, never imagining that the racism you’ve incrementally witnessed belies a deep vein of actual hatred in your friend or family member’s heart. Most of the time, you give them the benefit of the doubt simply because they haven’t overtly acted out.

People proudly look in the mirror, admiring the skin color they didn’t choose. They go to religious services their parents chose and tend to live in the same places. Their success or failure in life is based on privilege that’s invisible to them. Most get truly angry even at the mention of the word “privilege.” Many focus on what they feel is being “taken” from them as if their claim to anything is greater than anyone else in this country.

Only racists will read my words and get angry.

Only people who know that my words apply to them will recoil in protest. I’m simply inexpertly pointing out that racists aren’t solely a problem outside of our orbit. It’s possible for someone to trigger your instincts toward identifying them as prejudiced and yet be in complete disagreement with racist attitudes. It’s possible to be a Trump voter and not condone racism or violence. You can have issues with Black Lives Matter and not be a racist, too. Or want immigration control and seek to have English be a required language in public commerce. I’m not saying otherwise, though racists will focus on small perceived discrepancies and exaggerate what I’ve said. It’s what they do, instead of honestly admitting their prejudices.

Racists despise the people among them who recognize the signs of what truly echoes in their minds and hearts.

Those people in Virginia aren’t an isolated example: they are us.

It gives you comfort to believe in the best in people – and it should. But never doubt that for every racist holding a sign and grimacing in anger at a protest, there are several sitting at home, nodding their head in agreement. The ones shouting are doing us a favor by identifying their prejudice. The quiet ones, though, they are an almost insurmountable battle. They are the breeding ground for racism’s ongoing prominence.

 

 

Meteor Shower Surprise in Springdale

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Thanks again, Springdale. This morning, I walked along the Razorback Greenway on the north side of Backus, near AQ. It was a fortuitous choice.

I was incredibly lucky because not only did I have the entire trail to myself again this morning, but as I walked north, a portion of the Perseid Meteor shower put on a show for me. Frankly, I had forgotten about the possibility of seeing anything. As I reached one of the beautiful steel bridges crossing Spring Creek, the trees relented and the sky opened above me and I stopped and stared as a meteor slashed across above me. The moon was bright and behind me, but no other lights invaded the wide spot afforded by the bridge and the creek beneath me. At 5 a.m., it was a delight to assume it would be the only meteor. Two more brilliant flashes arced across the sky above me. I had the urge to turn and say, “Did you SEE that?” but all the sane people were in bed, dreaming of their own fascinating sights.

So, it came to pass that I stood alone in the midst of nature, watching the sky drop burning reminders of the vastness of space. As I walked back, happy to have been witness to it, I saw a cat on the edge of the trail, walking ahead of me. I picked up my pace to see if it would spook. I turned on my flashlight app on my phone and lo and behold it was Pepé Le Pew, bright white-striped tail now raised in alarm. I stepped back so quickly I think I traveled back in time, laughing at the idea of me returning home smelling of skunk.

When I returned to my car, I walked over to the new pavilion next to the old Heathman building and sat watching as the edges of the sky slowly brightened. Two more bright meteor falls greeted me. I wondered how many early risers might have witnessed these with me. Then again, I remembered that the city of Springdale had built all these places solely for me, to be discovered in singular succession. I will hoard these memories.

As I headed back east, toward home and my disoriented cat, a deep fog rolled in from the hilly terrain, blanketing my approach. As I write this, everything seems to have been draped by the most diaphanous of gauze. Had I not stood in the middle of the beautiful nothing and witnessed the meteors, I would have thought I had dreamed it.

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Razorback Greenway Interactive

Because You Needed 16 of Them

Idle pondering…

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Here at “You’re Wrong, Inc.” we value your opinion, no matter stupidly misguided it is. We say this because you’re wrong. Don’t take it personally. It’s okay to be wrong. (PS: I’m the president of the company, given my long history with the product we sell. 🙂 )

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“You know you’re too big when you’re the only one in the picture and the newspaper labels it as a group photo.” – X

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Get out and talk a walk. It’s psycho-logical for you to do so.

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Of all the things, all were actually just moments, noticed or ignored.

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A llama appears at a microphone in the middle of the street. What song might it sing – if it could? If you can’t imagine such a scenario, please call 1-800-LLAMAME.

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Love isn’t a clean white t-shirt and chiseled chin; it’s laundry when you would rather pull your own teeth with a broken corkscrew.

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I knew he was mean but was uncertain as to what degree until he insisted on volunteering exclusively at Habitat For Inhumanity.

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English: learn these 743 rules. Spanish: learn these 75 rules, all without losing any of the majesty of language.

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I couldn’t quite get a grip on it, either.

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Local police departments post crazy photos of blurry perpetrators, asking for tips. Tip #1: Impressionist art is for the wall at the gallery.

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For anyone who enjoys a glass of water, half-full. 🙂

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