Music Corner World

I am told that Ocracoke Island is not named because some enterprising early 20th century state fair entry combined the famous soda pop with a southern-fried delicacy. I intend to find out the truth of said naming and delve into the legend of Blackbeard during a much needed few days off starting bright and early tomorrow morning.

If the pirates don't snare me, we'll see you soon on the blogosphere.

My thanks to Ed Cone for saying what needs to be said about the TRC. Sadly, I believe that the point of the whole thing has been lost on many. Since moving to GSO five years ago, I have been curious about the tensions that the events of November 3, 1979 have created in this city that I have grown to love better than any city I've ever lived in, including my home town.

I moved here from Tulsa OK which had it's own 'nasty' secret. And what a secret it was. No one, white or black, would talk about the great Race Riot of 1921.

The magnitude of the riot was astounding:

The official death count in the days following the riot was around 35, but evidence has surfaced through an investigation to suggest that at least 300 people were killed. Rumors still persist that hundreds, not dozens, of people were killed and that bodies were crudely buried in mass graves, stuffed into coal mines and tossed into the Arkansas River. If so, the Tulsa race riot would go down as the worst single act of domestic violence on U. S. soil since the Civil War; worse than the 1965 Watts riot, the 1967 Detroit riot, the 1992 Los Angeles riot and the 1995 Oklahoma city bombing.

Those events left a total of 301 dead. Two days of violence and arson directed by whites against African American neighborhoods left hundreds dead, hundreds injured, and more than 1500 African American owned homes and 600 businesses destroyed. Also destroyed in the African American neighborhoods were 21 churches, 21 restaurants, 30 stores, 2 movie theaters, a hospital, a bank, the post office, libraries, and schools.

Perhaps worse, and the point of my bringing it up here, is that investigation of the riot was put off for 80 years. No mention of the riot was made in history books, even in Tulsa, until the 1990's. When I moved to the city in 1990, many native Tulsans had never heard of the riots, even though it had destroyed a major part of their city and still contributed to ongoing racial tensions.

The fight to hold a similar set of hearings to the TRC continued the entire time I was in Tulsa, led by incredibly dedicated African-American and white civic leaders who understood that no progress could ever be made in that city without healing the wounds from that awful event.

The parallels to Greensboro are easy to draw. The 1979 incident did not kill 300 people, did not destroy whole sections of town and did not get swept under the rug for 80 years. But the potential for all of that is there. That is what is scaring us and dividing us.

The elite of our city has understandably but wrongly denied as foreign to them the events which have permanently laid a scar across the social landscape of our town. Whether or not we, as white people, picked up the gun or the axe or the hammer or the knife, or we, as black people, raged at the whites and egged them on, we are all responsible for the hate that is among us and the division that is so blatantly obvious and made real by the murders of the Greensboro riot of 1979. The people of Tulsa are taking responsibility for the Riot of 1921 and the divisions in their community today. They are truly in the process of reconciling their hate. We need to take responsibility for ours.

I don't know how to react as the final days of Terri Schiavo's life are played out on the world's stage. All I know is, that I am having a sharp and resounding values clash with the self-righteous rantings of the 'right-to-lifers' whose mewlings claim to be toeing the Christian line.

Take this nonsensical quote from today's Washington Post:

Some Catholics have marveled at the weighty symbolic possibility
that Schiavo, 41, could die between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, the holiest
period on the church's calendar. "That's the kind of convergence no one could
have planned," said Richard M. Doerflinger, an opponent of ending Schiavo's
feeding and vice president of the Pro-Life Secretariat of the U.S. Conference of
Catholic Bishops. "People will say, 'Terri Schiavo died for
our sins in a society that does not care enough for the helpless.' "

I believe that 'caring for the helpless' means living out the Easter message which releases us from the fear of death. Christ has prepared a way for us through His ultimate sacrifice. We should, therefore, celebrate Terri Schaivo's imminent entry into her better life, not hold on to her earthly self as if it would be a great tragedy to lose it. Otherwise, we are repudiating the very faith we cling to so strongly.

Who is this whole thing about, anyway? Is it about Terri? Is it about God? Or is it about the grief of parents, family and friends that cannot let go of this person they knew so many years ago.

For God's sake, no, for Terri's sake, let her go and be with God.

Only four months into this blog and I was not happy with my template.

I've learned a little about HTML recently and we all know that a little knowledge can be a very dangerous thing. So now I've spent four hours on a Sunday night revising something that was perfectly good in the first place. Ever done an Enneagram? I'm a 4. That should tell you everything you need to know.

So, here's the new look of my blog. It's kind of like my moustache. Change is good.

When Leonard Pitts wrote in this morning's News & Record about the effects that Ashley Smith's faith had on Brian Nichols, juxtaposed as it was to the 'Christian faith' of the faceless 'Smith' who allegedly beat and humiliated the prisoners in Guantánamo Bay, it brought home one of the struggles that I continually have with those that claim to speak for those of us whose heritage is christian.

Ever since I was a small boy, this phrase from Mark 12:29-31, taken from the Torah, has never left me:

"Hear O Israel the Lord Our God, The Lord is one; you shall love the Lord with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this, 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no other greater commandment than these."

Its meaning is clear and its mission is shared by Jews and christians alike: to spread the love of God through His good works to those whose lives are shredded by pain and suffering.

That's why I am nauseated by that soldier who is beating on a Muslim and saying it's because he's a Christian. It's also why I'm having trouble with many of the folks on the radical Christian right whose agenda seems to be more about power and acquisition rather than love and compassion.

If those folks would put their energy into fighting real injustice, like the widespread hunger in this country, or poverty in Haiti, or genocide in the Sudan, instead of choosing politically easy issues like the current campaign to stop the court-ordered cessation of life-support of Terry Schiavo, then maybe they would begin to gain my respect. But look at the websites I've linked above, or go to any one the hundreds of conservative Christian sites.

I am a christian, but spell it with a small 'c'. Their brand of big 'C' Christianity is not mine. Please do not associate my faith with theirs.

I went to the Nails and Tales Breakfast this morning at the Coliseum, which is the annual fund-raising event for Habitat for Humanity.

I've written earlier about my personal belief in HFH, but nothing prepared me for the depth of love and diversity of people who gave up their morning and subsequently some of their money for the sake of the homeless of Greensboro.

Of course, it's hard not to be inspired by stories of the families whose lives have been forever changed. Meaningful too were the speeches by Robert Kelley, Executive Director andTim Rogers member of the Board. My personal favorites were the short homily by Bishop Brooks (nothing like southern preachin' to wake you up in the morning) and the closing prayer by Rabbi Koren.

Thanks for breakfast, Habitat. Make it a habit, Greensboro!

Instead of the Sunday funny papers I like to read Giles Lambertson. Today he levels what he thinks is a blast at the ACLU (not posted online by the N&R). Especially ironic is this line: "

Saffron said ACLU attorney's "start with a decent principle and lift it out of the context for which it was designed. This trivializes civil liberties."

Every case that Mr. Giles cites as proof as to why he will not be joining the ACLU is quoted out of context or misstated or (gulp) trivialized.

Way to go, Giles, you've brightened my morning.

I'm taking my picture down from the blog today because it is no longer an accurate reflection of me.

Males have this odd vanity thing about facial hair. We love to look at ourselves every morning and take in the sights which include this oddly shaped hair thing on the wrong side of our head and believe that we are a true gift to the visual landscape of the world.

Some men, the very lucky ones (listen up, Ed), have beards that grow at 100 mm per second and cover every last centimeter of their cheeks, lips and chin. For them, beards are works of art to be conceived, grown and shaped - a hirsute topiary fantasy world in which to wander and then emerge with a decidedly manly visage. Men so endowed give off testosterone just by breathing hard.

Most of us cannot claim such a genetic blessing. When we attempt to grow the "great beard", what comes out is patchy/dull/the wrong color/or (heaven forbid) silly looking. Refusing to believe what we see before us in the mirror, we continue on and grow that beard/moustache/goatee and spend many months or years thinking about how dashing we are with this badge of male secondary sexual characteristics clinging to our face.

Like many things in our lives, men tend to personify their relationship to their facial hair. We pet it. We talk to it. Some of us give it names.

"Feels soft today"....."Should I trim it this morning?"....."There you go, now you look better."

******

I've made this particular journey three times in my life. In college I had the most ridiculous goatee one can imagine. The hair on my upper lip refused to grow until I was about thirty, so about 30 hairs were in my moustache, and my chin beard was bright red against my brown hair. I thought it was wonderful (it was 1969 - you can guess what I was up to).

The next salvo was in graduate school. I grew a full beard then. Same problem with upper lip, same color, very curly and I refused to trim it very much. I even began to teach at the music conservatory that way. Very professorial in those days. After I got married I decided to shave it one Sunday afternoon. As I stepped out of the bathroom my 13 yr old step daughter saw me and screamed. She thought I was someone else.

******

And there is the root of why many men grow beards. We can change identity. Some men look so altered when they shave that people treat them differently. It's like taking on a whole persona, or hiding behind a mask. Women can't duplicate the transition with a change of hairdo.

******

So I'm getting my hair cut today and I announce to the man who is cutting my hair that I am bored with my moustache and - - - it's gone. After three years I'm not really that attached to it, and besides, it was too light to notice for most people. He said all of the appropriate things: "You look much younger now!" "It was so hard to trim."

I'm waiting to see how long it takes my family to notice. I'm betting sometime tomorrow.

I haven't been posting very much recently. I know the reason - - some of it has to do with the pressures of time (duh, so I'm alone in this?) but most has to do with trying to find my voice.

So what's that about? Before my father's death (ok, I dwell on this a little, but it has been a turning point) I had thought I was on to something - - - and then that something was blown totally out of the water. My life, like my posts, began a sort of furtive discursive dance as if I were a moth seeking a place to land but never quite feeling close enough to the light.

Lately, I've found some more secure landing spots and have been able to look back at the last couple of months as if I had dreamt them. And, like a Dali painting, this perspective reveals a distortion of time, landscape and personality. In other words, I've been a little bit nuts.

I never realized, for example, how many ways there were to piss off your friends and loved ones. I have discovered many these past few weeks. (For those interested, the core element of the 'piss-off' technique is: ignore the fact that the people you love are caring for you so that you can take your grief/anger out on them. This is very effective.)

Another symptom of my 'Dali-esque' life has been an obsession with bad movies. The worse the better. I've sat up late watching outright trash just so long as it didn't have commercials, which seems to be my only real standard for judging quality. I also went through a phase of wanting a bigger and better TV. I even ordered one which my wife (thank goodness) convinced me to send back.

Finally, and I am loathe (or is it loaf?) to admit it, I've been eating like a horse (actually, the analogy doesn't work - horses eat well) - - - I've been eating like an average american. I've gained a good 5 - 10 pounds these past two months and none of my clothes fit. So not only am I flitting like a moth I look like a rolly-polly.

My recent posts have reflected my wandering psyche and have been unfocused and, like my profile, a bit bloated. But I think I am finding level ground for myself and in doing so I am gaining new motivation and resolve in continuing to write about the things that I originally set out to discover about myself, namely, a search for my roots.

Perhaps my search will resonate with the journeys of others, or perhaps it will amuse the well-grounded out there (all one of you). Or, it's possible I will become the object of "reality-blog" voyeurism and be cheered or booed for my ability to withstand horrible trials of life.

Whatever the search becomes, I am determined now to move forward in a positive and somewhat focused direction (if you know me, "focused" is a relative term).

Now, what was I saying?

The News and Record could have been a little more sensitive in its headlining today and given the family of the 16-year-old who was driving the car in which two teenagers were killed a break. How about a headline that read: Family continues to grieve after tragic accident.

Of course, that wouldn't attract attention of readers, would it. It was continued with the word Alcohol on page A4. The strangest part of this story was that it implied that we were all waiting to find out the results of the tests, but the original story doesn't mention the suspicion of alcohol or drug involvement at all.

It is so "left field" it sort of feels like one of those 'Try not to think of a pink elephant' stories.

Readers of this blog might have figured out that I am the father of a couple of teenagers. One of them is 18 and is a driver. He is perfectly capable of the same kind of dumb move with a car as that poor young man who was driving. The only difference between him and my son is the roll of the dice. Luck. But for the Grace of God, I might be sitting in that hospital looking for an explanation to give to the families of the two children whose lives had been lost, and struggling for a way to help my son live with this burden for the rest of his life.

By using the labels that the N&R did in their headlines, even though these substances were not present in his bloodstream, the paper cast an additional public pall over what can only be a horribly painful experience for these parents and for that suffering young man.

I am not a journalist. I am a consumer of the news. From my point of view, the N&R crossed the line.

So, the Supreme Court voted today 5-4 to disallow sentencing of minors to death. They're calling it 'cruel and unusual'.

My only question is - why was the vote not 9-0?