Tangled Up in Blue

It started as an odd little news story, even what is known as a kicker in the news business. A Harvard professor arrested for disorderly conduct outside of his home. Words were exchanged, tempers flared and both men were not about to back down. When it comes to dealing with the police, there is usually one winner.


Unfortunately this story not only had legs, but it ran all the way to the White House.

Let me tell you something Mary Collins told her young son when he asked about a movie title. The film was "A Patch of Blue." It was highly acclaimed and starred Sidney Poitier. In many ways it was a classic reversal of roles when a poorly educated white girl who happens to be blind befriends and is tutored by a young man who happens to be black. She begins to fall in love with him and in 1965 that was enough drama for a movie-going public. The metaphor of the film's title was lost on me. I kind of understood the break in the clouds of blindness for the girl having her world opened up by this well-rounded young man. But what else did it mean? Mom said it referred to Mr. Poitier's skin color. "Sometimes black folks are so dark we're thought of as blue." She said cautiously.

That never left me. And it is one of those things that a young mother felt she had to tell her son. It was part of a hefty volume of defensive knowledge. Obviously the term blue means other things, too, like law enforcement. Here is where the culture seems to continually clash.

If there is a divide between the Blue Americas it is rooted in distrust. I do not subscribe in this notion, but I do understand it. Our Constitution designates the administration, Barack Obama, with enforcing the law. By extension, when any American comes in contact with law enforcement we are touched by the administration, by the President. Yet the president this week stepped into a minefield of perception.

This week I was stopped by a patrolman in Macedonia, Ohio. I was going 40 in a 25mph business district. When the officer came to my window I removed my sunglasses, gave him some important information regarding a certain license I hold and complied with his requests. He was courteous, even friendly and let me off with a suggestion to drive safely. That was it. I have never had a problem with the police. I have never felt the need to be confrontational with the police. Why would I? Why would anyone, especially a highly educated college professor? There was a moment here in Hudson when I accidentally tripped my alarm and the HPD came by (in seconds) and asked for my ID before they believed I was the rightful owner. Again, it was cordial and I actually felt safer knowing they responded so quickly.

There is a notion among many black folks, even those at the highest levels of American society, that when it comes to blue on blacks nothing but confrontation will ensue. I think that is not only counterproductive but the exception rather than the rule.

Georgetown Professor Michael Dyson said on Face the Nation this weekend that, "few black men in America would have the nerve to say what Professor Gates allegedly said. He'd be too afraid." Why not he'd find it inappropriate and, frankly, stupid.

I'm sorry, being belligerent and insulting to men and women who put their lives on the line everyday is not a patch of blue. It is still more of the same hostile clouds we have been waiting to move on for generations.

The Dangers of Social Networking

I have a great friend who is perfect in the sense that he tells me the truth and seldom pulls punches. He recently disappeared from the social network we shared. To be exact, he made me disappear from the people he "follows." This was a little disconcerting because we have known each other for a couple of decades. He and I have shared a lot. My friend has dealt with some tremendous losses in his life and his view is filtered through those experiences, a superior intellect and an almost insatiable curiosity. He also values people; friends and strangers alike.

What I did to cause him to remove me from his list was the results of a moment of thoughtlessness. It is what we all risk when we sign up for and begin using these internet tools. I am talking primarily about Facebook and Twitter, the two current waves of connectivity that is taking over much of our time and energy. Both these sites offer little windows into the lives of people near and far in 140 characters or less. The fact that you are reading this on your computer means you are likely familiar with these new ethereal "front porches." If you haven't taken the plunge yet, you might want to read on first.

What put my friend and me on opposite sides or the Twitterverse was my ability see the world as characters in one of my mysteries. I can forget that behind every headline is not just material for my next paragraph, but people who suffer real pain, real loss and deep heartache. The posting, or Tweet, was about a veteran radio newsman who was brutally murdered in his Brooklyn N.Y. home. The suspect was contacted through a reported ad on Craigslist, a popular online classified service. It appeared to my friend that I sited the event and related it to the mystery I am working on. My books combine Radio and murder in such a way that readers with an interest in either might find my stories interesting. It's not as easy as church conspiracies or vampires or crime fighting from beyond the grave, but it is what I know. I don't think I did this, exactly. But it does not matter. It's what he perceived.

Radio people are public figures. We have the blackout curtains of being voices in box rather faces on a screen, but still we are somewhat known. Living in a fishbowl can bring out some unusual characters, fans; and rarely dangerous characters, but it does happen. When I wrote the post with a link to the NY Times article about his death I was thinking about my work, my fiction, not the real life horror of such a crime. The post was insensitive and my friend had heard, read just about enough. I can't blame him for banishing me, but I would like him to know that I got the message. Future posts will not be sent until I have devoted the time and thought to make sure my intentions are easily communicated.

There are many out there who get tossed out of my circle by using offensive language and being generally malicious. There is no room nor time for that. But if you do go on any of these sites, please be careful about what you write and who you invite into your world. On one level it can distort your intentions; on another it can invite disaster.

I hope my friend will invite me back one day. If not, his actions certainly have taught me a lesson. Maybe he helped you, too.

The Shocking Answer

Here's a question I should not ask: did your father ever hit your mother? I am asking this not for prurient reasons, rather a prelude to a brief discussion about an item in the news. We have all heard the disturbing story about performer Chris Brown and his girl friend Rihanna. This horrifying slice of the American Dream has not only been played out time and time again in every form of modern media, including tabloid TV, text messages, YouTube and six degrees of social networks, it is about to become a 90 second public service announcement.

This is no exaggeration. A group whose mission is to raise awareness of the growing problem of domestic violence has reenacted the event as closely as police transcripts will allow. They are not so concerned with the sensational, tabloid news aspects of the event. The stunt choreographers do not resemble the recording stars. They are not even black, which makes me wonder if now about their motives then certainly about their courage. If you read the detailed description of what happened as this 19-year-old superstar navigated his rented luxury sports car while brutally assaulting the young woman, and did not squirm in your seat then may I suggest professional counseling.

Recently there was a survey conducted by the Boston Public Health Commission revealing even more disturbing news. The survey of 200 Boston youths age 12 to 19 found that 51% said Brown bore responsibility, 46% said Rihanna was responsible, and 52% said both were to blame for the incident. Many have suggested that the results of this research indicate a) the glorification of violence in our culture; b) a distortion of celebrity; c) a desensitization of our young people – and perhaps the not so young – to this kind of criminal act.

I must admit I am not really surprised by either the event nor the survey. We have become a culture of violence, perhaps we have always been. We began in religious protest and revolution and we grew by land grabs, slavery and near genocides. It was and is the law of the jungle and survival of the fittest. We are survivors. But there has to come a time when we say to ourselves and our children: enough! We have outgrown our animalistic instincts and can finally start treating each other with compassion and mutual consideration.

The shocking answer might be this: we still have more to learn before we can call ourselves truly civilized. But clearly we haven't arrived quite yet.

 

 

 

Blues, Gospel and All That Jazz

This weekend, February 7^th the Akron Symphony and a chorus of more than 200 gifted amateurs will fill the rafters at EJ Thomas with beautiful music. The rafters and beyond; the very heavens will open up to listen. It's the 16^th annual Gospel Meets Symphony, or GMS as the patrons, mothers and fathers of the event call it. Let's be plain, a lot of this is about being the sons and daughters, however many generations removed, of slaves. Not just being black, or African American if you prefer, but of being the survivors of a bitter tradition where song and style were critical for making it through the night.

This week I was reminded in clear tones and soaring spirits that this music means something. Two funerals of a grandfather and a great grandmother celebrated in small, neighborhood churches reminded me of the pitted and dangerous road held together by this music. The first funeral was a simple affair attended by close family. The old lady's man was in his 90's and had suffered from Alzheimer's disease for a number of years. But the family he left behind was filled with young people who grew up in the shadow of his pain. The music came not only in the song of a powerful soloist, but in the building cadence of the preacher: preacher, preach on!

That was Saturday. Thursday was a different story. Mother Wells was a quiet woman who attracted people like a magnet. She died young, too. And when her time came her church – her three churches – rose up in song. Three pastors and a deacon set the stage for the main event: Mother Wells' pastor and spiritual guide waited patiently through the tributes and songs, the prayer and the other small, but no less moving sermons. He waited as the others scaled back their song, just a little. But the call and response, the unity through the spirit and century's old foundation help firm, even as the old church shook. My friend Art was seated next to me. He had not really been to a Baptist Service like this one. And when the pastor ramped up, there was gospel in every soul, every breath and every Amen – "can I get a witness up in here?"

Many of us take this flight every week, sometimes twice and three times. But you can get the same elation, the same sense of history, faith and rigid determination that led our American family from second-class citizens to the very seat of power. This Saturday the journey becomes clearer, and available to all. I hope you can spend a few hours Saturday night to visit America. It's so much nicer without having to say goodbye.

Everything I know I learned in The Godfather III

For some reason I was looking for mission statements for 2009. It's not a bad practice, although a little late. Mission statements can be almost anything. My friend Sue and I were remembering some of the Radio geniuses that sat us all down in conference rooms in hotels and made us capsulize our lives in seven words or fewer. It was meant to focus our efforts and energy; being single-minded is good, sometimes.

Personal missions are a little different. Today those same consultants, life coaches and motivational speakers would talk about Me.com, the brand that happens when you get up in the morning and keeps on ticking until you close your eyes at night. In some respects the personal statement has gone from a blog to a twitter, seven words to one, never mind the vowels.

Still, the pointed prose of literature and rock songs seems to guide me more than the tweet de jour. I do enjoy the precious words of wisdom coming over my iPhone from my active Facebook and Twitter friends. But the real life lessons aren't truly tested until Al Pacino, Roy Scheider, Jagger, Jim Morrison or The Beatles have placed them in proper context.

One of the early ones that might be responsible for saving my life is the poignant line from Honky-Tonk Women: "Just can't seem to drink her off my mind." I actually said that to Monika very early in our relationship. It was very true, too. She made that kind of impression. Eventually I gave up and we got married almost 31 years ago. And being more than 23 years away from my last drink seems to render that motto moot. Later Roy Scheider made the brilliant observation in Jaws II: "I know what a shark looks like. I've seen one up close and I'm not going through that hell again!" This one is especially useful. How many of us have walked right into the same traps over and over again, even though we should have learned long ago what a shark looks like up close.

The Godfather III was one of those movies that made a far better book, even with the predicate of arguably the two best movies ever made. In it were great lines that somehow got lost in, well, in something. We all know the memorable: "Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in!" But another lesser known utterance really makes me think: "Power wears out those who don't have it." Wow, and it wasn't even Michael Corleone who said it. What Michael did say that keeps me going is: "Never hate your enemies, it affects your judgment." And, "When I'm dead I'm gonna be really smart." I just wish I had read the book before seeing the movie.

As far as that mission statement goes, I never really found one except for this: always reaching beyond my grasp. It's not original, but works for me.

The Kid Smokes

This Christmas gathering was really very special at the Collins house. We had two additional guests, freshmen in the strange brew of a mongrel collective. And I say that with a great deal of affection. We have backgrounds from Central Europe, the British Isles, Africa and First Nations of America. We speak two languages, Hungarian and English. This year there was an infusion of Pittsburghese; one thing common to all this was love and mutual respect.

The nubees included a new husband of Monika's step mom and a young member of a tragedy-plagued wing of the family. The older fellow is a great guy, with a wealth of practical knowledge and a friendly disposition. The younger man's father and baby sister both died inside of 16 months of this holiday, and for someone barely 21 years-old, EC has had his share of very bad luck. This Christmas was a welcome break from his bleak reality, and this distant family represented some return to the stability that had been snatched from him in such a painful way. He is looking to the Marine Corps for a little direction to increasingly aimless life. I wish him God's Speed.

Our young one is growing up very quickly. We are very proud of her, especially the way she has overcome great challenges. Her all-too infrequent visits are the highpoint of our lives. That's not an overstatement; she means that much to us. Several years ago during one of our visits to Chicago she coyly admitted that she was a cigarette smoker. Monika and I are both reformed smokers, with more than 20 years each away from our last smoke. She was embarrassed to step away from us while heading to Ikea. The next visit she had stopped. But we have a history of addictive personalities in the family and I knew it was not going to be easy. It wasn't.

During the Christmas prep – always a stressful time – she looked at me with an expression that said, "I'm sorry," and excused herself for a cigarette. It was the first time she admitted that the cessation of a few years ago had failed. It was not really a surprise, but parents hold out hope over reason. When it comes to looming problems facing families this holiday and the New Year, this seems like a small thing. But we tend to find a way to take some of the sting out of the big by focusing on the small things, perhaps things we can control, things we can fix. I can't fix this smoker, not with love nor threats nor graphic pictures of diseased lungs. Just have to let it go.

Many will take this flip of the calendar to change something about their lives. Self improvement is always a good plan and giving up such a dangerous addiction needs no holiday. So if you are using 2009 to give up smoking, I wish you all the strength you and I can muster.

Blood from a Stone

Your mission, Mr. Phelps, should you decide to accept it, it to go the heart of GM county – on a Thursday and Friday when the headlines are bleak and bleaker – and ask for donations for a Children's Hospital. Mr. Phelps? I think I have self-destructed a little early… Mr. Phelps, can you hear me?

Yeah, I hear you. That was pretty much the way it went this past week in Lansing, Michigan. Oh it was fulfilling and uplifting. I met some great kids and wonderful families as the video below illustrates. But at the end of the day the calls and the donations just weren't there. Hours went by without a single call. And it wasn't just us. There was a very popular morning show that also experienced a "Dead Zone." Trust me, it was not The Network. This market is stunned.

We began on Thursday with tons of energy and great support from the hospital and the foundation. The docs were there and the kids kept on coming accompanied by some of the strongest parents I have ever met. We pumped the phone number hundreds of times an hour and built a great story of hope and need and accomplishments and goals. We built it, but they did not come. By Friday night I was feeling the love from other participants, but as is human nature, I certainly thought it was my fault. Was I coming off too strong? Was I scaring good-hearted folks away with tales of sick kids and serious challenges? Or were the challenges of a potentially failing auto industry just settling in, and a reality too great for even the commitment of a few dollars a month? We'll never know.

Last year we raised nearly $70,000. If I'm to believe the centralized call center we'll be lucky if we raise a small fraction of that.

At the end of the three days all I have is the knowledge that we did our level best. When people are afraid for their jobs, staring at a dismal future and inextricably tied to a troubled industry, then any amount is too much to ask. All the other factors really don't matter, and the feeling that I let the kids down is pretty useless as well. But putting that out of my mind is a real impossible mission.

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