For nerd cred, in response to her post on race

Days ago my good OS friend nerd cred posted a compelling post called My Parking Lot Encounter with a Tall, Bearded Black Man.  It is an extremely well-written account of her encounter with a fellow Minnesotan in a parking deck and her response to his clearly rude behavior.

Rarely am I unable to immediately comment on a post that touched me as deeply as this one did.  But this one created the need for me to wrestle down my own feelings, my own struggles with the topic:  fear of black males in the American culture.  When I finally thought it through, my comment to nerd cred became an entire blog post.

nerd cred taught herself not to respond fearfully to the approach of a black stranger by remembering a lesson she had learned decades ago – black males are people; people have feelings; recoiling white women and purse-clutching women of all shades cause innocent African American males to feel diminished.  So, despite her conditioning to the contrary, developed during her residency in the greater Washington, D.C. area, cred de-conditioned her flight or fright responses to the sight of a black man in a strange environment.

I recently wrote about a rape that occurred just a block away from my home.  The police told me when I saw them canvassing the neighborhood that the alleged rapist was a black male, 5’5” –5’6” inches tall and wearing dreadlocks.  Although that incident occurred at 3:30 a.m., it got my attention and reignited my general concern about my own personal safety as I move through my daily routine.

The very next day, as I reached the top of the hill that is my cross street while walking my dog, a black man with dreadlocks, no more than an inch or so taller than my own 5’4” walked toward me.  He is not unfamiliar.  I have seen him at least a dozen times walking purposefully from one end of the neighborhood to the other.  He is filthy and appears somewhat incoherent.

“Holy crap, could THAT be the guy who raped that woman on April 1st?"

“I should call 911.  He fits the description perfectly.  Please stop coming toward me!”

“But what if he’s not the rapist?  How are you going to feel about calling the cops on the guy, who will undoubtedly accuse you of profiling him because he is black, like the guy did who kept ringing your doorbell at 11 p.m. one night and wouldn’t go away?  He did that knowing full well that you are black, too.”

By the time I concluded this internal dialogue the man was two blocks down the street.  I didn’t call 911 and that didn’t feel right at all, either.  I was caught between a rock and a hard place.

The truth is – and this is about as tough an admission as I’ve ever made on this blog – I, too, fear black men who I don’t recognize as being a neighbor and who carry themselves in a certain way, drive certain old General Motors cars slowly through the neighborhood with three other guys in the car, and wear a certain kind of pseudo-prison garb with their baseball caps all askew.

Once, years ago, I was driving my son to the airport here in Atlanta.  As we left our own neighborhood and rolled into a decidedly rougher part of the city, we approached a corner where a group of three or four black youths were just standing, watching the traffic.  I am told that I reached for the automatic door lock, probably to make sure the doors were locked. 

“Why’d you do that?!"  my son asked, sounding annoyed.

“Do what?”  I had no idea what he was talking about.

The gaze he leveled my way spoke volumes about what he was feeling on behalf of those young men standing on the corner.  Diminished.  Accused.  Suspected.

After examining my conscience, I knew why I’d done what I’d done.

Car-jacking has been a fear of mine ever since I moved to Atlanta 19 years ago.  Car-jackings were on the evening news almost every day.  The descriptions of the perpetrators are always – not mostly, but always – the same: black male or males, wielding a gun.  “Uniformed” black males watching traffic on the corner immediately set off my radar.  The oversized tee shirts are worn that way to conceal the guns some gangbangers carry in their underwear waistbands.  Danger. Danger. Danger.

If I were at what was once my office building in Midtown Atlanta and one of those same guys entered the elevator I was already on, I would be terrified.  If one of those same guys came and sat next to me on an otherwise empty MARTA train car, I would go on guard.

All this to say I think most of us try hard to be fair and nonjudgmental.  Of course there are racists who believe Barack Obama himself would be capable of robbing them in an elevator, but that’s not who I’m talking about here.  I’m talking about all the liberals and progressive who frequent this web site, regardless of color.  I believe we all like to think we are not fearful, but, in fact, we are.

Two days ago, on another morning walk with the dog, I noticed a squad car pull up in front of the retired Deputy Chief of Police’s house.  Probably an old co-worker just stopping by, I thought.  Thirty minutes later, on my return to the block, there were three squad cars and six officers in front of the house talking to Lou, the retired DCOP. 

When I got home I checked my email and, sure enough, Lou had sent out an email to the neighborhood Yahoo Group explaining he had walked in on a burglar at around 9 a.m.  He described the burglar as a white male, 45, driving a white pickup truck.  He also had the license plate number, like any good cop would.

I smiled to myself for two reasons:

1) For once the description of the wrongdoer was not a black male…
2) …which is the very reason the burglar was able to get into the neighbor’s house unmolested.  Seeing a mature adult white male driving a pickup truck looking around a neighbor’s property happens every day.  We assume he is a meter reader, or a contractor who has been hired by the homeowner.  If the guy had been black or Latino, the neighbor next door would have called the police in a heartbeat.

One day, before I sold my big house, my neighbor called me on the phone to tell me there was a homeless man looking into my windows.  It was broad daylight.  I asked which window.  I went to that window.  All I could see was the man who had been doing my yard work for the past 15 years. 
I called the neighbor back and asked her to describe the man.  She said he was wearing camo-fatigues and walked with a pronounced limp.  I burst out laughing.  When I recovered I explained the man she was “reporting” was my yard man who she has seen there every week for some 780 weeks!  Homeless?  Hardly!

We all talk a good game.  Some writers sound holier than thou about race issues, ready to categorize all racially tinged issues in distinct little boxes: black, white, Asian, Hispanic, liberal, conservative, racist, tolerant.  Who are we kidding? 

I never told my yard man about that phone call.  He is a United States Marine and proud of it.  He does exceptional work and is as loyal as they come.  He has been stopped by our very own private security patrol and had his duffle bag searched because someone reported their newspaper stolen from their front porch.  (That made me so angry I demanded and got him a public apology.  The man has worked in this neighborhood for 20 years carrying a duffle bag!)

Can you imagine how diminished he would have felt to know he had been suspected of being a homeless peeping Tom?

America, we have a problem.

Hi, Mom! Bye, Mom.

 

As usual, he appears painfully thin to my maternal eyes.  He is fashionably dressed in a black leather fitted jacket, casual pants and the Adidas sneakers he wears in compliance with his endorsement agreement.  The expensive watch on his left wrist serves the same purpose.  He’s agreed to wear it on the show.

The ubiquitous ball cap, some version of which he has worn since he was a Pee Wee Leaguer, was jammed down over his forehead to either protect his face from the sun or to prevent his being recognized by ardent, usually female fans.  I never asked.

His kohl black beard shines and sparkles in the Atlanta sunlight, matching the ever-present twinkle in his almond-shaped eyes.  Once again I marvel at the very notion that such a tall and handsome creature is the fruit of my long gone womb.

The relationship between a parent and an adult child is both easy and tricky.  Ours has been a close bond from day one, fostered by my openness and determination to actually hear him.  Nothing has changed about that, so when he chats over lunch about his work, his challenges and his sexual escapades, I force myself to listen as an adult friend.  The “mommy” in me doesn’t like to think about those things very much.

He has just left the hotel gym and intends to return in the evening for another session.  A bedroom scene with the star of the television pilot he is in town to film informs the two-a-days and is reflected in the content of his luncheon order.  Broiled salmon, no butter.  House salad, dressing and bleu cheese on the side.  Steamed broccoli, no salt.  He says his abdominal “six-pack” has slipped back to a 4 1/2; it will be back to six by morning.

The man who sits on the other side of the table is the self-assured, intelligent, polite and mannered gentleman I tried with all I had to raise.  He sees the world in ways that are often diametrically opposed to the way I see it.  He says things I don’t always like or agree with and he knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from saying exactly what he means.  I like that about him, too.

The time is too short – the limo is picking him up to take him to the studio.  The bedroom scene is to be shot the next day and he needs to be “camera-ready,” as he calls it.  So focused.  So professional. 

I drop him off in front of the hotel and watch him disappear into his life again.  Caught in the thick of the 5 p.m. rush hour in the impossibly congested Buckhead area of Atlanta, I think about the beautiful little toddler with the long eyelashes that caused people to mistake him for a girl if he wore a hat.  He was such a little ham, even then. 

I always knew he’d be a celebrity one day. 

My Love Letter from Mitt

That Willard Romney is so smooth.  Not smooth like our down-with-the-pop-culture President.  But he is smooth, like a fine gauged emery board.

I’m sure my expressive face was screwed into a WTF kind of mug when I saw the letter in my mailbox yesterday.  The return address was MITT ROMNEY.  If it had gotten lost in the mail ( if only!) I guess he thought our top-drawer postal service would know where to find him.  Mitt don’t need no stinkin’ address.

Normally I would have tossed it.  This time something told me to open it and see what the suave one was up to.

Somebody in the Romney campaign needs to take some sales training from me or somebody else who knows better than to send a four page, front and back missive to a registered Democrat with a lede like this:]

Monday Morning (yes, that’s the way it was dated)

Dear Fellow American,

I am running for President of the United States and because you are one of America’s most notable Republicans, I want to personally let you know why.

If I, L, am one of America’s most notable Republicans, it’s probably because I am a Democrat, Mitt.  Nice try with the psychology, though. 

One thing ole Mitt has mastered for real, however, is the art of the unsaid.

Some examples from my love letter:

It is simple, really.  I believe in America. (Unsaid: Especially because I am hella rich!)

Like you, I care deeply about America’s history, its promise, and its future.  And, like you, I am sick and tired of BIG GOVERNMENT. (Unsaid: which is why I want to tell each and every one of you how to live, what to think, and how many babies you should have.  I’ll do it all myself; no need for a big government there.)

The fundamental question of this election is:

Do we place our trust in government or in the American people?

Uhm, Mitt?  Have you forgotten? The government IS the American people.  You know “of the people, by the people and for the people?”  I am an American.  I am a person (maybe not in your view, I’ll grant you that.)  How about putting YOUR trust in me to know what’s best for me when it comes to my sex life and my reproductive functions?

Under the Obama administration, the middle class has been crushed.  Nearly 24 million of our fellow Americans are still out of work, struggling to find work, or have just stopped looking.  The median income has dropped 10% in four years…(Unsaid:  Even I have been affected by this failed Obama policy.  My income only increased 110%!)

There are 3 1/2 more pages of similarly compelling text, far too pithy to go into here.  He summarizes his success in the private sector, his time served as CEO of the 2002 Winter Games in Salt Lake City, and his charge from the people of Massachusetts to accomplish “another seemingly impossible turnaround.”  No mention of Bain anywhere in the letter.  Must have been an oversight.  Yeah, that’s it. The rest is a litany of the ways Obama has failed the American people.

Near the bottom of the second page of this manuscript designed to get me to write a check for “$35, $50, $100, $250, $500, $1,000, or even the maximum $2,500…”  this appears:

Won’t you please stand with me?

No, Mitt, I won’t.  I had never planned to, but this letter from you has tightened my grasp on reality.  I don’t think you are very honest.  I don’t think you are very smart.  And I don’t like the way you can’t seem to shake your country club persona long enough to be able to ascertain on your own feet that suggesting a $10,000 wager on live television to an audience who, on average, wouldn’t be able to pony up even $10 is probably a bad idea.

You claim your business background and record has provided you with the skills you need to turn our country around. If this letter and the fact that I received it are any indication of the way your campaign is being run, well…let’s just say I find it lacking.  You even forgot to add the phrase “…or whatever amount you can afford” to the ask. 

It was so nice to hear from you, Mitt.  I have a feeling this won’t be my last love letter, since my name has somehow landed on your VIP list.  I’m thinking it’s because I write to my esteemed Georgia Senators and Congress people to express my discomfort with most of what they do.  I know, I know.  I shouldn’t confuse you with the facts.

Remembering Dick Clark

Click on photo images for credits

American Bandstand aired in the Chicago market in what is commonly known as the after-school time slot.  I can’t remember for sure, but I think it was 4 p.m., CST.

I remember stepping up my pace during my 15 block walk home from Proviso East High School, checking my watch periodically, and mentally doing my homework so as to get it done and out of the way in time to watch Justine and Bob lead The Stroll.  They were so darned good-looking and chic.

 Justine Carelli, Bob Clayton and Dick Clark

Pat Molittieri, Kenny Rossi, and Arlene Sullivan.  Arlene and Kenny were a couple, too.  All were as familiar as my girlfriends on the majorette squad and the guys I danced with every morning in the upper gym before school even started.  That’s where we tried to do the same dances, but with a decidedly Chicago spin to them.  Philly was fine, but Chi-Town was cooler.

Things were so different, then, of course.                                            

I remember asking my mother several times why there were no “colored” kids dancing on American Bandstand.  That’s what we called ourselves at the time.  Everybody else called us that, too, which is probably why we did. 

“That’s just the way things are, Lezlie.  Whites dance with whites and colored dance with colored.”               

“That’s fine,” I’d say, “but why can’t they all be in the same room?”

The white kids at Proviso East danced in something on the first floor called the Social Room.  We colored kids danced in the upper gym, where our tastes in music were taken into consideration.  There was never any rule about that.  Not written, anyway.  Nobody covered it in our freshman homeroom.  We just knew.

As usual, my Heinz-57 ancestry made no difference.  I didn’t have the choice to go dance in the Social Room.  Why?  I would have been stared out of the room by some of the white kids and refused readmission to “our gym” by the colored ones.

It wasn’t until 1965, when I was in college and far too cool to watch television, much less American Bandstand, that the wildly popular program had its first black regulars on the show.  It could be argued that at least half the musical groups appearing live on the show from the gitgo were black; Chubby Checker, Chuck Berry, Little Anthony and the Imperials, and later the Jackson Five.

Dick Clark, the legendary man behind all that dancing died today.  America’s Oldest Teenager suffered a heart attack at the age of 82. He put Philadelphia on the map for television viewers and made music one of the most important aspects of my teenaged years. 

Thanks for all you did for teens, Dick. 

Political Shades of Gray

 

Georgia’s governor Nathan Deal yesterday signed legislation that will require applicants for welfare to submit to drug testing and pass before they can receive benefits.  The Republican majority in the Georgia legislature passed the bill for the legislation over predictable objections of Democrats.

Those who back the law, which will go into effect on July 1, 2012, believe the testing will prevent welfare recipients from using taxpayer dollars to support their drug habits, if they have them. 

Opponents suggest the testing will present a further financial burden to the applicants because they will be required to pay for the testing themselves.  Opponents also point out the departure from the usual Republican preference for smaller government, noting the new administrative requirements in order to enforce the law and process the test results.

I am a fiscal moderate who leans to the left normally, but who on occasion can see the right’s point.  Anecdotal and other reports of welfare recipients using their food stamps as currency for purchasing drugs instead of buying food for their children are troubling to any person who pays taxes.  Welfare fraud is a reality and the prevention of such fraud has so far eluded the powers that be. 

According to the governor’s ga.gov web page, when passed a similar law in 2010, their welfare applicant pool decreased 48% and saved the government nearly two million dollars.  However, that law has been challenged on the basis of constitutional issues, and GA state Senator Vincent Fort of Atlanta has vowed to do the same as soon as the law goes into effect.

The Fourth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution states:

“The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”

It troubled me deeply when many employers implemented random drug testing on their employees, although I completely understand why any employer would want to mitigate the negative costs on the business that result from employee drug problems.  I felt then, and still do, such testing is a serious invasion of physical and personal privacy which punishes all employees for the poor behavior and/or illness of the few. 

When I worked on the Atlanta Project back in the mid 1990s, my company was partnered with a southeast Atlanta group of neighborhoods plagued with the challenges of relentless poverty and underinvestment.  One of the community leaders I came to know was someone who lived in the area’s public housing and who received some level of welfare assistance.  Ms. W is a dignified woman who works tirelessly to improve the lives of her neighbors and their children.  I cannot imagine asking a woman like her to submit to a drug test before she can receive her benefits, nor can I imagine her submitting to such a test without a huge fight.  She fights drugs and drug trafficking every day of her life.

And yet, for as many of the Ms. Ws as there are – and I know there are many – there are significant numbers of citizens who do, in fact, “work the system” for all it’s worth.  And there are, without a doubt, welfare recipients who spend what little money they get on drugs, leaving their innocent children to go hungry and fall prey to the lures of easy money as drug mules for the local dealers or to predatory pimps  .

So, on the surface, it would appear the new Georgia law could possibly be a good thing if it prevents parents of children who need financial assistance to survive from using the cash they receive on drugs.

But would it?

If an applicant for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) flunks the drug test, the law says the applicant can designate someone else to receive the funds on behalf of his or her children for up to a year.  Assuming that designated person is clean and sober, what is to prevent that person from simply handing the money over to the druggy parent? 

As for the anticipated reduction in welfare applicants, presumably because drug-using adults know they won’t be able to pass the drug test, all that means is there will be a lot more children going without food and other necessities who will have even  less of a chance of having their needs met, ever.

By the way, if the Republican politicians in Georgia and the other two dozen or more states pushing similar laws would agree to submit to drug-tests in order to receive the “government benefits” they collect daily, monthly and annually, I might be able to see the wisdom of this move.  For now, though, poor people, a constant thorn in the sides of those who believe poverty should be almost illegal, will continue to be persecuted. Watch what happened last December when Florida’s governor was approached by a reporter from the Daily Show:

Yeah, I didn’t think so, Governor!

Once again I’ll pose the question I have yet to get answered by anyone on the right.  What happens to the children of drug users who are here, whether Republicans like it or not?  If they live through their childhoods, what are the chances they will grow up to be contributing members of society? If their drug addicted parents can’t get money through welfare, they will get through other means; e.g., prostitution, armed robbery, drug trafficking and sex trafficking.

You might wonder how many people in Florida actually tested positive for drugs out of those who were tested.  In August 2011 a Florida TV station learned in an investigation that out of 40 people who had been tested under the Florida law, two tested positive, with one of those two being disputed.  That’s a probable 2%.  The law of diminishing returns says it’s a waste of money, especially when the law is a “matter of principle” as described by a woman on my local news this afternoon.

I’m all for making people do the right thing.  I don’t want any of my tax money buying drugs for welfare recipients.  But I think wholesale drug testing is morally wrong and fiscally irresponsible.  And, it is probably unconstitutional.

I guess it could be a lot worse, though.  In Georgia, there is also a big push to have drug testing for unemployment benefits!

Stranger Danger and Secrecy

 

Two days ago my post showcased the abundance of diversity and inclusion in my trendy Atlanta community.  It is a struggle to imagine any place in America that offers a bigger welcome to people of every description, income, and sexual orientation.

But there is a downside.  It is a city neighborhood, with all the challenges of living in the shadow of downtown Atlanta’s towering office buildings that create its endlessly photographed skyline.  There is a main drag – a through street that connects the confluence of I-75 and I-85, two miles to the west, with a major station on the Metropolitan Area Rapid Transit Authority (MARTA).  It also connects us to the gang and drug traffic that takes over the daytime quiet of surrounding neighborhoods and turns our oak-canopied streets into a dangerous place to walk at night.

On April 1, 2012 an unidentified woman walked alone toward a friend’s house that is exactly one block from my own address.  It was 3:30 a.m. 

We all remember at least one of our elder relatives telling us “nothing good happens in the wee hours of the morning.”  Some of you reading this will immediately conclude that whatever happened to this clueless woman was brought on by herself.  Why, you ask, would any woman be out alone at that time of the night?  I wouldn’t be one of those who would ask that question.

The police are being extremely cagey about the facts of this case; in fact, we neighbors were left completely uninformed until yesterday, April 10, 2012, when a local TV station announced a major investigative “event” on the corner where the dog groomer’s shop with its huge stainless steel water bowl on the sidewalk for passing dogs to slake their walk-induced thirst.  My dog and I pass that corner every day on our own walks.

The female owner of the popular restaurant on the opposite corner was clearly livid when she sent out an email to the neighborhood Yahoo Group asking exactly when she and her female employees who work until 2 a.m. were going to be notified of a still at-large rapist in the area.  The woman had been grabbed and raped by a dread-locked man of only 5’ 6” less than 50 yards from the restaurant’s outdoor front patio.  This email message was transmitted around 3:52 p.m. Tuesday. 

At 4:30 p.m. another message hit the inbox.  A neighbor who had been working on her back porch was suddenly startled by a small man leaping her fence to the sound of “Stop.  Police.”  She ran into her house, set the alarm and called 911.  Five minutes later two of the police who were staked out on the corner near the scene of the crime rode into her yard – on horseback!  They told her the police had a suspect in the rape surrounded, but he managed to escape through the maze of back yards and tall trees.

When my dog and I took our walk at 5:30 p.m., the corner in question was alive with police officers passing out flyers, curious neighbors gazing at the horses now back in their transport vehicle and my friend Glenda pulling her two towheaded granddaughters in a little red wagon.  It looked more like a Saturday during our popular annual street festival than it did a crime investigation.

By the time I returned from the walk, our Public Safety chairman had broken through the secrecy at the Atlanta Police Department and learned that neither the woman victim nor the rapist were residents of our neighborhood – almost as if that information would set our minds at ease to some extent.  They also revealed that the suspect was called Derrick.

No more information was forthcoming, in order to “avoid compromising the investigation.”

Great.  In the meantime cars are broken into nearly every night.  People walking down the street in broad daylight are sometimes assaulted by thugs looking to steal their smartphones.  Job-seekers and/or writers who work on their laptops outside the local coffee shop that offers free wi-fi have had their computers snatched right under their flying fingertips.  And the budgets for all sources of public safety continue to be slashed.

The bad guys appear to be winning.

A Day in a Hood

Easter Sunday in Atlanta was picture perfect.  The morning walk provided this collage of floral abundance

Every Easter my neighbor MaryAnn and her wife “Pastry” throw a party, just as they do every Christmas Eve.  Both women are great cooks, so those of us lucky enough to land on the invitation list are not only well-fed at the party; we can take home plates of leftovers that feed us for days.

The weather couldn’t have been any nicer, so we were able to have the annual Easter egg hunt, the Bocce tournament and the Corn hole playoffs in the common area behind our townhomes. Beer and wine flowed for hours.

It has been a long time since I’ve participated in anything more fun.  We had straight couples, gay couples, lesbian couples, singletons white and black, a Chinese gay man, a Cuban lesbian with her straight daughter and son-in-law, and some surprisingly conservative gay men who are black.  I was the oldest this time.  The youngest was around 40.

When the party started at 2 p.m., we were all calm and low-key.  Somewhere around the middle of the Corn hole matches, the decibel level of shrieks and laughter, cat calls and teasing rose to a disturbing-the-peace level. 

A children’s Easter egg hunt is very cute, at least until the little ones get quickly frustrated at their inability to find an egg and start wailing.  Who would have thought the same could and would be said about an adult hunt?

Random voice:  Dammit Pastry, where did you hide these eggs?

Pastry:  I can’t remember.  I’ve had three beers.

Random voice:  (sing-song)  I found a golden egg.  I found a golden egg.

One guy started beating the shrubbery with a big stick, swearing loudly.  He had no egg and was obviously getting desperate.  His partner, on the other hand, had about five eggs and was gloating all over the place. I got lucky and found one of the two golden eggs, which garnered a “big prize:” a hot pink and aqua polka-dotted beach towel with two appliqued flip-flops.  I was the envy of all in attendance.  Hah!

Tossing the corn hole bean bag at a wooden ramp with a hole about the size of a salad plate sounds easy enough.  It is not.  We all had our own techniques.  Some lobbed it high, hoping for a landing on the flat side of the bean bag.  The son-in-law, who is rather small in stature and shockingly handsome, developed a technique that had the bean bag landing on a corner and rolling itself up the ramp – something like the way you’d skip a rock on the surface of a body of water. 

Neighbor woman who claims not to be a drinker:  Here comes Skippy.  Somebody please teach this guy how to toss a bag. 

Me:  But he keeps winning.

Random male voice:  Yeah, but look how he does it.  Skippitieskip.

Me:  Are there extra points for form or something?

Female voice:  Shut up, Lezlie!

Jeff and I won the Bocce match by two points.  We high-fived and ran around the yard in triumph until our opponents began to feign vomiting.  We were not what you’d call good sports about our victory.  Neither of us had ever played the game before, but my alleged bowling prowess had come in handy.

 

 

Everybody was having too much fun to think of taking pictures.  Besides, given the antics of many, it is probably prudent to omit photos to protect the privacy of the guilty.

A Former Catholic’s Easter Thoughts

Jesus’s resurrection is the central point of the Christian faith, and for those who hold that faith, it is the most important moment in human history. “Whether Jesus merely was or whether he also is, depends on the resurrection” Pope Benedict XVI writes in Jesus of Nazareth II.

The Easters of my childhood in the Catholic Church were all about joy.  We accepted on faith that Jesus of Nazareth was born, lived, was murdered and arose from the dead three days later.  It wasn’t until around age ten that my relentless questioning about all things mysterious took over and I began to doubt that literal account of The Resurrection.

My favorite flower to this day is the velvety calla lily with the yard long stalk and ivory curves that elicit a forbidden sensuality for a child once searching for piety.  It was the flower the girls of confirmation age carried down the center aisle during the Holy Thursday procession.  Their white dresses punctuated the assumed purity of their spirits.

My memories are of cloying incense that made me queasy as I tried hard to make my child’s body hold still during the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday.  The purple vestments of mourning the priests wore were reflected in the purple shroud draped around the giant crucifix above the altar.

I can still sing all the words to the rousing hymns reserved for Easter morning masses: 

Christ has risen from the dead

Alleluia, Alleluia

Risen as He truly said

Alleluia, Alleluia

It is actually one of my many earworms, those songs you discover yourself humming or whistling at the most inappropriate times, like the Fourth of July or Tuesday. 

Even more thrilling than the elaborate Easter basket I had discovered behind the sofa or in the hall closet that morning and the orgy of candy consumption allowed on that day and Halloween only, was the much anticipated “Easter outfit.”  Everything on my body that Sunday at mass was brand spanking new.  My hair had been tortured into Shirley Temple curls the day before so that the flower laden bonnet on my head was set off just so.

I still love new clothes, new shoes and new hair dos.  And calla lilies.

All the rest has been packed away among the traditions I used to believe in.  I believe there was a man on Earth 2012 years or so ago who was probably called Jesus, and I believe he was a very special man.  I believe he was persecuted, not necessarily for what he said and did, but for what the things he said and did made the people who listened say about him – that he was the messiah.  I believe he was crucified, which was the executioner’s method of choice at the time, and I believe he died on that cross.

I don’t think it matters whether Jesus’s dead and shrouded body left that tomb through normal means like stealing or by a miracle granted by God.  I know it matters very much to those whose entire faith is based solely on that one event.  But to me, what matters is the teachings of the man who was Jesus of Nazareth like these from his Sermon on the Mount: 

The Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-12)

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are ye when they shall revile you, and persecute you, and speak all that is evil against you, untruly, for my sake: Be glad and rejoice, for your reward is very great in heaven.

If every person who claims to be Christian would remind himself or herself of these eight simple recipes for a good life; if each would concentrate on making himself or herself the best person possible and not try to control the thoughts and behavior of others; if justice could come to mean what is fair and just for ALL people; then,for the first time since his violent death on that cross, the spirit that was once Jesus of Nazareth could finally have a Happy Easter.  Let’s start now.

Tyler Perry Says Racial Profiling Should be a Federal Crime

 

Tyler Perry wasn’t wearing a hoodie, presumably.  He left his Atlanta studios a few days before President Obama’s scheduled St. Patrick’s Day high-roller soiree at Chez Perry.  He didn’t take his unmarked escort this time.  He just kept one eye on his rear-view mirror, as he’d been taught by his security people, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He happened to be heading for the airport this time, but if he had been going home, it might have been this one he recently purchased in John’s Creek, GA:

For a video tour of the inside of this house, click the photo.  Perry reportedly planned to tear this house down, keeping the 50 plus acres of gardens intact)

Although he probably owns many cars, we know he has a white Bentley convertible, which he cloned and gifted to Oprah. Tyler Perry's Facebook Page with an account of his traffic stop doesn’t say what car he was driving, but it’s safe to guess it wasn’t a 1998 Honda Civic or some other beater favored by a lot of Atlanta’s bad boys.

The two white officers who stopped Perry during this trip for making a left turn from the right-hand lane were apparently clueless.  They made no sign of recognizing the mogul whose net worth was estimated by Forbes Magazine in 2010 to be $325 Million, probably well above that today, two years later.  What they did do was quickly terrify the man. 

As we all do when pulled aside for a traffic stop, Perry tried to explain his driving error, telling the officers about his need to make sure he wasn’t being followed.  The officers thought that made their subject suspicious. They double teamed him: one on the driver’s side reached into the car to try to snatch the non-existent key from the ignition, while the other was pounding on the passenger side window.  When the rattled Perry rolled the window down, the officer repeatedly asked him what was wrong with him that he thought he was being followed.

It wasn’t until a back-up squad driven by an African American officer arrived that anyone seemed to notice this wasn’t some random big black man driving a fancy car, presumably acquired by ill-gotten means. Perry described the look on the black cop’s face as “Oh, no!”  A quick, whispery huddle and a clumsy apology later, Perry was on his way, shaken and angry.

This is the way Perry ended his Facebook post:

“RACIAL PROFILING SHOULD BE A HATE CRIME INVESTIGATED BY THE FBI!!!
That way local government can’t make the decision on whether or not these people get punished.”

Is there still anybody out there who doesn’t believe racial profiling happens every single day?  How rich does a black man have to get before he is immune?