Trayvon Martin's death troubles me on so many levels. He was a kid, just a kid on a cell phone in an affluent neighborhood. In the shadow, under the hoodie, he could have been anybody, any color. But he wasn't. He was African-American.
That is the difference.
In life, he was an ordinary teenager. In death, he represents every racially motivated crime ever committed in this racially divided country. It's easy to imagine the typical middle class adolescent rolling his eyes when the parents tell him to pull his pants up, push the hoodie back, look people in the eye, smile, keep his hands out of his pockets. "Come on, Mom, you're in the wrong century!"
But I find myself more and more uncomfortable with the media circus surrounding this boy's death. Maybe I'm reading it wrong--I hope so--but what I see is a blood-lust to sacrifice George Zimmerman in exchange for Trayvon.
It is so much more complicated than that.
To belabor the obvious: What about all the others? What about the kids with hoodies who live in neighborhoods without gates? When those boys are killed, the reporters write it up succinctly, with a clinical detachment. The stories are on page 10, section D, buried under the divorce petitions and dog-leash violations. Another drug dealer dead--look, he had marijuana dust in his backpack, must have been on his way to pick up a shipment for sale.
Somebody loved them, too.
Trayvon Martin's death must represent all. It was awful, unnecessary, wrong--duh. But the reason this case resonates so loudly is that it represents far more than the tragedy of one family. Let's hear less about the impending doom of one crazy neighborhood crime watch guy and more about the ever-present reality of racial profiling. How can we ever expect our children to embrace democratic ideals unless we act on those principles?
The guilt--and the obligation to change our world--rests squarely on our shoulders.
When Andy was killed, nobody wanted to place blame on the individuals involved. Everyone was quite happy to blame the impersonal entities, the fire department's bureaucratic faux pas and the power company's failure to act. There was no George Zimmerman to burn at the stake, and there was no criminal investigation. Nevertheless, individuals caused Andy's death. If one--only one--person involved in that debacle had acted responsibly, Andy would be looking at his 30th birthday in a few months.
So what does Andy's death have to do with Trayvon's? Everything. Because we all make decisions to act or not to act, every day. Trayvon's death was racially motivated, enabled by apathy. Andy's death was caused by simple apathy.
If we are to protect our children, we must act. Politicians will blather and reporters will foment frenzy. The rest of us must do more than watch them.
I can't bring back any of the victims. But I can look my neighbors in the eye. I can smile at the lonely old woman muttering under her breath; compliment the shy blond 12 year old who is sure she's too fat; say hello and make eye contact with the teenager hiding behind tattoos, piercings, saggy pants and hoodie. I can at least do that.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Lenten Thoughts #9
A few disjointed thoughts about justice and our fruitless, futile, frustrating search for it.
Today I thought of Andy more than usual. For one thing, it's mowing weather, weird though that is. For another, the change of season always brings him to my mind. And then today I was taking off covers from things that get covered during the winter--patio furniture, hose, glider--and cleaning the tarps before storing them up over the garage. Up over the garage--where the first thing that greets you is a pair of size 14 shoes, the last pair Andy wore. These were fairly new in 2002, B.U.M., something one doesn't see anymore. Dirt still clings to the tread on the soles, not mowing dirt but living dirt. The last dirt he left anywhere, this time in his own apartment rather than at our back door. Whenever some of his friends stop by to visit, even now, they habitually take off their shoes, because that was always the rule. I'm not such a stickler these days, but the kids--men and women now, often with kids of their own--continue the ritual. Out of respect? Out of remembrance? Out of habit? In the box under the shoes are the socks, dozens of pairs. Andy loved socks! I'd buy him a pair or two sometimes as a just-because treat, the way my mother used to sometimes bring me M&Ms. I was always on the lookout for the King-Sized socks he preferred, one size bigger than was readily available. He loved Tom Petty in high school, and the first time I brought back a pair of those sasquatch socks, with the foot twice as long as the rest of it, Andy burst into song: "It's good to be king! Whatever it pays."
The litany of memories helps to keep him from disappearing completely, and I do find comfort there.
And yet.
I heard the other day on the news that Virginia Tech might be appealing a verdict in which a jury awarded money to victims of the campus killer of a few years back. The award amount, $4 million, infuriated me. My brain simply checked out for a minute and my heart took over. Now logically I know that if the state caps a wrongful death award at $100,000, that is the limit--jury notwithstanding. And I also know that the parents bringing the suit are not greedily trying to suck the university dry; they believe they have a legitimate case. And I do understand, better than most, just how little clout bereaved parents wield. Still, I'm not entirely convinced the university is responsible for a lone, crazed gunman. Andy's death, though, was incontrovertibly due to negligence, a fact never questioned nor disputed in the 28 months of litigation following. Need I say that the amount awarded was significantly less than $4 million. Need I say the amount was irrelevant to us and it is irrelevant to the Va. Tech parents.
Justice is an elusive, gray goal. Parents pursuing wrongful death claims, like those whose kids died of overdose, car accidents, suicide, whatever--all act out of love for their children and outrage at the injustice of a world where kids sometimes die before their parents.
More important, if I look to Jesus for guidance, I have to wonder if justice is even the right goal. Maybe it's mercy and grace we need to seek.
How? What do mercy and grace look like in the face of unspeakable horror?
Today I thought of Andy more than usual. For one thing, it's mowing weather, weird though that is. For another, the change of season always brings him to my mind. And then today I was taking off covers from things that get covered during the winter--patio furniture, hose, glider--and cleaning the tarps before storing them up over the garage. Up over the garage--where the first thing that greets you is a pair of size 14 shoes, the last pair Andy wore. These were fairly new in 2002, B.U.M., something one doesn't see anymore. Dirt still clings to the tread on the soles, not mowing dirt but living dirt. The last dirt he left anywhere, this time in his own apartment rather than at our back door. Whenever some of his friends stop by to visit, even now, they habitually take off their shoes, because that was always the rule. I'm not such a stickler these days, but the kids--men and women now, often with kids of their own--continue the ritual. Out of respect? Out of remembrance? Out of habit? In the box under the shoes are the socks, dozens of pairs. Andy loved socks! I'd buy him a pair or two sometimes as a just-because treat, the way my mother used to sometimes bring me M&Ms. I was always on the lookout for the King-Sized socks he preferred, one size bigger than was readily available. He loved Tom Petty in high school, and the first time I brought back a pair of those sasquatch socks, with the foot twice as long as the rest of it, Andy burst into song: "It's good to be king! Whatever it pays."
The litany of memories helps to keep him from disappearing completely, and I do find comfort there.
And yet.
I heard the other day on the news that Virginia Tech might be appealing a verdict in which a jury awarded money to victims of the campus killer of a few years back. The award amount, $4 million, infuriated me. My brain simply checked out for a minute and my heart took over. Now logically I know that if the state caps a wrongful death award at $100,000, that is the limit--jury notwithstanding. And I also know that the parents bringing the suit are not greedily trying to suck the university dry; they believe they have a legitimate case. And I do understand, better than most, just how little clout bereaved parents wield. Still, I'm not entirely convinced the university is responsible for a lone, crazed gunman. Andy's death, though, was incontrovertibly due to negligence, a fact never questioned nor disputed in the 28 months of litigation following. Need I say that the amount awarded was significantly less than $4 million. Need I say the amount was irrelevant to us and it is irrelevant to the Va. Tech parents.
Justice is an elusive, gray goal. Parents pursuing wrongful death claims, like those whose kids died of overdose, car accidents, suicide, whatever--all act out of love for their children and outrage at the injustice of a world where kids sometimes die before their parents.
More important, if I look to Jesus for guidance, I have to wonder if justice is even the right goal. Maybe it's mercy and grace we need to seek.
How? What do mercy and grace look like in the face of unspeakable horror?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Lenten Thoughts #8
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| Elizabethtown, Illinois water tower |
It is tempting to wax nostalgic, paint the past with a broad rosy brush, fool yourself into believing that's how it was, the good old days, the days where good guys wore white hats. Choose your cliche, they're all misleading.
I know that. Still, I miss home. My idea of it, I mean.
When I was growing up, the mines were mostly functioning. People who wanted to work had jobs, although we always had an unemployment rate that staggered my college friends, privileged suburban kids who thought Illinois ended at Kankakee or Springfield.
It was a lovely place--still is. Nestled between the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, most of this rural and hilly country is conserved in the Shawnee National Forest. Because it was fluorspar mined there, not coal, the land has not been terribly ravaged. We have cypress swamps, the ancient trees and their knees steeped in algae, with occasional plops from slimy swamp dwellers. In March and April, daffodils from long-ago homesteads bloom willy-nilly, then dogwood and redbud dot the hills. A few hardy souls actually farm, although only as supplemental income, not as a full-time profession. The primary employers now, as in so many rural areas, are the school system and the local hospital.
But the years have changed the place, and the years have changed me. I will always "look to the hills, from whence cometh my help" without apologizing for my slight punctuation change. I find God in the hills, first and foremost those of southern Illinois.
Since I can't really find a focus for this blog entry, I thought I'd just blather a little about the beauty from which I grew, then share a few photos that don't come close to the real thing.
May God keep the people and the place.
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| Hardin County Courthouse, with jail next door |
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| Good ol' Raines school bus |
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| I think this one is from Cave-in-Rock, but not sure--that's my river, though, that I do know. |
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| Happy Hour at the Iron Furnace |
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| Hogthief Creek |
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| The majestic Ohio |
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Lenten Thoughts #7
Well, I have managed, once again, to not live up to my good intentions, despite carefully pruning my intentions to stay within what seems manageable...
So I'm a failure. Like Mark, Tom's failed guide dog, the one we had to adopt because he was damaged goods.
We are all damaged goods. Damn, am I profound or what?!
Poor Mark simply couldn't be decisive, key in guiding a blind person. He is likely the smartest dog we've ever had (they're all amazing), but he sees all the gray, all the choices, and he freezes up.
We all do that, at least sometimes. To quote Ursula (Disney's evil octopus in The Little Mermaid), "Life's full of tough choices, isn't it?" Mark saw the gray, and it crippled him.
I try--really, I do--to honor the gray while seeing that some choices are better than others. I think God expects us to think critically, astutely, about our decisions, but I think God expects us to honor God in our decisions. The Big Goofs are the result of a whole bunch of little ones. Whatever the Big Goof--addiction, adultery, anger--we indulge just a little bit, and it grows from there. I'm not advocating austerity (what's with these A's?), but I can't help wondering, from my perch of age, if a little self-denial might be good for us.
And that brings me back to Lent. Jesus managed 40 lonely, hungry days with 40 lonely, cold nights. It was hard to find a place to sleep, and when he did, things that go bump in the night disturbed him. His dreams were muddled by fatigue, hunger, fear. Going into this time of spiritual seeking, he was only beginning to suspect the power lurking within him, power to heal human pain and suffering, power to teach, power to empower. He was tempted to brandish the mysterious power with which he was entrusted, and he successfully fought the temptation to show off.
Coming out of this time of spiritual seeking, Jesus was certain of his mission, clear in his purpose, focused on his goal.
May we continue to seek for that clarity of purpose, that purity of goal.
So I'm a failure. Like Mark, Tom's failed guide dog, the one we had to adopt because he was damaged goods.
We are all damaged goods. Damn, am I profound or what?!
Poor Mark simply couldn't be decisive, key in guiding a blind person. He is likely the smartest dog we've ever had (they're all amazing), but he sees all the gray, all the choices, and he freezes up.
We all do that, at least sometimes. To quote Ursula (Disney's evil octopus in The Little Mermaid), "Life's full of tough choices, isn't it?" Mark saw the gray, and it crippled him.
I try--really, I do--to honor the gray while seeing that some choices are better than others. I think God expects us to think critically, astutely, about our decisions, but I think God expects us to honor God in our decisions. The Big Goofs are the result of a whole bunch of little ones. Whatever the Big Goof--addiction, adultery, anger--we indulge just a little bit, and it grows from there. I'm not advocating austerity (what's with these A's?), but I can't help wondering, from my perch of age, if a little self-denial might be good for us.
And that brings me back to Lent. Jesus managed 40 lonely, hungry days with 40 lonely, cold nights. It was hard to find a place to sleep, and when he did, things that go bump in the night disturbed him. His dreams were muddled by fatigue, hunger, fear. Going into this time of spiritual seeking, he was only beginning to suspect the power lurking within him, power to heal human pain and suffering, power to teach, power to empower. He was tempted to brandish the mysterious power with which he was entrusted, and he successfully fought the temptation to show off.
Coming out of this time of spiritual seeking, Jesus was certain of his mission, clear in his purpose, focused on his goal.
May we continue to seek for that clarity of purpose, that purity of goal.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Lenten Thoughts #6
I first heard Otis Taylor on the Blues radio station, while I was running around doing boring errands. I pulled off the road to write down his name, then bought a CD as soon as I got home.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. Otis Taylor, singing "Resurrection Blues."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxdV23m_OxQ
Preach it, Brother!
Amen.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. Otis Taylor, singing "Resurrection Blues."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxdV23m_OxQ
Preach it, Brother!
Amen.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Lenten Thoughts #4
A friend pointed out the inevitable gray areas between the depraved Monsanto and my organic breakfast.
What do we make of the fact that so many of our corporations--even those evil ones doing things like surreptitiously supporting violence, or exploiting child laborers--are owned by their employees, not by monstrously wealthy individuals? In the current climate of ratings-grabbing political dramas, often concocted for no other reason than to get non-news on the airwaves, we are bombarded with eloquent, skewed, sweeping statements telling us that corporations are of Satan, or of God; that taxes on the wealthy help the poor, or hurt the poor; that organized labor works, or doesn't. It's an us-and-them world, we're told, the gaps growing between the classes, the middle class disappearing entirely. We're divided into haves and have-nots, educated and uneducated, Republican and Democrat, rural and urban, 99% and 1%. Especially in an election year, it's tough to figure out what to accept. Spin is everything.
I will remain a bleeding heart liberal with socialist leanings--this whoopie cat* can't change her bobtail. But I feel uneasy about our American politics, especially after reading of the fictional Little Bee, whose village had to be destroyed in order to get at the oil underneath--and the oil underneath had to be extracted to power vehicles like the four I insure.
Jesus made a difference in his world, a world as topsy-turvy as ours. Can we follow him? How? What does grace look like today, right now?
Us and them? It's really just us. Now what?
*For those of you not from southern Illinois, a whoopie cat is a wildcat. Some people claim a whoopie cat is a cougar, or puma--a mountain lion--but most of us think a whoopie cat is just a bobcat.
What do we make of the fact that so many of our corporations--even those evil ones doing things like surreptitiously supporting violence, or exploiting child laborers--are owned by their employees, not by monstrously wealthy individuals? In the current climate of ratings-grabbing political dramas, often concocted for no other reason than to get non-news on the airwaves, we are bombarded with eloquent, skewed, sweeping statements telling us that corporations are of Satan, or of God; that taxes on the wealthy help the poor, or hurt the poor; that organized labor works, or doesn't. It's an us-and-them world, we're told, the gaps growing between the classes, the middle class disappearing entirely. We're divided into haves and have-nots, educated and uneducated, Republican and Democrat, rural and urban, 99% and 1%. Especially in an election year, it's tough to figure out what to accept. Spin is everything.
I will remain a bleeding heart liberal with socialist leanings--this whoopie cat* can't change her bobtail. But I feel uneasy about our American politics, especially after reading of the fictional Little Bee, whose village had to be destroyed in order to get at the oil underneath--and the oil underneath had to be extracted to power vehicles like the four I insure.
Jesus made a difference in his world, a world as topsy-turvy as ours. Can we follow him? How? What does grace look like today, right now?
Us and them? It's really just us. Now what?
*For those of you not from southern Illinois, a whoopie cat is a wildcat. Some people claim a whoopie cat is a cougar, or puma--a mountain lion--but most of us think a whoopie cat is just a bobcat.
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