Oh, The Horror!

Was watching CNN on Thursday.

This dude Jack, don't know his last name, was ranting about that gang rape in Cali. (Which reminds me. Does anybody know when it became cool for anchors to stop being objective? Rick Sanchez is freaking ridiculous. I was just wondering.) You know the incident where a 15-year old girl was raped by nearly a dozen men.

Anyway, Jack was pissed because according to police, folks stood by and watched the girl get raped, and some might have even joined in. Jack tied the actions of bystanders in this case to the failure of witnesses to come forward in the Derrion Albert beating incident in Chicago. He then wondered when we became a nation that watched while people were raped and beaten.

Hmm....

Might I refer CNN to the Lynching era and Civil Rights Era of American history.

From my vantage point, Americans have been pretty good at ignoring rapes and beatings for some time, especially when those rapes and beatings involved black folks getting brutalized by white folks.

For centuries, black people were severely mistreated and abused by a portion of the white population, while the majority stood on the sidelines and said "Not my concern."

See, while I believe racism was pervasive in the past, I understand that its most brutal aspects weren't things discussed out in the open. That's why the Klan and other domestic terrorism organization handled much of their business at night, and why they liked to wear disguises. That allowed the general public to pretend they didn't know what was going on, or who was responsible.

But, they did.

They saw the people of this country being mistreated and they turned their heads. They watched women being beaten and raped, men being castrated and lynched and sometimes they even cheered. They cheered and had picnics.

I think what happened to that young girl is horrible. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. But, as I've said before, this rush to pretend that what's happening today has no parallel in history is ridiculous. Humans have been the same savage creatures since we were created.

This ain't nothing new.



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What Is That?

The jeans were so tight.

I wouldn't have been able to walk in them. The pants weren't exactly a second skin, but they looked pretty uncomfortable. They required mincing steps that were almost feminine.

Yeah, I'm talking about the jeans on a man.

It was Sunday morning. The young man wrapped snuggly in denim was walking down the center aisle at my church. To complement his skinny jeans, he'd selected some of those bulky tennis shoes kids favor these days, along with a snug and short jacket. No boxers were actually showing, but it wouldn't take much for them to be exposed. Not much at all.

My first thought was "What the hell is that?"

Next thought was "Is that what's passing for church attire these days?"

Finally I realized, "Why do I even care?"

I'm glad I got to that final thought. I'm not going to say I still didn't think the young man's clothes were a tad improper, I did. Later on in service I gave a side-eye to a young lady rocking a sundress that showed a lot of thigh and cleavage. But, I didn't dwell on those things like I might have in the past. I didn't silently condemn them for their dress. I noted that they had made choices I didn't agree with, but I then forced myself to acknowledge that I don't have to agree with the choices of other people.

Man, that's progress for me.

I think I've mentioned before that I have this urge to impose my view of the world on other people. It's not so much that I have to control their actions, but I feel like even if I can't make them do what I want, I can make them acknowledge that I'm right.

Marriage has shown me the depths of my stupidity.

Now that I am trying to eradicate my idiotic tendencies when it comes to my wife, I've also been attempting to do the same for other folks. I'm trying to walk that tightrope between staying true to my own beliefs, while not using my beliefs to condemn others. It's a very difficult task.

Which brings me back to the clothes. The Lord knows I've worn some pretty shady clothes to church as a youngster, and you would think that would make me more accepting of the stylings of today's youth. But, often I'm not. It seems that I view the young me as this bumbling idiot who should be pitied and avoided, not held up as a some sort of guiding standard. I know this is wrong, yet it's still a challenge to resist this impulse.

I still ask "What is that?"





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Bedtime

Little Big Man was sitting on my lap. It was bedtime and he'd been lotioned up and we'd just finished reading his bedtime story.

The little guy was sad. We'd just had it out earlier because he claimed he wanted cereal for dinner, but when I gave him his bowl, he did more playing than eating. I tolerate a lot of stuff, but I don't tolerate wasting food. It just wasn't allowed in my house growing up, and even today it's like I can see the actual dollars attached to the food being tossed out.

Little Big Man is pouting now, his face is buried in my chest and I can still smell the cereal on his hands. Damn, should have done a better job washing those hands, but I'm tired. It's time for his prayers, but I figure we'd better talk it out.

"What's wrong man, you sad?"

He nods into my chest. I've been trying to break him of this nodding thing and get him to say "Yes sir" every time, but it's a work in progress. Plus, my wife thinks there is something "country" about adding the honorific "sir" and "ma'am" to responses. People these days, I tell you.

"I can't hear you man. Are you sad?"

Another nod, this time while squeezing me tighter.

"Why you sad"

"Ummmm..."

He likes saying "um" now. I didn't teach him that. Just like I didn't teach him to say "tasty" when he likes food, or to say "I love it" when he likes something. I don't know where he's picking this stuff since he's around my wife and I all day. Maybe tv, maybe our passing conversations, but he amazes me all the time with the things he does and says.

"You sad 'cause of Daddy?"

He nods his head.

"Why Daddy made you sad?"

"Um..."

"Daddy was mean to you? That's why you sad?"

"Yes."

"Daddy wasn't trying to be mean, Daddy was trying to teach you something. Daddy has to discipline you so you can grow up right. Daddy has to show you what to do, right?"

Silence.

"Does Daddy love you?"

"No."

"Look at me."

The little boy has amazing eyes. I feel sorry for all you mothers and fathers out there with little girls because I got a feeling my little man is going to break hearts. Expressive eyes, that are so brown it's shocking. He hates to meet my eyes when he's angry, but I force him to anyway. My father taught me that. Look a man in his eyes and he knows you're a man as well.

"Little Big Man, Daddy always loves you, no matter what. But, just 'cause Daddy loves you doesn't mean he's going to let you do what you want. Sometimes Daddy has to be mean."

I kiss him. He giggles, then hugs me.

"You still mad?"

He shakes his head.

"You love Daddy?"

This time I get a nod. It's enough.

"Let's say our prayers."


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Heart Warming

My heart grows cold.

Day after day, minute after minute, the chill creeps in. Slowly stalking me, its patience is feline. The cold need not rush, its prey can never escape.

Why must the world be this way? Like Solomon I look around at the pursuit of knowledge or wealth or even love, and I cry out "Vanity!" It is all vanity, silly flower petals that will only wilt as the seasons change. Wilt and then die.

Who but God can comfort the comfortless? Yet, is God's comfort anything more than a psychosis of the human mind? A chemical imbalance that leads us to believe in an omnipotent being who spends his time caring about insignificant, finite humans? Where is this God, point to him and let the world see...

Those thoughts make me shudder. I shiver now. The cold creeps onward, slowly like floodwaters, drowning passion and hope. Where is my stronghold, where is my safety?

I cling to God. I cannot point to him. I cannot produce his being for the satisfaction of others or even myself. I only have this blind faith, blind like Justice is blind, blind like bats are blind. My sonar is my heart.

Who can offer me more?

Not corrupt officials, consumed by the lusts of their flesh and their eyes, overcome by pride. They offer no succor, they offer no wisdom, they offer no relief. They offer nothing but a high-fructose serving of hope, a Splenda infused helping of faith. Master forgers, they traffic in illusion.

Who but God offers me more?

The cold grows. So cold it's almost warm. My heart burns with the cold, a raging inferno of ice, a glacial bonfire. Slowly, slowly it beats, its rhythm the key to my questions. Yet, I cannot find the beat. I've always lacked rhythm. Instead I stumble then fall. My feet followed the path of my heart and could not support me. I fall, and I hear my heart beat.

Colder, colder.



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