The Promised Land (2)

On June 11, 1963, a reluctant young President Kennedy addressed the nation. For the second time in his administration he was forced to federalize a state’s National Guard to ensure that black students were able to enroll in universities, which were deemed “off-limits” to people of color.

            Kennedy was not a champion of civil rights at the time. His ventures into the increasingly violent white reaction to a black minister’s call for an end to “Jim Crow,” a call for equality under the law regardless of the color of one’s skin, were often politically motivated. But now, with a Southern Governor standing on the threshold of his state’s flagship university and refusing admittance to two qualified black students in defiance of a Federal court order, with fire hoses and attack dogs let loose on peaceful children (some as young as six) marching and singing, Kennedy had seen enough.

            Race, he said, was a moral issue. America cannot be the land it professes to be as long as some of its citizens are denied the American dream, denied equal citizenship because of their color. He said, “Race has no place in American life or law.”

            That night, a young black wife and her children waited for a husband and father to arrive home in Jackson, Mississippi. This man – soft spoken and well versed – was the face of the civil rights movement in his state. As his wife and children walked out the front door of their home to tell him of President Kennedy’s words a shot rang out. Medgar Evers lay dead in his driveway. His crime? He believed in “the promised land.”

            Race in America. President Kennedy was right. Until we deal with it, lay it out there and move forward, America will never get to the Promised Land. I write this blog in a moment of deep distress over what I saw in here this week among young men who are – purportedly – seeking an education and a future. As I have written so often, prison is a reflection of the society at large. The views, the prejudices, uttered in here are the same as those out there. That thought distresses me.

            A Humanities class is being taught. The subject the African-American experience. It is taught through great American literature and it is taught by a petite white woman. The class is equally divided: eight whites, eight blacks. It wasn’t intended that way; that’s just how the college student pool in here breaks down.

            From the outset of the class I heard carping from white students. “Why do I need this bullshit?” My response: Have you ever read ‘A Raisin in the Sun”? Have you ever read Richard Wright? Do you know who Langston Hughes is? Maya Angelou? Have you ever dissected Dr. King’s letter smuggled from the Birmingham Jail?

            They reluctantly agree to give the class a shot, all the while muttering code words for the “N” word: “Yams,” “Canadians.” There are dozens of words tossed around in prison that white guys use to degrade blacks without uttering the “N” word.

            So now I’m pissed. I can’t believe I’m having to justify Dr. King to a bunch of idiots – worse, idiots who profess a belief in the teachings expressed by Jesus yet they fail to see that everything Dr. King wrote and preached began with this pure statement of faith:

            “We as a people will get to the Promised Land … Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

            Powerful, heartfelt words of faith and determination, and hope, uttered-ironically – less than 24 hours before he too was cut down by an assassin’s bullet.

            In frustration I run and wonder how professing Christians can ignore Paul’s words to the citizens of Athens (Acts 17) as he proclaimed “the God who made the world and everything in it … He has made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on the face of the earth.” We are so far from the Promised Land.

            I was frustrated and angry … and it got worse. For now there were the black students, members of offshoot black supremacist groups acting under color of religion: the IVOI, Moors Temple, 5%ers. They profess intellectual acumen yet they are forged and schooled in the same dearth of prejudice and ignorance I just confronted with the whites.

            “Why do you want to teach this material?” One guy asks in class. The question, at first blush, seems innocuous; but it isn’t. Moments before, I heard this same Einstein shake his head and say, “I got to listen to this European lady talk about black issues.” “European,” that’s black “supremacy” lingo for “cracker.”

            “Why do you want us to read Native Son? Why do you want us to read 12 Years a Slave?” Each question is a challenge to her. He might as well say, “What gives you the right to delve into the black experience? You aren’t black!” And I get more frustrated, pissed off, angry. “When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?”

            “I don’t know what the future holds … but I know who holds the future.” On one of the darkest days of the civil rights struggle – bombings, murders, beatings, - a fearful group of parishioners gathered in an all-black church on a sweltering day. Dr. King, from the pulpit, uttered those words and from around that church came soft murmurs of “Yes, Lord.” “The Promised Land” is so because He deems it to be so. God – not man – will deliver His people to the Promised Land.

            A story I have never shared with anyone. I was a sophomore in college living in a wild party-filled dorm across campus. In the room next to mine was a young black guy from Dayton, Ohio – Johnny D. Johnny and I shared some common interests in music, food, girls. I thought I was cool – I had a black friend.

            One night we had a party on our floor. There was way too much alcohol and weed; there were girls everywhere and we were all getting way too sloppy and out of hand. I’d spent some time with “Charlotte” a tall, gorgeous girl from Valdosta, Georgia. We were making out, getting friendly, when she saw Johnny looking our way. In her sexiest Southern drawl she told me the “N” was making her uncomfortable. I turned toward Johnny and laughing said, “he’s a harmless n-----.” … As the word came out of my mouth I had a flash of sobriety. I saw his face and what my saying that word had done. In my rush to win over some beautiful, though obviously ignorant, girl I had done something harmful.

            “Look, Johnny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to impress her.” He looked at me and said, “It’s ok. I’m used to it.” The truth is you never are used to that.

            I have never used that word since. I still feel guilt over saying it then. “The promised land.” Will we ever get there?

            “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Powerful words that describe the dream of America written by a slave owner from Virginia.

            “Jesus loves the little children

            All the children of the world

            Red and yellow

            Black and white

            They are precious in His sight

            Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

            Will we ever get to the Promised Land? We have to walk through the valley of fear and ignorance. In God’s eyes there is no black or white, no yellow or brown. In spite of this week’s race baiting and ignorance on both sides I still have hope. As Dr. King so eloquently put it in his Letter from Birmingham Jail, America will overcome the scourge of its racial past because,

            “The sacred heritage of our nation and the

            eternal will of God are embodied in our

            echoing demands.”

Jersey (and others) Goin’ Home – The Message on a New Year

Graduation day is fast approaching.  There’s less than a month until the first class of college/IT certificate recipients are recognized in a “behind the wall” ceremony conducted by Southside Virginia Community College.  Thirty-two have completed the program.  One – “VI” went home in October.  Three more leave before graduation and one, “Tattoo”, leaves the Monday after.

I write about these guys so you see they aren’t much different from folks you see every day.  In Virginia today, a state of slightly more than eight million residents, there are in excess of 350,000 convicted felons still denied the right to vote.  Add to that the number presently incarcerated in DOC (or waiting shipping to DOC facilities) and the number approaches 400,000.  That’s 5% of the state population, an astounding number. 

The men in here - as much as DOC and the courts, and even the general public want to make them mere numbers – aren’t just statistics.  They are living, breathing men with families and friends.  Some have committed horrendous, violent crimes.  Others are, in many ways, victims of the ignorance and poverty and despair that surrounded their lives “out there”.  But, they all breathe, all live; they all age and die little by little in here.  And their stories confound me, and move me, and yes, sometimes disgust me.

I’ve learned some things during my stay here:  I’ve learned I know so little about so much.  At the beginning of the Advent season this past December, just a few days past what would have been my thirtieth wedding anniversary to the only woman who ever took my breath away, I began conducting my daily Bible meditations from the Reverend Eugene Peterson’s “The Message”, a complete Bible translation in contemporary language.  In the preface, Rev. Peterson wrote the following:

“Nothing is glossed over.  God works patiently and deeply, but often in hidden ways, in the middle of our humanity and our history.  Ours is not a neat and tidy world in which we are assured that we get everything under our control.  There is mystery everywhere.  The Bible does not give us a predictable cause-effect world in which we can plan our careers and secure our expectations…There is pain and poverty and abuse at which we cry out in indignation ‘You can’t let this happen’.  For most of us it takes years and years to exchange our dream world for this real world of grace and mercy, sacrifice and love, freedom and joy – the God saved world.”

How, I wondered, did Reverend Peterson know so well what I’ve seen and felt for so many years?  I have learned God is here in prison, and in crack houses and homeless shelters and cancer wards.  He’s with gays, and terrorists and pedophiles and good taxpaying, patriotic citizens.  He’s everywhere and He loves all of us, unconditionally.

So, I wish the best for Jersey.  He lived less than two miles from my home.  Early thirties, bright – enrolled in college at Virginia Union and serving in the National Guard, he and his wife began robbing convenient markets to support a drug addiction.  She did three years, he’s finishing five.

Jersey breezed through his college classes and aced the certification test.  His marriage not only survived his – and her – incarceration, it strengthened.  He’s headed home, already admitted to a four-year state University.  Goodwill has helped him line up part-time employment in the computer field.

Jersey should make it.  He’s smart, he’s sober and clean, and he and his wife are in love.

Then there’s Stoney.  Stoney is 44 and is finishing his third bid.  When he was 19 he committed a sex crime.  He did ten years.  Released, he couldn’t find work.  “No one would hire me”, he told me.  He had two children he’d seldom seen.  They needed support.  He couldn’t find work.  He did what so many of the guys do:  he began selling drugs.  And selling drugs is a losing proposition.  He’s been busted and imprisoned twice.

He leaves next week.  He’s scared, deathly scared.  “I don’t want to come back, but I’m afraid no one will give me a chance.”

Stoney is a guy who always has a smile on his face.  He always walks by my cut saying “hey Big Guy!”  And here he was, tears on his face afraid, afraid he’d fail.

“Stoney”, I said.  “I consider it a blessing that I met you, I believe in you.  I know there’s someone out there who’ll take a chance.  It’ll be tough, but I know you can make it.”

I pray about Stoney.  He’s a guy that can go either way.  He needs a chance, just someone to give him a chance, and he’ll be alright.

Then there’s Tex, a fifty year old crack addict.  He did ten years in the Navy, then was discharged for selling drugs while on an aircraft carrier.  He’s been in and out of prison for the last 15 years.  He moves from state to state with his wife, getting high, living in crack hotels, doing odd jobs on the side.

She’s in Texas, at a half-way house waiting on his release after this two year bid.  He’ll tell you he’s learned from this experience and he’s ready to live right.  Then ten minutes later, he’s on the phone explaining to his wife – in code – how to run scams for the extra rent aid and food vouchers.

The sad part is, Tex is a very smart man.  He’s just not smart enough to learn from his mistakes.

Finally, there is Tattoo, aptly named because he is covered in tats.  He shaves his head and has tattoos around his skull.  Twenty-two years incarcerated for murder.  He is one of the scariest looking people I’ve ever seen and also one of the quietest, calmest and peaceful men I’ve ever met.

Prison is not good, but sometimes good can come from prison.  Tattoo proves what Hemingway said:  “The world breaks everyone and some are stronger at the broken places.”  Tattoo has lived the worst prison creates:  the rapes, the beatings, the killings.  And, he’s overcome.  He is scholarly, deep, peaceful.  I count Tattoo as a man I trust and as a friend.

He’s going out into a world he knows little of, yet he has a focus, an inner peace.  Tattoo has paid for his crime.  It’s time for him to live.

Four guys going home.  Some will make it, some will fail.  All have left a mark on me.  As Reverend Peterson said, ours is not a neat and tidy world.  There is mystery everywhere.  And yet, His message remains the same.

May your New Year be blessed.