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Black Power

I lived this history. I remember my parents’ nervous whispers about Malcolm X over the newspaper or in front of news on our grainy black-and-white TV. I remember seemingly one assassination after another. I remember when my father, our elementary school principal, gathered us all in the auditorium to watch Martin Luther King, Jr’s funeral. A Black classmate told me that’s the act he remembers most vividly and gratefully about my Dad.

Studying this history almost sixty years later and reliving it from great seats at McCaw Hall last night was spell-binding.

The one blemish was when we returned to our seats after intermission. I heard the larger, older white man sitting on the aisle call a younger Black woman in our party “rude” when she struggled to climb over him. Wow. She tried to stick up for herself and, being one who generally believes it takes two to tango, I still wanted to wring his neck. All I could do in my anger and fear was retreat to find an usher. What was he thinking?! Of course, in that environment, he should have bowed to her or at least stood up to let us pass.

After all, we were there because Black Lives Matter. We whites must learn and act civilly, kindly, and justly on what history has tried to teach us.

For those of you clamoring to know my Mister Fix-it’s latest shenanigans: Note long-standing jerry-rigged handle on microwave, the machine that has blown three fuses recently. I was surprised yesterday (and delighted) to hear him whisper, “We might have to get a new one.”

And lest you think this entry has nothing to do with bridging, believe me, this is one way we are as different as night and day. Agreeing across the chasm requires the bridge of patient deep breathing. While I am often grateful for his dexterity in this department, it’s times like these that I shake my head. How long, Lord, how long?

Pearl – Lent 24

Killers of the Flower Moon

Why did I know nothing about the Osage? I have just read the book. Not seen the movie yet. I thought I would be reading about events in the 18th Century and was shocked to learn that the events chronicled in this book occurred in the 1920s. We often hear that SLAVERY was America’s original sin. And a terrible sin it was. But what about stealing the land, plundering, killing, dispossessing, and cheating the Indigenous people of this land? How have we earned the title (mostly self-proclaimed) “the greatest nation on earth”?

I had a bit of a bumpy start with both of these titles. One arrived on a very long reading list for our upcoming civil rights pilgrimage (“Wow, this seems overwhelming. Thank God I’ve read half of these already!”) And one was a switcheroo for book group (“But wait, I already bought the other book!”) I should have known any frustration was worth it. Or, in an Ignatian-sort-of-way, I could have paid closer attention. These books might just be special treasures, instigating emotion from me on day one.

Indeed both have easily passed the Nancy Pearl Test.* I will read each to the end, alternating between “fiction” and “non-fiction” until one grabs me and I can’t put it down. At this point, either has a fine chance of winning that race.

*Seattle Librarian Nancy Pearl’s Test of Whether to Finish a Book or Not –

Read a specific number of pages based on this formula: 100 – (one’s age) = # of pages to read. Then stop and decide. Is this book worth reading to the end? Read on or not. But what if the reader is 100 years old? Then judge a book by its cover, of course.

Deathday

Today is my father’s deathday—John R. Clarke, 1920 – 2015. We will all have one. No one gets out of this alive.

I have seen several photos of my Dad already this morning and hope others will post pictures of him. This is the one from that day that keeps coming back to me. He breathed his last 14 minutes into the day. What a vivid memory that is. So this photo records a liminal time for me. I remember being held by these beautiful women and holding them, mutually.

I didn’t know the term “bridging” yet but, my God, was I standing on one.