Friday, October 16, 2009
Send Union Reconstruction troops back to Louisiana
That's the answer if he doesn't step down -- and what an incredible action, if taken by the Union, as led by a black commander-in-chief!
Send in troops and re-occupy the jurisdiction until the people who elected him decide how, under the law, to get rid of him.
I'm dead serious.
And, while I've made my peace with certain personal decisions of mine regarding certain historic symbols of the Confederacy, I'll not take another word about it here. Ever.
It takes a repentant son of the South to see things certain ways. Jimmy Carter is one. Bill Clinton is one. And I'm one.
No more touchy-feely horse shit. It's BECAUSE I know and revere certain people behind those symbols that I, as their conscientious Rebel son, can say what I say now.
I can't follow all the inferences and innuendos.
Not that I should be pointing out this fault in others.
Why is that? The people you name learned their lessons from others: some were sons and daughters from the North, or across the pond, and others, sons and daughters of the South who needed no repentance.
No offense. Just tired. Even when I come clean on a major something or the other, you keep on. Give me a break.
On a more serious note, I'd say that what I mean by this, "It takes a repentant son of the South to see things certain ways," is an expression of my confidence, my version of how you apparently think of yourself, as a son of the South who had nothing from which to repent, which comes across on this end as arrogance.
But really, I'm done.
And now I'm off to Stillwater to see if the Pokes can manhandle the Mizzou kittycats tonight at Boone Pickens Stadium.
I'm not doing anything the mechanism isn't built for. I think you've moved from statement to snippiness, which is a momentary lapse in your usual acknowledgment of the ways and means of open conversation.
I wasn't talking about myself, ER. I was talking about all those Northerners who flooded the south for voter registration in the 1960s. I was talking about Bayard Rustin, from West Chester, Pa. I'm talking about W.E.B. DuBois from Great Barrington, Ma. I'm talking about Bob Moses, Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., A. J. Muste, etc., etc. Southerners who had nothing to repent in this regard would be MLK, James Farmer, Will Campbell, A Phillip Randolph, Ralph Abernathy, etc., etc.
Why would I be talking about myself? Reading DuBois, Ida B. Wells, James Cone, James Baldwin, Cornel West, working in the Dixwell neighborhood of New Haven, the 6th ward of Lancaster, North Philly... my reading of theology... all was working out my repentance. Having done so, it was supernatural grace that continued to carry me into a new world of personal and professional riches, without a need for repentance anymore, just a need for living a full life.
So, all in all, when we see a little misplaced arrogance leaking out in this matter, I think it's coming from the Orange side of the ball. Or from Mr. Dickel's laxity.
Troops? Rudy, any idea what a La. JOP does? They're not quite important as animal control and are paid less. A notary has as much authority, cept for the marrying papers. Instead of gettin all indignant bout this feller(who are a dime a dozen BTW; most preachers won't do mixed marriages either) come sit in a La. courtroom and see how many brown fellers and ladies do hard time or the maximum for "small" crimes or how many schools have a token brown teacher or how unlikely you are to get pulled over by a brown officer.
Not sayin yore raised ire is wrong, but a tad misplaced...I can think of a whole lot bigger fish. Course, yore lucky, seein how they ain't none of this stuff goin on in Oklahoma.
Course, troops would be handy when Ms. Louella starts whooping on her hubby, ol' man Perkins...see, she beat up the constable, JOP, and the preacher fore the deputies tased her asleep.
Me thinks you are full of shit.
Sorry to rant so close to home, Dr. Bill. And yer right: There are much bigger fish to fry.
Short answer: Ain't proud. Ain't ashamed, either. "Redneck," despite Mr. Foxworthy and others attempts to make it an adjective, is a noun -- a noun referring to a kind of person with a kind of upbringing in a kind of rural place. I am, fundamentally, that kind of person*, I had that kind of upbringing, and I had it in that kind of place.
* Which means I'm the kind of person who, for example, will say, "Howdy, come on in the house," on first meetin' someone, even one who's done already let his smart mouth run off from his sense of civility and propriety, while at the same time, acknowledgin' "why yes, yes I am as full of shit as a Christmas turkey on occassion," and adding, with a formerly snuff-stained grin: "if you don't like it, you can kiss my ass."
You catch it on your fingers and it just crawls right up your sleeves..."
ER, just go on down to Idabel, OK and rent yourself a motel room for a week and watch the Oklahoma of the 1950's pass you by. Life is stale and static in the backwaters, all backwaters, everywhere.
I was in southside Chicago last week. Now that was the back-est of the the back-est backwaters I have ever been in and the racism was completely upside down. Chicago has got to be the most seriously segregated place, albeit voluntary, that I have ever seen.
It might exist in Atlanta and Raleigh and maybe even Birmingham and Mobile; Jarratt, however, even though it sits right on I-95, missed that particular bit of updating. I was smack-dab in the middle of Jim Crow. At least among the white folk of Jarratt. The African-American population, however, seemed to get it, and lived their lives as if the white folk who ran the town didn't exist.
Oh, the two communities crossed paths all the time; yet they existed in completely different universes, and even though the ministry Lisa was forced by circumstance to do was with the aging and dying white community of Jarratt, I much preferred the African-Americans.
Which is not to say I disliked the folks at Centenary UMC. I loved them; only in the South do folks not only not lock up the odd and eccentric family members, but plant them on the front porch for the world to see. All this is to say I lived for my five years in Jarratt with my eyes wide open, and occasionally with my mouth running ahead of my common sense (I put that down to being young; I was 28 when we moved there, 33 when we left).
Time and the natural way of things have taken their toll on the Jarratt we left behind, even as it was so acting while we lived there. My hope for that town, and so many like it, is a new generation, largely African-American, will revitalize and re-envision what kind of community Jarratt can be, including being honest about what kind of community it used to be.
LOL! Might oughta tweak that and put three chords behind it!
Need I go on?