"Between the Lies" -- a Book Review

Between the Lies is Cynthia Graham's newest book, a contemporary Southern Gothic mystery set in the 1950s.

It tells the story of how Sheriff Hick Blackburn of Cherokee Crossing, Arkansas finds himself enmeshed in a case of a young Black man being railroaded for a crime that Blackburn's pretty sure the boy didn't commit -- but is in a town outside his jurisdiction. This is set in a few hot, humid July days in 1954. And more than the weather is hot and sticky. Graham's story deals with small town corruption and racism, the power and abuse of white privilege, political expediency, Jim Crow, family loyalty, and more.  She weaves all these together into a compelling tale well told.

The landmark 1954 Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court declaring state laws that established "separate but equal" public schools for black and white students were unconstitutional figures prominently in Between the Lies. So does the burgeoning role of the U.S. Department of Justice in the field of civil rights (though the Department of Justice did not have a full division addressing civil rights until 1957).


Primarily, though, this is the story of one man and two towns coming to grips with insidious racism and corruption engendered by it. Broken Creek, Arkansas is not Mayberry, North Carolina. And Sheriff Earl Brewster is no Sheriff Andy Taylor. Broken Creek and Brewster are both dark -- even in the light of day. Perhaps even more so in the light of day.

Graham's story-line is tight and her characters are well-written and believable. Hick is a good guy who's flawed, Brewster is a baddie who you love to hate but who has some (hard to find) redeeming motivations, there's a Pulitzer seeking small town newspaper man, befuddled mostly good-hearted deputies, an earnest young female lawyer, parents trying to do their best for their children, moonshiners, compromised clergy, and more. Each character is integral to the story. There's not a wasted bit of dialogue and the story moves at a good pace.


I won't say more about the story-line. To do so would, I fear, ruin it for readers. Let me just say that this was a book that kept me reading. Though set in 1954, it has a lot to say to us today (without being preachy -- which it could have easily become). It held my interest all the way through. There were a number of things that I didn't see coming (always good in a mystery). And the ending was a mixture of relief, wondering, and sadness.

I am looking forward to reading more about Hick Blackburn. I like this man who struggles with his past and grows into his future.

A Loving Story: Myra and Howard

Yesterday, whilst Facebooking, I was alerted to a wonderful, yet bittersweet, story. Two of my school friends (Myra and I went from first grade through high school together) from the West High School class of 1969 were featured in The Columbus Dispatch (my hometown paper).

The article tells the story of Howard Foster and Myra Clark and how racism drove them apart 45 years ago. It's a wrenching story -- but ultimately one of the power of love. It's a tale of how, as Quaker William Penn said, "Force subdues, but love gains."

Their pictures in the 1969 edition of the West High School Occident yearbook show two young

people with most of their lives ahead of them. As the article notes, parts of our time at West were rocked at times by racial violence and demonstrations. On February 24, 1969, 74 West High students were arrested for refusing to end a sit-in. They were protesting the administration's refusal to allow a public address announcement of the fourth anniversary of Malcom X's assassination.

The sit-in was in the gym. Hardly disrupting anything. But the administration called the police and had students arrested. Which sparked even more racial tension than we'd experienced before.

I thought that move was stupid then. I think it was even dumber today. And it was just sad. It is still sad.

Little did Myra and Howard probably know that this was a harbinger of their future.

What is also sad is the racism Howard faced following high school. Those experiences were the reason he broke up with Myra -- “Society wasn’t going to let us be together and she be happy. ... She’d get tired of the stares; I just thought it was unfair to her,” Howard says in the article. “Her happiness was the most important thing.”

What's most sad -- and frustrating -- about this is that in many ways the issues faced by Howard are still with us today. While some things are better, we who live in the United States have a long way to go healing our racial divide. And when I say "we" I mean the white majority. White like me. 

I've been thinking a lot about that after reading Howard and Myra's story. And how we can't ask those who are oppressed to solve the issue for us. Then, ironically, I opened my email this morning and found this poem as today's "Poem-A Day":


Hope by Ali Liebegott

always the hopeless asked to give others hope
the ones pushed up against wall after wall

when you’re done unpinning yourself
from the wall, please give hope

those who work twice as hard to seem half as good
being asked to do one more thing

we need to be seen
because things are not going well
and the crows are up to no good

About writing this poem, Liebegott says "I often think of the expression, ‘You have to work twice as hard to be viewed half as good,’ used for women and people of color. Marginalized people are often asked to be the patient educators to non-marginalized people. I think this poem wrestles with the intrinsic unfairness of that."

Yet, Howard and Myra, despite the "intrinsic unfairness of that," continue to be "patient educators" to us all. They remind me to be ever vigilant and active in working against the entrenched racism in contemporary American society. They do give hope.

Earlier in this piece, I quoted William Penn. As I read Myra and Howard's story, I was reminded by another Penn quote: "Never marry but for love; but see that thou lovest what is lovely." Myra and Howard saw what is lovely in each other in high school -- and today. May we see what they saw -- and may it call us to work for a world where love rules and "gains."

Thank you, Howard and Myra.

So What I Said Was: Jesus and the Samaritan Woman, Racism, Sexism, Empathy, and Lent

The past two weeks, in two different places (Village Chapel of Bald Head Island and West Newton Friends) I spoke on the familiar story of Jesus and the Samaritan women. So what I said (sorta) was:


Compared to the width and breadth of the mighty Roman empire, Palestine at the time of Jesus was just a tiny speck. A mere 120 miles from its northern tip to its southern border. But even within this tiny plot of geography which Jesus and the disciples found themselves walking, were three major divisions of territory – and belief. In the north, where they started their journey, was Galilee.

The most direct route to Jerusalem from Galilee was through Samaria. However, many devout Jews arranged for extra travel time to skirt the whole territory. Those who didn’t, traveled at their own peril. Samaritans attacked pilgrims on their way to the holy city. Jews led assaults on Samaria, destroying their temple on their holy mount, where they held that Moses had received the 10 commandments.

It was into this that Jesus walked this day.

Now, most of the time when we hear this familiar story, we focus on the woman at the well. And her story is a fascinating one. But today I want us to look at what this story tells us about Jesus and his nature.

It’s noon. The middle of the Jewish day of that era, which runs from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. It’s also the hottest time of the day. Jesus is weary and thirsty. The disciples go ahead to town to buy some food. Some major attitude change must be occurring in them, for them even to go buy food from Samaritans. A Jewish truism held that to eat with a Samaritan was as eating “swine’s flesh.”

As Jesus sits there, at a well on the land Jacob had given to his son Joseph, whose body had been buried there after the Exodus from Egypt, he’s approached by the familiar woman of the story. His dealings with her give us insight into three important aspects of Jesus’ personality.

The first is that it shows us, in its fullness, the humanity of Jesus. Here is no man free from the demands of our common life. He’s been walking a long way, he’s hungry, thirsty and tired. His life, his walk, was an effort for him, the same as it is for us. And so Jesus, in his humanity, shares in ours.

A second thing it shows is the depth of his empathy. From any other religious leader of the opposition of the day, the woman most likely would have fled. She would fear such a person as condemning and hostile – because of her race and her lifestyle. But she talks to Jesus and it is he who begins the conversation. We have only the barest record of what was said – the Bible never pretends to be a stenographer’s record. What we have is what the gospel writer thinks we need to know. One has to wonder what else was said. Whatever it was, the woman opens to Jesus – a friend who came not to criticize or condemn, even though many might say she deserved criticism and condemnation. Jesus does not even give her his quite common command to “go and sin no more.” He lets her be. In his empathy he sees she has need of his grace, not judgment, for the judgment she’s laid on herself over her lifetime has been probably almost more than she can bear. He lets her off “Scot free.”

That’s good news to us today. Not that it gives us license to behave any which way, but it shows us that God looks on the inner person and sees the heart. A person may act outwardly contrite and yet have a heart of stone. That’s what Jesus often got on the Pharisees about. Or a person may not seem to have “paid for his or her sins” and yet grieve over them in the very deepest part of his or her being. And that is the man or woman to whom Jesus extends his love and sympathy.

Finally, the story shows Jesus as a breaker of barriers. In this case the barriers of racism and sexism. The hatred between the Jews and Samaritans ran deep and wide. Jesus would have nothing to do with it. He made the Samaritans heroes of some of his stories and conversed freely with them – as he did the woman at the well. It’s no wonder, with the history of hatred, the woman was surprised he would speak to her – a Samaritan. But speak he did. And indeed he stayed with the Samaritans for two days after this encounter.

He also broke the barrier of sexism. Some of the Pharisees of this time were known as the bruised and bleeding Pharisees. That’s because their interpretation of the Law forbid them from speaking to a woman in public, even their sisters, mothers, or daughters. Yet Jesus sits and talks with this woman as if she was as capable of understanding as any Jewish man. This is highly unusual, for many Jews (as did other religions of the day) believed that a woman was incapable of understanding the things of God and so such talk would be wasted. Some doubted women even had souls.

Jesus dealings with this woman, as well as many others, show that the faith he established is one of equality of all people. Thus in Galatians, Paul can write, “I Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

If Jesus’ was a breaker of barriers, how can we, his followers, be any less? We need, as part of the gospel message, to show a church that welcomes all regardless of race, gender or any other distinction and to work to eliminate such distinctions in our community.

To a Jew of Jesus time, this encounter was an amazing one. It should be so for us today. Here came the Son of God dusty, thirsty, and tired. He breaks through the barriers of race, religion and gender to love everyone in his and their humanity. He invites us today, as he did that Samaritan woman 2,000 years ago, to drink from his well, a draught of water that will quench our every thirst.

"So what I said was..." On Racism and Quakers

I just returned from FGC's summer Gathering. It's an experience I always find challenging (and I mean that in a good way). This year's was especially so. It was my first experience helping run the QuakerBooks store there. The wonky internet, not having enough copies of popular books, and other stuff was not fun. Chatting with Friends, serving their needs, and finding just that right book was.

But overlying it all was a great cloud of concern regarding race, white privilege, and all that goes with that in America and among Friends. Some Friends of Color at Gathering experienced things from micro-aggressions to harassment.  Then there was the killing of Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge on Tuesday. Then the next day Philando Castile was shot and killed by police. Then the next day, Micah Johnson gunned down a number of Dallas police officers, killing four of them.

All of the above rocked the about 1,000 Friends attending Gathering -- which had the theme "be humble, Be Faithful, BE BOLD." As it should have. I won't report here on what happened at Gathering -- I'm certain lots of other bloggers who were more involved than I (tucked away in the bookstore as I was from early morning until late at night most days) will do so. Nor will I comment on what I think and hope FGC's response and actions might be, though I do have opinions on that as well. But it is an association of Friends and as such, needs the collective discernment of those Friends as it moves humbly, faithfully, and boldly forward in an area where it continues to do much good work -- from publishing titles such as Fit for Freedom, Not for Friendship: Quakers, African Americans and the Myth of Racial Justice (which QuakerBooks.org is keeping on sale at the reduced $5 price because we feel it's an important book that all Friends should read) to working on the White Privilege Conference to much more. And FGC, along with other Friends organizations has much work yet to do.

Instead, I want to talk about this 65 year-old, white male's troubled heart and soul and what I shared with Friends at West Newton Friends Meeting this morning. West Newton is my spiritual home. My spiritual family. Today it was my turn to, with Divine assistance, to lead worship.

I arrived with my heart deeply troubled by the things I've mentioned above. So what I said was... that I was grieved. Deeply grieved. And I realized it's not enough to be grieved. What am I called to do? What is our little meeting called to do?

I reminded myself and the other Friends of John Woolman's words that:

Our gracious Creator cares and provides for all his creatures. His tender mercies are over all his works; and so far as his love influences our minds, so far we become interested in his workmanship and feel a desire to take hold of every opportunity to lessen the distresses of the afflicted and increase the happiness of the creation. Here we have a prospect of one common interest from which our own is inseparable, that to turn all the treasures we possess into the channel of universal love becomes the business of our lives…

Oppression in the extreme appears terrible: but oppression in more refined appearances remains to be oppression; and where the smallest degree of it is cherished it grows stronger and more extensive. To labour for a perfect redemption from this spirit of oppression is the great business of the whole family of Christ Jesus in this world.
Am I turning all I possess (not just things, but time, passions, energy) into the channel of universal love toward all people in this land? I admit to deep pain in my heart as I read those words. And a choke in my voice. Because my answer, sadly is "No."

Likewise, I may not extremely oppress or cooperate in oppression of African Americans, but I do have a "more refined appearance" which "remains ... oppression."

God help me. God help us.

"To labour for a perfect redemption from this spirit of oppression is the great business of the whole family of Christ Jesus in this world." As I read those words, I am challenged to consider what I am doing to work toward a redemption of this spirit of oppression. To proclaim and act out my beliefs in this regard. With real, helpful, and earnest action. Not just a "Peanuts" sort of wishing good things for or on the oppressed.

What am I called to do? What am I compelled to do? What is my yearly meeting, which convenes this week going to do?

That's what I said. And asked. And ponder in my heart.

Red and Yellow Black and White, Allies, part 4: The Humble Stumble

“Damn Hispanics,” muttered the cab driver as we drove west on Indianapolis’ Washington Avenue. We had just climbed off the train which had arrived at 5:00 a.m., too early to call family for a ride. It was the middle of a hotter than usual July, the air conditioning on the train had gone out, we were hot, tired, hungry, and ready for showers and some sleep. We were not ready for a racist screed.

At least I wasn’t. But that’s what we got as we made our way out through the city past buildings proclaiming bodega, foto estudio, restaurant, and more. “They’re ruining our city,” he moaned. “I wish they’d all just crawl back to Mexico.”

Now I’d like to say that I rose up in righteous indignation and told him to be quiet. Or better yet, engaged him in a serious dialogue about bigotry and race in Indianapolis. But I didn’t. I leaned my head against the window, shut my eyes, and try to tune him out.

It wasn’t one of my proudest moments.

But it was learning one. It was one that reminded me that seeing that of God in others was more than just an internal thing. Sometimes it require action or speaking out.

Sigh.

As an introvert, I’d really just as soon keep things to myself. But if I truly do believe that seeing that of God in others means treating others as if they were equals is something I needed to actively put into practice. After all, if someone slighted Nancy or my kids or my closest friends, then I wouldn’t hesitate to rush to their aid or defense. I wouldn’t sit quietly by. How could I be quiet if I believed that the Hispanics in the neighborhood I had just passed through were as equal and Nancy and I in our cab?

Double sigh.

Especially disconcerting, the more I thought about it, was that I remained silent that day while being a position of power. Yes, I had the power of being a customer. I had the power of a tip. I had the power to complain to his employer. And a fair amount of that power came from the position in society that I have – an educated, middle class white heterosexual male. That privilege may not be something I aspire to or want, but society affords it to me regardless. While I believe, and try to live by the belief, that I am no better or worthy than any of the other people in whom God’s light shines, the fact is that I am treated differently than some of those other people. I first noticed this in a real way when I walked into the place I bank in Philadelphia. I was wearing sunglass and a hat (to keep my little bald head from getting sunburned). There was a sign there that said “Please remove any hats and sunglasses.” I saw some Black men in front of me, holding their hats in their hands. I got in line with my hat firmly atop the great white expanse and my sunglasses on. This was hard, as I typically am a rule keeper not a rule breaker. But I wanted to see what might happen. The guard, who was Black, looked at me. But didn’t say anything. Some younger Black men came in and were promptly asked to take off their hats and sunglasses. I completed my transaction, was treated courteously, all with hat on head and sunglasses on my face. No one said a word.

I do this everytime I visit that bank. Nobody’s said anything to me yet. While men of color are asked to doff their hats and glasses.

Which is why I’m finding it important, as a spiritual witness to my belief of that of God in all people, be an ally to those who see not being treated equally because of their race, class, sexual orientation, ability, gender, and much more. Being an ally is an action that puts me in touch with that of God of in others in a tangible way by helping me develop an understanding of the personal and institutional experiences different from myself, but equally embued with God’s Light.

Part of that is pondering what would I experience now if I were a person of color, a woman, disabled, gay? Again, not as a political exercise, but as a child of God.

How can I act as if I truly do believe there is that of God in every person? Should I

• step into a situation in which a person of color is being ill-treated by someone who looks like I do?
• speak out about a situation in which I don’t appear to have any vested interest: 
• interrupt a comment or joke that is insensitive or stereotypic toward a group
• commit to the personal spiritual growth I needto be genuinely supportive. 
• promote a sense of inclusiveness and justice in the places I work – and worship!
• create an environment that is hospitable for all – including at church
• share power inclusively
• create opportunities for trust
• form authentic relationships with those who are “other”

If I’m going to be a friend of Jesus – which I endeavor to be! – I need to learn to be a vocal, public witness for his love of all people. Not easy for an introvert, who likes to work quietly, even on Christian justice issues. So no more quiet taxi rides for this bad Quaker. If I get another bigoted taxi driver, I hope to engage him or her as a beloved child of God in a gentle, but direct conversation about how I really don’t want to be exposed to such thinking.

Either that or I’ll keep quiet… and walk the ten miles home.

Sigh. Why isn’t following the way of Jesus easier?

There's never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free."... A Poem For MLK Day

Lynching in Marion, Indiana
August 1930

Let America Be America Again

by Langston Hughes

 

Let America be America again. 

Let it be the dream it used to be. 

Let it be the pioneer on the plain 

Seeking a home where he himself is free. 

 

(America never was America to me.) 

 

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-- 

Let it be that great strong land of love 

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme 

That any man be crushed by one above. 

 

(It never was America to me.) 

 

O, let my land be a land where Liberty 

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, 

But opportunity is real, and life is free, 

Equality is in the air we breathe. 

 

(There's never been equality for me, 

Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.") 

 

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? 

 

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, 

I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars. 

I am the red man driven from the land, 

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-- 

And finding only the same old stupid plan 

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. 

 

I am the young man, full of strength and hope, 

Tangled in that ancient endless chain 

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! 

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! 

Of work the men! Of take the pay! 

Of owning everything for one's own greed! 

 

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. 

I am the worker sold to the machine. 

I am the Negro, servant to you all. 

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-- 

Hungry yet today despite the dream. 

Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers! 

I am the man who never got ahead, 

The poorest worker bartered through the years. 

 

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream 

In the Old World while still a serf of kings, 

Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, 

That even yet its mighty daring sings 

In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned 

That's made America the land it has become. 

O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas 

In search of what I meant to be my home-- 

For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore, 

And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea, 

And torn from Black Africa's strand I came 

To build a "homeland of the free." 

 

The free? 

 

Who said the free? Not me? 

Surely not me? The millions on relief today? 

The millions shot down when we strike? 

The millions who have nothing for our pay? 

For all the dreams we've dreamed 

And all the songs we've sung 

And all the hopes we've held 

And all the flags we've hung, 

The millions who have nothing for our pay-- 

Except the dream that's almost dead today. 

 

O, let America be America again-- 

The land that never has been yet--

And yet must be--the land where every man is free. 

The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--

Who made America, 

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, 

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, 

Must bring back our mighty dream again. 

 

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-- 

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, 

We must take back our land again, 

America! 

 

O, yes, 

I say it plain, 

America never was America to me, 

And yet I swear this oath-- 

America will be! 

 

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, 

The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, 

We, the people, must redeem 

The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. 

The mountains and the endless plain-- 

All, all the stretch of these great green states-- 

And make America again!

 

 

 

From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. 

Langston Hughes was born in 1902 in Joplin, Missouri. He wrote numerous books of poetry and prose, as well as eleven plays before his death in 1967. Hughes is known for his portrayals of black life from the twenties through the sixties. 

MLK, Racism, and America Today

Today’s the anniversary of Martin Luther King , Jr’s assassination. King said, "History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people.Not the number of people who support the evil versus those who oppose, but especially note the number of those who choose to remain silent.”

As John Mellencamps sings,

"Oh, but ain't that America, for you and me

Ain't that America, we're somethin' to see,

Baby,ain't that America

The home of the free

Little pink houses for you and me"

Well, maybe little pink houses for you and me... but evidently not everybody here in this land where most of us are immigrants or descendants of immigrants and we killed and kicked the only true Americans off the land.

What must Jesus think?
-- Brent