Thursday night
I was in Virginia, and one of my brother Andrew's friends was visiting the house. He noticed my CD collection, and mentioned that he was going over to a store called the RTX (Record and Tape Exchange) to sell some of his CDs, and if I wanted, he could sell some of mine, as well. I said, "No thanks. But I know the RTX, too. I haven't been there in a while, so I'll have to pay them a visit." Next, I was in the RTX, and they began playing the most amazing disc. I said, "What is that?" They explained that it was a recently-uncovered trove of heretofore unheard Hank Williams music. (Hank Sr., of course.)
Suddenly, I was in Alabama in the mid-to-late 1950s, in a quiet general store run by two white-haired older women in Hank Williams' family. To my surprise, Hank hadn't died at 29 in the back of his car; there he was, standing at the end of the wooden counter, hanging out, dreaming of his comeback. He looked as thin and dissipated as ever, yet he wore a sharp light brown suit and with matching hat, and a very cool 1940s print tie. Some customers came and went, and I heard one of the women behind the counter address one of them in a slow drawl: "You come in and get yourself an ice cream." Spontaneously, the three Williamses began singing a cappella country gospel music. I thought I'd died and gone to Heaven myself. Trying not to disturb them, I picked up a guitar that was lying on a nearby table, and played one string, searching for the bass notes.
Once their sing-along was though, Hank ventured across the street to a tiny recording studio. He had a song to sing, and he was convinced that it could be the beginning of his comeback on the charts. The owner of the studio was more than happy to record the session, even though Hank said, "But I ain't got any money." The owner didn't seem to care. He set up a tall microphone that stood on a small stage. Hank began to warm up, and the door opened. It was a local preacher, a black man, who was angry. He said, "You stop that! You stop that right now! It's after 6 o'clock [at night]!" Apparently he thought what Hank was doing was sacrilegious. (It must have been the Sabbath.) He was calmed down and he left, but little did he know -- Hank was just getting started.
The producer had begun recording, but was still adjusting the mike stand on his small stage when Hank hopped up and began to sing. He had picked up a .22 rifle, and shot two bullets into the floor, then shot two more into the ceiling as part of his intro. I was shocked, but the producer didn't seem fazed at all. (The locals knew Hank was crazy.) He proceeded to belt out his new tune, and it was a humdinger, all right. After it was over, the producer stood in awe and said, "That ran about a minute and a half over," but still, he was sure it would be a hit, and so was I.
*****
I've seen a box set of Hank Williams' music which came out in the last decade; the cover features a black and white photo of Williams in a suit, hat and tie, and he's holding a guitar. I must have gotten his outfit from that photograph. I've also heard several radio transcriptions of Williams performing gospel tunes at the Grand Ole Opry. He was an astounding guy. How could someone who was so uneducated and so inarticulate write and sing such incredible music? It's almost miraculous.
That was one of the best dreams ever. It was almost like a short film. By the way, if I'm not mistaken, when Williams was recording in the 1940s, I think that they were cutting discs instead of recording onto tape. That may be why the producer said that he "ran over." Maybe Hank went on past the amount of time to cut the lacquer. Then again, if Hank was recording in the mid-50s, it would have been past the time that Elvis and the boys were recording on tape. Incidentally, I can only think of two recordings off the top of my head that feature simulated (drum-beat) gunshots: "Shot Gun Boogie" by Tennessee Ernie Ford, and "I Fought the Law" by The Bobby Fuller Four.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Blowing the Budget
Wednesday night
I was in charge of managing produce at two small, mom and pop grocery stores. I wanted to keep quality high, but wanted to keep unnecessary costs down, as well. I thought I had it all under control, and was standing outside one of the the shops when the food was delivered -- in a big black Cadillac. I stood there, perplexed and flummoxed. How the hell did that happen?
*****
My coworkers and I often discuss the produce that is available at the new Whole Foods Market here in Nashville. It's definitely a cut above the choices at the other neighborhood grocery stores. And yesterday a sales rep was discussing "mom and pop" stores on her route. These thoughts seemed to have merged to create this dream. As for the sudden appearance of the Cadillac, it probably refers to the fact that I'm currently responsible for herding together some people and projects at work which are out of my control, and it's stressing me out. No matter how hard I try to plan things, I really don't know what might, or might not, happen.
I was in charge of managing produce at two small, mom and pop grocery stores. I wanted to keep quality high, but wanted to keep unnecessary costs down, as well. I thought I had it all under control, and was standing outside one of the the shops when the food was delivered -- in a big black Cadillac. I stood there, perplexed and flummoxed. How the hell did that happen?
*****
My coworkers and I often discuss the produce that is available at the new Whole Foods Market here in Nashville. It's definitely a cut above the choices at the other neighborhood grocery stores. And yesterday a sales rep was discussing "mom and pop" stores on her route. These thoughts seemed to have merged to create this dream. As for the sudden appearance of the Cadillac, it probably refers to the fact that I'm currently responsible for herding together some people and projects at work which are out of my control, and it's stressing me out. No matter how hard I try to plan things, I really don't know what might, or might not, happen.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The Roosters
Tuesday night
I was wandering in a record store when I came across a treasure trove: two big boxes of picture-sleeve singles, lined up back-to-back for easy browsing. I began sorting through them, looking for some 45s to add to my collection. About halfway through the first box, I found a real rarity, and couldn't believe my luck. It was a four-song 45 r.p.m. e.p. (extended-play single) by a punk band called The Roosters, and it had been manufactured by the group itself, in an extremely limited quantity. The cover was made of white card stock, and featured black type and graphics that looked as though they had been created with a Xerox machine. The record contained two punky covers of rock and roll oldies, and two original songs. The sleeve was still shrink-wrapped, but it had been in the box forever, so the plastic was open at the top. The photos on the back cover were amateurish at best, and betrayed the boys' sense of humor. One of them was shown in a side-view, posed bent over and pantless, with a large feather duster rubber-banded to his bum, feathers pointed toward the ceiling. (That was his rooster tail, in case anyone missed the point.)
In any case, the most exciting thing about this find was that The Roosters later morphed into a more polished pop-rock band called "Fountains of Wayne." I was holding their first record in my hands, and it was quite a rarity. What was even better was that the record store didn't know what it had; the sticker on the back of the sleeve was priced at $1.10. I thought, "Well, I can bring this home and add it to my collection, or maybe I'll sell it on e-bay for $1,000. Either way, I win."
*****
I am a fan of Fountains of Wayne, but, unfortunately, their alter-ego, The Roosters, are a figment of my imagination. Lord knows where that feather duster idea came from. What a hoot!
I sure did like shopping for records, evidenced by this dream, as well as "Collection" (11/12/07), "45s" (9/26/07) and "Vinyl Days" (8/28/07). I also used to enjoy going to record conventions, and was always hoping to find a rarity or two. This dream was probably inspired by my searches for early singles by major bands before they made it big, such as R.E.M.'s first pressing of "Radio Free Europe" on the Hib-Tone label, or the Police's little-known debut single, "Fallout/ Nothing Achieving."
I was wandering in a record store when I came across a treasure trove: two big boxes of picture-sleeve singles, lined up back-to-back for easy browsing. I began sorting through them, looking for some 45s to add to my collection. About halfway through the first box, I found a real rarity, and couldn't believe my luck. It was a four-song 45 r.p.m. e.p. (extended-play single) by a punk band called The Roosters, and it had been manufactured by the group itself, in an extremely limited quantity. The cover was made of white card stock, and featured black type and graphics that looked as though they had been created with a Xerox machine. The record contained two punky covers of rock and roll oldies, and two original songs. The sleeve was still shrink-wrapped, but it had been in the box forever, so the plastic was open at the top. The photos on the back cover were amateurish at best, and betrayed the boys' sense of humor. One of them was shown in a side-view, posed bent over and pantless, with a large feather duster rubber-banded to his bum, feathers pointed toward the ceiling. (That was his rooster tail, in case anyone missed the point.)
In any case, the most exciting thing about this find was that The Roosters later morphed into a more polished pop-rock band called "Fountains of Wayne." I was holding their first record in my hands, and it was quite a rarity. What was even better was that the record store didn't know what it had; the sticker on the back of the sleeve was priced at $1.10. I thought, "Well, I can bring this home and add it to my collection, or maybe I'll sell it on e-bay for $1,000. Either way, I win."
*****
I am a fan of Fountains of Wayne, but, unfortunately, their alter-ego, The Roosters, are a figment of my imagination. Lord knows where that feather duster idea came from. What a hoot!
I sure did like shopping for records, evidenced by this dream, as well as "Collection" (11/12/07), "45s" (9/26/07) and "Vinyl Days" (8/28/07). I also used to enjoy going to record conventions, and was always hoping to find a rarity or two. This dream was probably inspired by my searches for early singles by major bands before they made it big, such as R.E.M.'s first pressing of "Radio Free Europe" on the Hib-Tone label, or the Police's little-known debut single, "Fallout/ Nothing Achieving."
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Joke's on You
Sunday night
I was watching a new reality show which featured a number of starving rock bands that specialized in 1980s music. They had all been led to believe that they were competing for a recording contract, but in "reality," the point was to abuse, exhaust and make fun of them for the amusement of the audience. One group had a lead singer in the Pat Benatar mold who didn't take well to a surprise 6 a.m. dance class.
*****
Hmm. Sort of a cross between "American Idol" and "Survivor." You know, this is no more implausible than any number of crappy reality shows on the tube now.
I was watching a new reality show which featured a number of starving rock bands that specialized in 1980s music. They had all been led to believe that they were competing for a recording contract, but in "reality," the point was to abuse, exhaust and make fun of them for the amusement of the audience. One group had a lead singer in the Pat Benatar mold who didn't take well to a surprise 6 a.m. dance class.
*****
Hmm. Sort of a cross between "American Idol" and "Survivor." You know, this is no more implausible than any number of crappy reality shows on the tube now.
Trying to Break Free
Saturday night
I was visiting with my friend, Preston, at his house, but I was preoccupied and doing things that were out of character. I picked up one of his spiral notebooks and began doodling on it. Next, I found a book that he had about the late singer Bob Marley, and personalized it to him by signing a fake Marley autograph on the cover. Preston was understandably surprised by my actions. I apologized, told him that I wasn't myself, and promised to get him new copies of both items.
For some time I'd had dealings with a charismatic, powerful young man, and I was pretty sure that he was involved in some nefarious business dealings, if not outright criminal activity. I had to go meet with him next, and was wondering how I'd extricate myself from him, once and for all. He was a complicated guy. While I was fairly certain that he was engaged in criminal enterprises, I also saw how well he seemed to treat his friends and employees, opening his home to them and their families. I owed the guy some money, and I was concerned about it. I headed over to his apartment.
I walked through the front door, and found the place buzzing with activity. I passed a Ping-Pong table in the living room, where a black man was having a game with his two young daughters. Next, I came across a lower table where the host was seated with a group of Mexican children. They were playing a game, or possibly working on some sort of crafts. He noticed me, looked up, and said, "You look worried. Let's talk." We walked over to the dining room and sat down at a table. I was a little afraid of him. I began, "It's just that I owe you all this money..." He said, "Family members pay each other back over years. You don't have to pay it all now." I said, "Well, I just got paid, so I have the money for the CDs and DVDs; I just need to go by an ATM machine. And I've got the $100 you gave me to get you the stereo, and I thought I'd pay that back to you now." He smiled, but he was serious. He said calmly, "But I delegated that to you." I squirmed a little and said, "Well, here's the thing. When I bought my own stereo, I got something to play my CDs, and a pair of headphones. I never had to think that much about playback [through speakers]." (In other words, I don't really know what I'm doing.) So, if you still want me to buy it for you, you'll have to take what you get."
At that point, several adult white people passed through the dining room on the way out to the backyard. They must have been out there earlier; they wore jeans and T-shirts, and their clothes were covered with brown dust. They all wore white chalk on their faces. Apparently they had been involved in some elaborate tribal game outside, presumably with more kids. Sensing that our conversation about money was over, the host stood up, pointed toward the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, and announced, "And now, [CPC] will help decorate!"
*****
The main character in this dream isn't based on anyone that I know, but may be an amalgam of any of a number of charismatic criminals from movies or TV shows. This dream had a pretty strong narrative drive to it, showing how the bad guy can be charming if you're on his side, but pretty scary if you cross him, or try to extricate yourself from his circle.
The days of the $100 stereo are long gone, I'm afraid.
I lost my job in 2005, and went through a fairly rough time in 2006, after my severance pay ran out. I was temping for several months, and took a big cut in pay. My brother Drew wanted me to keep coming up for the poker tournaments, so he paid for a couple of my trips back home out of pocket. Now that I'm back on my feet, I'm sending him regular payments to knock that debt down. He has told me over and over again not to worry about it, that we're family, and I could pay him back in the old folks home, for all he cares. Still, it's important to me, not only for my own self-esteem, but also to show good faith in him, that I pay him something every month, and that's what I'm doing. That's why the bit about debt between family members filtered into this dream. Now, as for the tribal games in the yard... ?
I was visiting with my friend, Preston, at his house, but I was preoccupied and doing things that were out of character. I picked up one of his spiral notebooks and began doodling on it. Next, I found a book that he had about the late singer Bob Marley, and personalized it to him by signing a fake Marley autograph on the cover. Preston was understandably surprised by my actions. I apologized, told him that I wasn't myself, and promised to get him new copies of both items.
For some time I'd had dealings with a charismatic, powerful young man, and I was pretty sure that he was involved in some nefarious business dealings, if not outright criminal activity. I had to go meet with him next, and was wondering how I'd extricate myself from him, once and for all. He was a complicated guy. While I was fairly certain that he was engaged in criminal enterprises, I also saw how well he seemed to treat his friends and employees, opening his home to them and their families. I owed the guy some money, and I was concerned about it. I headed over to his apartment.
I walked through the front door, and found the place buzzing with activity. I passed a Ping-Pong table in the living room, where a black man was having a game with his two young daughters. Next, I came across a lower table where the host was seated with a group of Mexican children. They were playing a game, or possibly working on some sort of crafts. He noticed me, looked up, and said, "You look worried. Let's talk." We walked over to the dining room and sat down at a table. I was a little afraid of him. I began, "It's just that I owe you all this money..." He said, "Family members pay each other back over years. You don't have to pay it all now." I said, "Well, I just got paid, so I have the money for the CDs and DVDs; I just need to go by an ATM machine. And I've got the $100 you gave me to get you the stereo, and I thought I'd pay that back to you now." He smiled, but he was serious. He said calmly, "But I delegated that to you." I squirmed a little and said, "Well, here's the thing. When I bought my own stereo, I got something to play my CDs, and a pair of headphones. I never had to think that much about playback [through speakers]." (In other words, I don't really know what I'm doing.) So, if you still want me to buy it for you, you'll have to take what you get."
At that point, several adult white people passed through the dining room on the way out to the backyard. They must have been out there earlier; they wore jeans and T-shirts, and their clothes were covered with brown dust. They all wore white chalk on their faces. Apparently they had been involved in some elaborate tribal game outside, presumably with more kids. Sensing that our conversation about money was over, the host stood up, pointed toward the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, and announced, "And now, [CPC] will help decorate!"
*****
The main character in this dream isn't based on anyone that I know, but may be an amalgam of any of a number of charismatic criminals from movies or TV shows. This dream had a pretty strong narrative drive to it, showing how the bad guy can be charming if you're on his side, but pretty scary if you cross him, or try to extricate yourself from his circle.
The days of the $100 stereo are long gone, I'm afraid.
I lost my job in 2005, and went through a fairly rough time in 2006, after my severance pay ran out. I was temping for several months, and took a big cut in pay. My brother Drew wanted me to keep coming up for the poker tournaments, so he paid for a couple of my trips back home out of pocket. Now that I'm back on my feet, I'm sending him regular payments to knock that debt down. He has told me over and over again not to worry about it, that we're family, and I could pay him back in the old folks home, for all he cares. Still, it's important to me, not only for my own self-esteem, but also to show good faith in him, that I pay him something every month, and that's what I'm doing. That's why the bit about debt between family members filtered into this dream. Now, as for the tribal games in the yard... ?
Crash / The Silly Vicar
Friday night
Dream 1: Crash
I was in Virginia, and I'd borrowed Dad's car. I was driving near Tyson's Corner when somebody ran headlong into my right front quarter panel. My first thought was, "Man, I'm so glad I wasn't driving our new car," but I was still plenty P.O.'ed about what had been done to Dad's. I got out of the car and saw that the offending driver, a young guy, maybe 19 or so, had put his car in reverse, and was planning to flee the scene. I knew I'd have to prove who he was, so I looked down and noticed that he had a temporary tag for a license plate. I promptly snatched it. Thinking that I needed more evidence, I somehow climbed into the back seat of his car without his knowledge. He took off, and I began rifling through his belongings, grabbing papers and maps and stuff for evidence. He stopped at a light and I got out and ran into a Taco Bell, yelling, "Call 911! Call 911!" The driver ran in after me, and immediately went about convincing the customers that I was crazy. One lady was taking his side already. I wanted to defend myself, but decided that it would be best not to say anything until the police arrived. Finally, a detective showed up, and led us over to a booth. The three of us sat down, and he asked us for our versions of what had happened. I spoke first, and when I explained that the guy had hit my car, the cop agreed. He looked at the other driver and said, "You did hit his car. I've seen the photographs." But then he looked at me and explained that I'd transgressed, too, by removing the other driver's possessions. We both had to end up admitting guilt.
*****
Dream 2: The Silly Vicar
My wife and I were in England, and we were about to be married outdoors on a nice, lush, green lawn, surrounded by trees. The priest and I both wore black; she wore white. The vicar reached out to shake her hand, and as he did so, his arm extended all the way to the ground. He had a long, fake rubber arm and an expanding sleeve, which I thought was hilarious. I turned to my wife and said, "That's FUNNY! Don't you think that's funny?!" She didn't.
*****
Dream 1: Crash
Well, that sucks. I guess I had to end up paying for the damage to the car anyway.
By the way, the car that I was driving was my parents' old Mercury Comet, circa 1962, with fins in the back. The detective was Carlos A. He was a sales rep who used to work for my current employer. He left last summer. I never liked him much. He was not a conscientious person.
Dream 1: Crash
I was in Virginia, and I'd borrowed Dad's car. I was driving near Tyson's Corner when somebody ran headlong into my right front quarter panel. My first thought was, "Man, I'm so glad I wasn't driving our new car," but I was still plenty P.O.'ed about what had been done to Dad's. I got out of the car and saw that the offending driver, a young guy, maybe 19 or so, had put his car in reverse, and was planning to flee the scene. I knew I'd have to prove who he was, so I looked down and noticed that he had a temporary tag for a license plate. I promptly snatched it. Thinking that I needed more evidence, I somehow climbed into the back seat of his car without his knowledge. He took off, and I began rifling through his belongings, grabbing papers and maps and stuff for evidence. He stopped at a light and I got out and ran into a Taco Bell, yelling, "Call 911! Call 911!" The driver ran in after me, and immediately went about convincing the customers that I was crazy. One lady was taking his side already. I wanted to defend myself, but decided that it would be best not to say anything until the police arrived. Finally, a detective showed up, and led us over to a booth. The three of us sat down, and he asked us for our versions of what had happened. I spoke first, and when I explained that the guy had hit my car, the cop agreed. He looked at the other driver and said, "You did hit his car. I've seen the photographs." But then he looked at me and explained that I'd transgressed, too, by removing the other driver's possessions. We both had to end up admitting guilt.
*****
Dream 2: The Silly Vicar
My wife and I were in England, and we were about to be married outdoors on a nice, lush, green lawn, surrounded by trees. The priest and I both wore black; she wore white. The vicar reached out to shake her hand, and as he did so, his arm extended all the way to the ground. He had a long, fake rubber arm and an expanding sleeve, which I thought was hilarious. I turned to my wife and said, "That's FUNNY! Don't you think that's funny?!" She didn't.
*****
Dream 1: Crash
Well, that sucks. I guess I had to end up paying for the damage to the car anyway.
By the way, the car that I was driving was my parents' old Mercury Comet, circa 1962, with fins in the back. The detective was Carlos A. He was a sales rep who used to work for my current employer. He left last summer. I never liked him much. He was not a conscientious person.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Doin' My Time
Thursday night
I'd been busted for D.W.I., and was sentenced to 30 days in jail. Some of my friends, including Eddie M., had heard about it, and I was embarrassed. Fortunately for me, I got to serve my sentence in a grocery store. My twin brother Andrew was there, too, along with all of the other orange-suited guys, but it's not clear whether he had his own run-in with the law, or if he was simply there for moral support. I had a pretty good setup in the back of the store: a mattress, a red bedspread, and a couple of pillows. My stufff was in the horizontal aisle, near the left corner, next to the meat and cheese. Andrew was carrying around a dingy black and white-striped mattress that had seen better days, and set it down on one of the vertical aisles. I told him that he could drop it and bunk with me. I'd noticed that a bunch of tough-looking black dudes were congregating at the end of the aisle on the far right, so I figured I'd make a point of walking down there to meet them. After all, we'd be neighbors for awhile.
*****
I've never been sent to jail, but if I am, it won't be for D.W.I.
That mattress that Andrew was carrying was the cot that used to be in Mom and Dad's basement playroom. Later, I took it with me to the townhouse on Hyson Lane in Falls Church.
Once upon a time I would have described myself as a person with some prejudice against blacks -- which I was fighting against. I grew up in an all-white neighborhood which gradually included some people of other races, but no blacks that I can recall. My elementary school was integrated by forced busing in the early 1970s, and I did befriend some of those kids from South Arlington, but never really knew them. Later, like many white suburbanites, I suppose that the crack wars between some young black men in the District of Columbia scared me to death, and made me want to stay where I was, in my "safety zone." But the thing you learn when you get older is that prejudice is rooted in stupid assumptions that people make about people or things that they don't know, or know little about. Luckily for me, I worked for 10 years at a foundation that introduced me to all sorts of wonderful people: blacks, whites, Asians, straights, gays, folks from other countries. And I learned that once you meet a person from a demographic and get to know them, it's no longer some bullshit concept, it's a person; an individual -- someone who, as Dr. King said, should be judged not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. This seems so obvious that it shouldn't need to be stated, but I'm a living example that someone can grow and become smarter as he ages. I see my life now as a flawed attempt to reach toward some sort of progressive enlightenment. And I'm convinced that the only way people will get that enlightenment is to travel around the country and the world, meet new people, see how others do things, and then make up their own mind(s).
So, now I make a point of engaging folks who don't look like me, particularly at work. I try to make the extra effort to get to know them as individuals; it's really cool for both of us, as we become one more pair of people fighting for a truly colorblind society.
One more confession: at the foundation where I used to work, I realized that I still harbored a bias, but it wasn't one that I had previously discovered. I wasn't uncomfortable with any particular race (or sexual orientation). Instead, I found that I had then, and have now, a level of discomfort with those who are in a significantly lower economic bracket, and lower level of education. That's the real story. As I read in a magazine once, "People think that there's a racial divide in this country. In reality, there isn't -- there's an economic divide." I really think there's something to that. I'm not saying that it's right that I wince when I'm near folks who butcher the language -- it may not be entirely their fault -- but if I have any lingering prejudice these days, that's probably it. I've gotta work on that. One shouldn't make assumptions about those folks, either, and I suppose that I do that all the time.
I'd been busted for D.W.I., and was sentenced to 30 days in jail. Some of my friends, including Eddie M., had heard about it, and I was embarrassed. Fortunately for me, I got to serve my sentence in a grocery store. My twin brother Andrew was there, too, along with all of the other orange-suited guys, but it's not clear whether he had his own run-in with the law, or if he was simply there for moral support. I had a pretty good setup in the back of the store: a mattress, a red bedspread, and a couple of pillows. My stufff was in the horizontal aisle, near the left corner, next to the meat and cheese. Andrew was carrying around a dingy black and white-striped mattress that had seen better days, and set it down on one of the vertical aisles. I told him that he could drop it and bunk with me. I'd noticed that a bunch of tough-looking black dudes were congregating at the end of the aisle on the far right, so I figured I'd make a point of walking down there to meet them. After all, we'd be neighbors for awhile.
*****
I've never been sent to jail, but if I am, it won't be for D.W.I.
That mattress that Andrew was carrying was the cot that used to be in Mom and Dad's basement playroom. Later, I took it with me to the townhouse on Hyson Lane in Falls Church.
Once upon a time I would have described myself as a person with some prejudice against blacks -- which I was fighting against. I grew up in an all-white neighborhood which gradually included some people of other races, but no blacks that I can recall. My elementary school was integrated by forced busing in the early 1970s, and I did befriend some of those kids from South Arlington, but never really knew them. Later, like many white suburbanites, I suppose that the crack wars between some young black men in the District of Columbia scared me to death, and made me want to stay where I was, in my "safety zone." But the thing you learn when you get older is that prejudice is rooted in stupid assumptions that people make about people or things that they don't know, or know little about. Luckily for me, I worked for 10 years at a foundation that introduced me to all sorts of wonderful people: blacks, whites, Asians, straights, gays, folks from other countries. And I learned that once you meet a person from a demographic and get to know them, it's no longer some bullshit concept, it's a person; an individual -- someone who, as Dr. King said, should be judged not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. This seems so obvious that it shouldn't need to be stated, but I'm a living example that someone can grow and become smarter as he ages. I see my life now as a flawed attempt to reach toward some sort of progressive enlightenment. And I'm convinced that the only way people will get that enlightenment is to travel around the country and the world, meet new people, see how others do things, and then make up their own mind(s).
So, now I make a point of engaging folks who don't look like me, particularly at work. I try to make the extra effort to get to know them as individuals; it's really cool for both of us, as we become one more pair of people fighting for a truly colorblind society.
One more confession: at the foundation where I used to work, I realized that I still harbored a bias, but it wasn't one that I had previously discovered. I wasn't uncomfortable with any particular race (or sexual orientation). Instead, I found that I had then, and have now, a level of discomfort with those who are in a significantly lower economic bracket, and lower level of education. That's the real story. As I read in a magazine once, "People think that there's a racial divide in this country. In reality, there isn't -- there's an economic divide." I really think there's something to that. I'm not saying that it's right that I wince when I'm near folks who butcher the language -- it may not be entirely their fault -- but if I have any lingering prejudice these days, that's probably it. I've gotta work on that. One shouldn't make assumptions about those folks, either, and I suppose that I do that all the time.
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