We Are Not OK

 

Nobody is OK with what is happening. It is not OK to shoot anybody who is minding his or her own business. It is not OK to shoot cops. Not OK to shoot at cops. 

 

Not OK to be at their hospital, jeer, and wish them dead. None of this is OK. 

 

Those who think so are on the wrong side of history. 

 

This is gasoline for the fire. When the President calls the perpetrator an “animal” this is the nexus of an attitude at the foundation of racism. The person who shot into a police car is a criminal. If we continue to avoid the conversation about why a segment of the population has more invested in lawlessness than in obeying the law, if we continue to characterize people as “animals” deserving of death, then the problems will perpetuate. 

 

There are no one word solutions. “Animal, Thugs, Mutts,” only avoids the issue. It fosters an air of ignorance that we are all in this together. 

 

Nobody is immune. What injures one injures all.

 

Our thoughts and prayers are with the officers injured in the latest police shooting. We pray for all the victims of violence and call for Peace.

 

If You Speak of Love, There Will Be Love

 

 

“On September 11th 2001 I witnessed the barbaric carnage and destruction of downtown Manhattan. The magnitude of this experience has forever altered my life and given me an urgency to produce as much healing as I can.”  

 

I came across this piece of writing on my old website MDRansom.com. A sleepless night brought on by worries for the world prompted me to visit and read what I wrote nearly 20 years ago. It has renewed my faith and restored my truth. Recently I was relieved of a commitment to appear in a film by a childhood friend because I support the Black Lives Matter movement.

 

Rather than be angry or feel a sense of failure, I realize this is the Universe telling me I am not supposed to be portraying characters who value violence over peace. I trust that I am doing what’s right. I wish my friend well and much success with his project. He has confirmed for me that my support of Black Lives Matter is just and true. That we all need to take a hard look at the reality of our situation.

 

Not unlike many, I struggle with language on how to explain my own journey through the subject of race in America and endeavor honestly to express my thoughts with love and empathy. Sometimes I only make matters worse and deepen the divide and that is absolutely contrary to my intent.

 

I believe what we do and what we say as well as how we say it makes a difference to what we birth into the world. If your anger results in violent impulses to quell your dissatisfaction, there will be violence. If you speak of war, you will have war. And to me war is the ultimate failure of mankind. There are no winners. One nation may emerge from conflict in better shape than the other, but all will feel the consequences of human carnage and destruction. All of it is always completely avoidable but for the greed and hubris of men.

 

 

The other day I finished reading “White Fragility” by Robin Diangelo. The language I struggled with yesterday, perhaps I struggle with less today. To articulate my thoughts and frustrations is to be uncomfortable. And discomfort is what it causes because that is the job of an anti-racist. To make people uncomfortable with the status quo. To incite change. Change for the better. These concepts are disturbing. They rattle the lion’s cage. However, there is great benefit too. There is a sense of being not so alone.That we can create a brighter, more inclusive future for everyone.

 

During yoga meditation, I imagined how I might protest. I would carry the biggest mirror I could so that the riot police could see themselves. I’m not sure what effect that would have on them. I’m sure they would see it as a threat. And, of course, this is just a fantasy because rubber bullets and tear gas canisters can easily break mirrors. I understand that those in favor of the status quo have no interest in self reflection. But to me, when you hold up the “Race Card” in this country, every single one has a different picture on it. And that picture is your own.

 

Also in yoga with Adriene, she tells us our breath, is our spirit. What a timely metaphor for these challenging times. Our great enemy COVID-19 is spread by breathing the air. The virus we battle today is an air borne contagion not unlike vitriol we give breath to in the way of spreading hate either with written  or spoken words.

I will not waste my breath on hate.

 

Today, with honor and reverence, I remember 9/11/2001 and those who perished. I remember those who continued on to rebuild. I fear today that it’s not that people have forgotten, but that they never knew in the first place, just why it is we stand and fight.

 

 I stand for the possibility of Love.

 

 Peace, Dad, David, passed September 8, 2008.

A Return to Baltimore for a Sad Farewell

 Yesterday was an epic journey. We gathered once more in Baltimore to attend the funeral of my God Mother, Aunt Gin who had passed in her sleep at 93 years of age. I drove from North Carolina to Baltimore and back. A ten and half hour round trip to spend an hour and a half with family. It was well worth it and I am so glad I did.

My cousin Sandy spoke eloquently and emotionally about her parents, now both together, of their lives and upbringing. Of their values and faith which has been handed down. My cousin Guy thanked the parish of St. Michael the Archangel in Baltimore for the beautiful, considerate and safe mass. Though no amount of social distancing could keep me from touching and hugging my sisters and my mourning cousins, masked though I was. 

In this time where we are so dispersed and encouraged to distance ourselves from family and friends, the almost frantic need to reach out and touch them becomes more palpable as this thing drags on. I wonder if and when we will all get together again. In faith there lies the answer. We will, we will be together again. Sooner than later I hope.

The Earle of Baltimore

 

The Earle Movie Theater

Unassuming red brick makes up the back of that small old building almost directly across the street from our part of the row house. The front was simple with an inviting brightness coming from the angular marquee. Detailed with smooth glazed brick and Art Deco curves more welcoming than the Italianate style church across and up the road, there was an opulence combined with mystery which created excitement for wonders held inside. To this day, I love going to the “movies” by myself. The sense memory of that special place with its sweet smell of butter, popcorn and the cavernous, benevolent darkness fractured by flickering images projected onto silvery white background.

 

Many may remember its unfortunate decline into an adult movie theater during the 1970s’ and 80s’ or its present incarnation as a church. If that is not a metaphor for America than there just isn’t one. But for me it was a new and unexplored continent, it was outer space, a journey to the center of the earth. It was sensual and intimate; it was the Wild West, the freezing tundra, the landscape of dreams, and of my heart.

 

On a Saturday morning, I was allowed to cross Mayfield Avenue, go up to the corner and purchase my ticket. That’s how close I lived to the Earle and the screen, an opening to another dimension embedded therein. To see the whole frame of it I would have to sit in the very front. Otherwise, the seat ahead of me blocked a good portion of the picture. Looking up from the red crush velvet and cast iron seats, I followed the adventures of “Puss In Boots.” A swashbuckling kitty with a snide sense of humor.

 

At some point from my perch in the front row, I became curious about the red and white “EXIT” sign lit over a metal door with a long push bar handle. The cat with a hat, sword, and boots no longer captured my attention. My own feline curiosity took hold and I found myself going through that door. Immediately I was blinded by the bright light of Saturday. The contrast between dark enclosed Movie Theater and wide open parking lot under blue sky was overwhelming.  I took a few paces out into the openness and looked back. The door was ajar, so I decided to return.

 

Once seated and again looking up at the screen the Usher, who was also the ticket vendor, popcorn maker and projectionist, came bounding down the side aisle. He looked at me and then wildly around for some invisible intruder. Yet all he saw was the blonde haired boy he had sold a ticket staring innocently at the matinee. He shook his head and stalked slowly away.