Hoping Late Into The Night

It's another 1AM kind of evening, backsliding every so wearily into morning. It is dark outside but with a full moon offering relief from the deeper darkness that I know resides around the world and around the clock. It is these dark things, dark acts, darker hearts, which often invade my mind and disallow the natural cycle of sleep, night after night.

But maybe I should be more specific. My words make it sound as if I lie awake pondering all manner of crime and plunder, fearing what comes next, anxious over that from which I can not protect my children, drowning out the evil voices and tortured mental images with a healthy dose of 24-hour technology, salty snacks, and a good book or ten.

I don't . . . though I am all too aware of these elements. The awareness has, over the course of my forty years, broken and re-broken my heart to the point where, though it is mended, the repaired shape resembles very little the original vessel appointed me at the hour of my birth. This new vessel, however, is better able to take on and retain a very precious cargo: that of hope. It is the possibility of hope, of human conversion triumphing over the blighted darkness, which stirs me into a state of 'unsleep.'

There was a family conversation around the kitchen island earlier this evening: an active debate concerning the overall character of people who make racist remarks and perpetuate the caustic slurs created by the white man to exert power over the 'lesser' peoples of the lands he chose to invade and conquer for resources and riches, whether or not he actually held 'ownership' of said lands. We hit upon England, France, Spain. Traveled over the controversial terrain of Christopher Columbus. Settled amongst the Indians of North America and the original inhabitants of Texas. Contemplated entire tribes ripped apart on the African continent, made to endure generations of subservience, expected to live out their hard-fought freedom on the continent not of their choosing in a hostile environment.

It's origins stemmed from the revelation of an incident between my son and an acquaintance from school. A sharing of a painful secret followed by an inadvertent revelation to others resulting in a shoving match in the cafeteria. The other boy, shamed by what his fellow students had overheard, reached for his secret weapon, eager to inflict a comparable amount of shame on my son. "You dirty Mexican!" he yelled. Volleying back, my hormonal 14 year-old threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't shut up. Teachers got involved. The vice-principal was informed. My son hid the story from us for a day, though he nervously told the higher-ups otherwise, until the ol' iPhone informed me the middle school is a'calling. Fast forward to a 3-day suspension for each kid and a PMS'ing mama who manages to maintain her cool . . . but just barely.

My issue with the adolescent moment is probably not what most of you think. Though I am, for all intents and purposes, the white man in my family -- German, Swedish, possibly English, with a smattering of American Indian of which specific nation I am ignorant -- as my husband is of mixed-Hispanic descent with a splash of French somewhere in the mix, I am fully aware of prejudice and have experienced its toxic effects to an extent. Though a story for another day, my stepfather of many years during the tender years of my own adolescence was a black man who served in the Vietnam War and suffered horribly for it. His marriage to my mother created unwelcome buzz in our extended family and caused a stir in public settings in many a venue. Our nomadic lifestyle placed us in schools and in neighborhoods where we were not always the majority. I don't write any of this to say I could ever fully understand what it is to be a minority and be forced to endure the unfairness of social dislike based solely on skin color and ethnic origin. I only endeavor to explain that my limited exposure created within me strong empathy and an unending desire to press on in the face of this ignorant giant, striking it down limb by limb. I understand that while the whole may be impossible to conquer, taking down its members, one by one, might just topple the infrastructure of racism.

So, the discourse between mother and son focused less on the hateful words and more on the reaction he had to the words. And, also how he will choose to react to such words, feelings, undercurrents in the workplace and the dating scene, etc., etc. in his high school years, college, and beyond. My position is simply that he can't fight as big an opponent as prejudice with his fists every time he comes into contact with it. In fact, I assert that he gives prejudice the upper hand each time he reacts with emotion rather than using a 'think twice, speak once' approach. Though action movies tend to say differently, I believe the reasons for a just knockdown-dragout are actually few and far between. We all see the ongoing effects of sustained war: glorified fighting with countless casualties on both sides. Instead, the right words, or a decided and deliberate lack thereof, might actually persuade the offender to reconsider. Either in the moment or on down the line. Plant a seed, not a fist.

I want my son to believe there are possibilities for change and they can begin with him. My advice was to practice a few choice lines at home for use in such situations to let other kids know it isn't all right to address him as such (because terms like 'beaner' and 'wetback' are evidently tossed about in less tense, more casual settings) without bringing an altercation to the school lunch table. I told everyone, as we licked the last bit of blueberry pie from our bowls, that most people are not all bad, including those harboring the ignorance that is racism. Internally, there are blind spots within all of us to truth and reality. Knocking down walls and aiming a floodlight in those areas does wonders. If we remember that we have power beyond violence, we can be an instrument for truth. Be aware of the bad but reach for the good. Period.

My husband says I've watched "Remember the Titans" with Denzel Washington one too many times. Huh. He's seen the football flick more times than I have, but the interesting point he may have forgotten in the glib delivery of the remark is this: it was all true. A racially divided town, school, and football team really did experience change-of-heart and extraordinary, seemingly impossible friendships did develop. My husband says he has no use for people who use racially-charged words. They are inherently bad and don't deserve a second chance. He says if I was something other than white, I would feel the same way. But, I pointed out that I know plenty of non-white folks who do not believe as he does. And, further, I've had enough scenarios thrown at me over the years -- difficult childhood, running away, brother in prison, the drowning of my niece and nephew at the hands of my post-partum psychotic sister, enduring private disappointments -- to witness myself in action: though not a perfect human being, I practice the very fundamental beliefs I preach. If I was a person of color but retained the same personality and character, I know I would always hope, and seek the truth, and try to exact peaceful influence if at all possible.

It's not all right that a teenage boy who plays on the same baseball team as my son, attends the same classes with him each school day, and has parents at home capable of imparting awareness the same as my son, called him a 'dirty Mexican.' It's not all right that stronger examples of ignorance and hatred exist and happen in our city, our county, our state, within the borders of our country, and around this globe on a 24/7 basis. The long list of crime shows to be found on the television didn't invent the atrocities which are the bread-and-butter of their plot lines. No, we are spinning on an axis of evil which could very well overwhelm us but for the one thing I refuse to surrender despite all I know: the faithful practice of hope. One person at a time. One after-midnight blog at a time.

Starting with me.

(I was fully prepared for bed at 5 minutes to 1AM. Then came the end credits for the very intense "A Time To Kill" with Samuel L. Jackson, Sandra Bullock, and Matthew McConaughey. Though I've seen this film before, and read the book, I found myself with intense visceral reactions at several key points in the show. The gospel song bringing down the house as the key grip, animal trainer, and set design designates scrolled down the screen stirred my writing juices.

Please note: I realize that the 'white man' did not invent prejudice or racism. Even within the same race, people managed to create systems whereby the powerful exercised their seeming superiority over the powerless. However, for our intents, in modern and historical America, with our unresolved issues concerning Black America and the polarizing debate over our illegal population of Mexican residents, the weighted term 'white man' fits the bill.)