Edmund Pettus and "The Bridge"

I love Alabama. I was born in Birmingham. I was raised in Alexander City. I attended Benjamin Russell High School and Auburn University. I was there during the Civil Rights Movement. I was one of the children integrating the schools for the first time. I saw George Wallace elected four times, the fourth time by somehow collecting a majority of the Black vote. One of my favorite songs is “Sweet Home Alabama”. Me and my fellow Alabamians are family. Just like any family, we don’t all like each other, but we’re honest about that. Like family, we have the right to criticize each other, correct each other. We have family secrets we don’t discuss in public, crazy uncles and cousins we try to keep out of public view and discussions. We have issues that divide us, and for some of us, there are irreconcilable differences. For many of us, the disputes were too bitter, the crazy relatives too embarrassing to allow us to remain in the beautiful state we love, so we leave to live our lives in other places, but our hearts remain in Alabama.

The place that I found was the great and beautiful state of Maryland. I have been here since 1984, and chances are I will be here forever. However, Alabama is never too far outside my conscious thoughts. Usually I am thinking of Auburn, and the football Tigers. Sometimes, other, more controversial issues will take my mind back home. It might be a friend visiting the state for the first time, asking me where to go or what to see, or asking the inevitable question, “What was it really like during the sixties”? Every once in a while it will be a long lost friend trying to re-connect via Linked-In or Facebook. Recently, it was the incredible movie “Selma”, invoking memories of the fight for the Voting Rights Act, “Bloody Sunday”, and the Edmund Pettus Bridge.

“The Bridge” has become a symbol of the Civil Rights Movement, a symbol as powerful as any other. I am confident that most of the people of the world have no idea who Edmund Pettus is. Most people have no idea why “The Bridge” was named for him. Every time I see the bridge, (and recently I have been seeing it constantly) I am embarrassed for my state, and for my nation. I ask myself what the hell were they thinking when they decided to name that bridge after Edmund Pettus?

Edmund Pettus was a confederate general. Since he was captured by the Union Army on three separate occasions, and given back to the confederates each time in exchange for Union soldiers, it is safe to say he was not a very good one. Before the Civil War, he was a lieutenant in the US Army, which technically makes him guilty of treason. Of course, Abraham Lincoln pardoned all of the surviving confederate soldiers that agreed to swear allegiance to the Union. I will assume Pettus swore allegiance. More troubling and unacceptable for me is the fact that after the war Pettus became a grand dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. That makes him a domestic terrorist, not only participating in unspeakable crimes of terror against Alabama’s people of color, but leading and directing those acts as well.

On March 7, 1965 one of the most infamous events in American history occurred on “The Bridge”. This “Bloody Sunday” occurred when African Americans were attacked by Alabama State troopers and klansmen while trying to stage a march from Selma, to Montgomery. The violent, sadistic, riveting images were witnessed coast to coast on live television, and was the moment that awakened the consciousness of many Americans to the righteousness of the cause of equal voting rights for all of America’s citizens.

Most Alabamians would agree today that all Americans, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, or economic status should be able to vote freely and without fear or interference. Most would agree that what occurred on “The Bridge” on “Bloody Sunday” was regrettable. Most would agree that the title of “grand dragon” of the ku klux klan is not an honorable one.

The Alabama River is a beautiful, scenic river, flowing spaghetti-like from its mouth at Mobile Bay, through Selma where it meets with the Cahaba and heads east through the state capital in Montgomery, where it splits into the Coosa and Tallapoosa Rivers. “The Bridge” allows Route 80 from Montgomery to cross the Alabama River into the city of Selma. It is a stately, impressive, arch bridge that opened in 1940. It is listed on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places, and also as a U.S. National Historic Landmark. Its name is emblazoned in large letters on the arch, above the highway below. Proudly. Unmistakably. It is literally impossible for the thousands of people visiting Selma as a result of its historical significance to miss.

What the hell were they thinking?

Edmund Pettus was a sub-standard confederate general, grand dragon of the ku klux klan, domestic terrorist, murdering, son of a bitch. Were he alive, he would take credit for the thousands of lynching’s that occurred in Alabama during his reign. He would take pride in the hangings, cross burnings designed to terrorize, people burned alive, and brutal enforcement of “Black Codes” and “Jim Crow” laws that made “Bloody Sunday” necessary for this country to realize just how vicious Alabama could be towards its citizens of color.

Is this someone that Alabama and America should be honoring?

I want the name of “The Bridge” to be changed. I have no doubt that the majority of Alabamians and Americans, if presented with the facts, would agree.

Until another name is emblazoned on the arch above Highway 80 leading into Selma, it will continue to be “The Bridge” to me.

Selma

I was moved by the movie “Selma”. As I sat there in the theater watching the credits roll I took stock of my emotions and came to the conclusion that this was a great movie. This was an educational movie. This was a memorable movie. I remember thinking that every American should see this movie. I realized that this powerful piece of art had the power to educate the ignorant, motivate the reluctant, and serve as a catalyst for fundamental changes in how we relate to each other as a society. I could not imagine another movie being declared “Best Picture” of the year. 

In subsequent weeks, I became angry and disgusted with what seemed like the coordinated attacks on the movie, including the accuracy of how “Selma” depicted Dr. King’s relationship with President Johnson. I had assumed that “Selma” would dominate the Academy Awards. I had anticipated awards for “Best Picture”, “Best Director”, “Best Actor”, and “Best Original Song”. Slowly, I began to realize that wasn’t going to happen. Eventually, I began to ask myself why the “Oscars” were so important.

Why did I give a damn?

The first Academy Awards were presented in 1929. In 1971, I was a Marine stationed at the Marine Corps Base at 29 Palms, California. I watched the Academy Awards with my best friend, a white Marine from Ohio. Together, we watched Isaac Hayes perform the “Theme from Shaft”, and I will never forget it. America had never seen anything like it. Isaac Hayes became a household name that night, my friend became an Isaac Hayes fan for life, and I felt as proud as one human can possibly feel. The Oscar went to Ike that night, and from that moment on, the Academy Awards has been important to me.

But why should African-Americans place so much importance and emotional capital into something that we have so little control and influence over? The short answer is we shouldn’t.

But that doesn’t explain why we do.

The fact is, we have proportional control and influence over very few things in our lives, but the desire to receive approval and recognition from others is a powerful human characteristic. Whether we control it or not, it still feels good when those that do control something recognize that we are the best at doing it.

The moment of triumph in 1971 remains fresh in my mind not only for Isaac Hayes. I still retain high definition mental images of Denzel Washington in 2001 (Training Day), Jamie Foxx in 2004 (Ray), and Forest Whitaker in 2006 (The Last King of Scotland). They all won for “Best Actor”.

 Halle Berry in 2001 (Monster’s Ball), was the first and only Black woman to win for “Best Actress”

 Louis Gossett in 1982 (An Officer and a Gentleman), Denzel Washington in 1989 (Glory), Cuba Gooding, Jr. in 1996 (Jerry Maguire), Morgan Freeman in 2004 (Million Dollar Baby), all won the “Oscar” for “Best Supporting Actor”.

Whoopi Goldberg in 1990 (Ghost), Jennifer Hudson in 2006 (Dreamgirls), Mo’Nique in 2009 (Precious), Octavia Spencer in 2011 (The Help), and Lupita Nyong’o in 2013 (12 Years a Slave), took home the gold statue for “Best Supporting Actress".

 Prince in 1984 (Purple Rain), Herbie Hancock in 1986 (Round Midnight), Stevie Wonder in 1984 (The Woman in Red), Lionel Ritchie in 1985 (White Nights), and Juicy J, Frayser Boy, DJ Paul in 2005 (Hustle and Flow), won “Oscars” for “Best Original Song”.

 Steve McQueen in 2013 (12 Years a Slave) is the only Black to win a “Best Picture” Oscar.

I remember watching each of them stride to the stage as the world watched. I remember the dignity of Morgan Freeman, Halle Berry’s tears, Cuba Gooding Jr.’s enthusiasm, and Prince’s purple tuxedo. I remember all of them and their collective pride and humility. I was proud of them and their demonstrated excellence in their art. I knew that they were powerful role models for so many African American children that are so desperately in need of them.

As a child I spent a lot of time in Montgomery, Alabama. Half of my family lived there, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Montgomery is only 50 miles from Selma, less than an hour’s drive. In 1965 I was 12 years old. I was very much aware of the march from Selma to Montgomery. I was very familiar with Dexter Avenue and the State Capitol Building it led to. I was familiar with the department stores on Dexter Avenue that would not allow us to try on the shoes or clothes we might want to buy. I have vivid memories of Viola Liuzzo being killed by the Ku Klux Klan as she drove several Blacks to the Montgomery airport after the march was over. I thought about all of these things as I sat in the theater after seeing “Selma”, watching the credits roll.

By almost any measure, I am a well-educated man. I attended a very good high school, an outstanding university, and I hold a Master’s degree as well. But not once, (despite having a history major) not in a single class was I taught what happened in Selma and Montgomery in 1965. It is probably safe to say that few Americans were. The events there made the “Voting Rights Act” a reality. The Voting Rights Act made America what it is today.

I was flabbergasted when the director of this incredible movie did not receive a nomination for “Best Director”. However, that may have been pre-ordained. Since 1929, only three Black directors have been nominated for “Best Director”. None have won.  

The director of “Selma”, Ava DuVernay, and the movie’s producers did the world a solid with their powerful depiction of those historic events. They deserve to be recognized before the world for their achievement. I would love to see Ms. DuVernay stride to the stage and accept her industry’s most coveted award. I want to share her pride, admire her dignity, and bask in the glory of it all.

Maybe that’s why I give a damn.

“Selma” will not win the “Academy Award” for “Best Picture”.

“Selma” was the best movie I have ever seen.

Burned Alive

On December 24, 2014 Jordanian Lieutenant Moaz Youssef al-Kasasbeh was captured by ISIS after his plane crashed during an airstrike over Syria. On February 3, 2015 ISIS (Islamic State of Iraq and Syria) released a video showing the Jordanian pilot being burned alive.

The reaction from around the world was almost universal condemnation. From world leaders to men and women on the streets of the world, the barbarity and unspeakable cruelty of the execution of the Jordanian pilot was expressed repeatedly. The State of Jordan has vowed revenge on ISIS.

When I was a college student at Auburn University I worked for the campus radio station as a radio announcer. One of my programs was a talk show called “The Black Experience”. The program was inspired by another radio program that featured Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis that was called “The Story Hour”. On “The Black Experience”, me and my co-host Sylvia Little was given tremendous freedom to explore and discuss the full range of the Black Experience in America. When I heard about what ISIS had done to the Jordanian pilot I immediately thought about a program that we did at Auburn almost forty years ago. Sylvia read a poem by Richard Wright entitled “Between the World and Me”. It is an unforgettable, haunting poem that is a first person description of a Black man being lynched and burned to death.

Between 1865 and 1965 more than three thousand Black men and women were lynched in the United States. Some of them were hung, some were beaten to death, some were shot, and many were burned alive. None of them were waging war against their captors. They were simply victimized for being Black. There was no international condemnation of their murders, in fact there was no legal consequences at all. Their deaths were simply local entertainment.

Despite the fact that I had graduated from high school and was a senior in college, I was blissfully ignorant of these horrific crimes that had occurred in my own country for a hundred years. Not until I really listened to “Between the World and Me” was I able to internalize the enormity of the crime of burning another human being to death. For the last forty years I have carried the mental images created by Richard Wright in my subconscious mind. Last week, ISIS brought them back.

Sylvia read the poem slowly, purposefully, powerfully. I invite you to do the same…

And one morning while in the woods I stumbled
    suddenly upon the thing,
Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly
    oaks and elms
And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting
    themselves between the world and me....

There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly
    upon a cushion of ashes.
There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt
    finger accusingly at the sky.
There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and
    a scorched coil of greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat,
    and a pair of trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches,
    butt-ends of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a
    drained gin-flask, and a whore's lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the
    lingering smell of gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun poured yellow
    surprise into the eye sockets of the stony skull....

And while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity
    for the life that was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by
    icy walls of fear--
The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the
    grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees; the woods
    poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds; the
    darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves
    into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into
    my flesh.

The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and
    cigarettes glowed, the whore smeared lipstick red
    upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that
    my life be burned....

And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth
    into my throat till I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my
    black wet body slipped and rolled in their hands as
    they bound me to the sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from
    me in limp patches.
And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into
    my raw flesh, and I moaned in my agony.
Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a
    baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs
Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot
    sides of death.
Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in
    yellow surprise at the sun....

More than three thousand times in a hundred years… that scene played itself out in the United States of America. I don’t know if the world was unaware, or if the world didn’t care.

I am glad that this time the world said NO. This is not ok. This is not entertainment. This will not be tolerated. This is not acceptable in our world.

Thank God.

Tiger Pause

I am an addict. I am addicted to golf. It is a good addiction. I have no intention of seeking treatment. In fact, my addiction is responsible for my sanity. I can thank Tiger Woods for that.

In 1997 I watched a young, skinny, fresh faced Tiger win the legendary Masters Tournament by an incredible NINE strokes. The kid was cool, confident, enthusiastic, and a pure assassin on the golf course. Tiger was the absolute essence of charisma, and when he played the game it was almost impossible to take your eyes off of him. He seemed to be having so much fun, and as I watched him destroy Augusta National, the beautiful course where the Masters is held each year, and the competition composed of the best golfers in the world, I said to myself, “I want to play golf too”.

As the years passed, Tiger proved himself to be the greatest golfer that has ever lived. His record of success is unprecedented, so far beyond his contemporaries that comparisons are ridiculous. Tiger has won 79 official PGA (Professional Golfer Association) events, second only to Sam Snead, who won 82. However, if you count all of Tiger’s professional wins around the world, the total is 106, far more than anyone else in the history of the game. He has the lowest career scoring average in the history of golf. He has earned more money on the PGA Tour than any golfer in history. Tiger is the only player in history to win all four major championships (Masters, British Open, US Open, and PGA Championship) in a row. He holds the all-time record for consecutive cuts made. (PGA tournaments are four rounds, half of the golfers are “cut” or sent home after the first two rounds based on their scores) Tiger made 142 consecutive cuts. Tiger is also the only golfer in history to win the U.S. Amateur Championship three consecutive times. His list of accomplishments don’t stop there. Tiger has been ranked as the number one golfer in the world for 281 consecutive weeks, (almost 6 years) and he has been ranked number one a total of 683 weeks, (more than 13 years) both marks are all-time records. He has been voted Player of the Year a record eleven times.

Tiger has won 14 major championships, more than any other golfer in history except Jack Nicklaus. He is the only golfer to win multiple major championships in consecutive years. He holds or shares the record for the lowest 72-hole score in all four major championships.

It goes without saying that he was the first Black to do all of that stuff as well.

I have played sports all of my life, including varsity football, basketball, and track in school, softball and tennis for recreation. It was always easy for me. I could watch someone do something, and then go out and do it myself. In high school, I was 6 feet tall and 175 pounds. Today I’m 6 feet tall and 185 pounds. I have been blessed with the genes and metabolism of a natural athlete, and I had no doubt that I could play golf just like the kid that was having so much fun at the Masters in 1997.

Very quickly I discovered that golf is very hard. Ironically, the thing that is so hard about it is not simply hitting the ball. I mean, the thing is just sitting there on the ground. Anyone with the hand-eye coordination to hit a tennis ball, softball, or curve ball can put a golf club on a golf ball. What makes golf so hard is it requires tremendous concentration and strategic thinking. Obviously, there are physical fundamentals that must be mastered but in order to excel at the game you must be able to clear your mind and focus intensely on what you are doing for four to five hours. The margin for error is so small that any lapse will be paid for in red on the scorecard. That is what I love about the game. That is what is so addictive for so many people. I believe that I would not have survived as a high school Principal for nine years if I did not play golf. The golf course was the only place that I could go where I could completely forget about my responsibilities. The game demanded my complete attention. As a result, I understand completely why so many Presidents are so passionate about golf.  

We are all akin to Ahab in relentless pursuit of Moby Dick, the white whale that is perfection, a goal we are convinced we can attain, but in reality, we never do.

Golf is 90% mental.

No one has come closer to conquering that white whale than Tiger Woods. For more than a decade Tiger was the most popular athlete in the world. His popularity made billions of dollars for the PGA Tour, the golf equipment industry, professional golfers, and himself. Inspired by his father, Tiger created a foundation to benefit students seeking access to college. Millions of dollars have been donated, helping thousands of students to attend college.

On November 26, 2009 it all came apart for Tiger Woods. His wife discovered his extra-marital affairs, and the media attacked him mercilessly. The jokes and righteous indignation were everywhere. Newspapers, magazines, late-night comedians, even Blacks joined in the analysis and ridicule. Tiger and his wife divorced, and he has not been the same on the golf course since.

I did not think that the jokes were funny. I often thought about the biblical passage that said “let he who is without sin cast the first stone”. I thought that Tiger had been the reason that whenever I went to a golf course to play I was never the only Black person there, and I was always treated with respect. I was proud of the fact that the best golfer in the history of the world was the same color as me. I was sad for Tiger, because I tried to imagine what it must have been like for him to endure so much ridicule, while losing his fight to keep his family together.

Last week at the Phoenix Open, Tiger Woods was the worst golfer on the course. He missed the cut, and like millions of others, I had no interest in the final two rounds. I wonder if this is what the people with the jokes wanted when they were having their fun? I don’t know why Tiger played so poorly in this tournament, and I don’t know how he will play in the future.

What I do know, is the best golfer in the history of the world did not forget how to play.

What I do know is golf is 90% mental.

There was a time when Tiger Woods was considered to be mentally invincible.

I don’t think that I could have survived the mental hell he went through in 2009….

I hope that Tiger can.