He “Did Not Comply with Simple Commands,” So…

Note: If you are interested in a simple action step, it's at the end.

Maybe you’ve seen the video or read the story. Travis Miller and his work partner, Kevin, didn’t die. They were the two black furniture delivery workers who were driving out of a gated community after making a delivery. They were in a delivery truck marked with the company name. They were wearing company uniforms. Did I mention that they were LEAVING the gated community? As they were about to exit through the gate, a car pulled up to prevent their exit. The white driver of the car later identified himself as David Stewart. He got out of his car and began asking questions, which Travis did not feel compelled to answer. “What are you doing here? Why are you in here? Where are you coming from?  All you have to do is just tell me where you’re going.”

In short time, another white man arrived to reinforce the interrogation. The second white man walked up to the truck and initiated this exchange:

Second White Man: Hey man, what’s going on?

Travis Miller: I’m trying to leave.

SM: Why?

TM: What do you mean?

SM: What were you in here for?

TM: None of your business

SM: Yeah it is. Of course it is. I live in here.

TM: Did I deliver to your house?

SM: You didn’t deliver anything… that I know of.

TM: Cause it’s none of your business, that’s why.

SM: I’m just asking why you’re in here.

TM: You’re asking questions. You don’t need to ask questions. All you need to do is have your buddy move his car so I can leave and go about my business.

SM: So did you make a wrong turn into the neighborhood?

TM: How do I make a wrong turn into a gated neighborhood? I have to have a gate code in order to get in, right? That’s common sense, right. So if I’m in here, I had a gate code, right?

SM: How did you get a gate code?

TM: That’s none of your business, yet again.

SM: It sure as hell is!

TM: It sure as hell isn’t.

SM: You’re in the wrong, dude.

TM: I’m not in the wrong. I don’t know who… What’s your name?

David Stewart: This is our street. This is a private street.

TM: Uh huh. Just so you know, more than you two guys live on this street. And you’re not the only ones with gate codes.

…

SM: You’re in the wrong, dude

TM: I’m in the wrong? Show me your badge, then.

And, of course these men in white skin believed they had already shown that badge. After about an hour, the man who received the delivery arrived. And wearing that same white skin badge, he had Travis and Kevin released.

Travis and Kevin were unnecessarily inconvenienced for an hour. They didn’t die, like Ahmaud Arbery. I am relieved that no one has invaded my social digital space with justification for the February killing of Arbery—the killing that most of us didn’t hear about until May. Regardless of political ideology, religious affiliation, race or ethnicity , those who have spoken within my hearing have spoken of disgust, sadness, and anger. And sympathy.

I have seen and heard the other responses out there. And I have given reaction. One white man prefaced his remarks with “Having served with Blacks, having Black friends, and living years rehabbing a house in an all-Black neighborhood,” before telling other commenters which Black YouTubers they should be watching to get a “balanced perspective” of the hunting and killing of a black man out jogging. But no-one in my actual circle has dared to say anything close to those sentiments.

Still my relief comes with not a small dose of surprise because this unanimity of perspective is far from what I’ve experienced in other incidents like this. Of note, this incident reminds me eerily of the killing of Trayvon Martin back in 2014. At that time all of my usual suspect friends felt a similar disgust, sadness, and anger when the story broke and again when the killer was acquitted. In addition, a number of usually quiet friends joined the usual suspects. But a disturbingly loud other contingent opted to give the benefit of doubt to the living adult killer rather than the dead teenaged victim. These were bright, kind people whom I respect.

While they might sympathize with Trayvon Martin’s family, they empathized with George Zimmerman. With the initial information we all had, they seemed to ask, “What would I do if I were George?” or “What must have been his circumstances that he would take a life?” At least with the killing of Ahmaud, we have seen some video. Eventually. And we can make out what happened in the blank spaces. We could do the same with the earlier case. But there is no video, and of the two people who know what happened, only the instigator is alive. Only the instigator ignored police instruction. All we know afterwards is a black boy who had committed no crime was killed by a man on a mission. And each of us can interpret that blank time as if we were looking at a Rorschach ink blot. We fill in with our assumptions.

But not this time. This time the killers reveal themselves as clichés. We can caricature the killers, Gregory and Travis McMichael, and call them Big Man and Bubba. With a shotgun and a pickup truck. Hunting down prey who allegedly “matched the description” and "did not comply with simple commands." No-one in my actual circle of friends, including virtual “friends” has tried to justify their actions or sympathize with their plight. In fact, many of my white friends are baffled that this could happen in the 21^st century.

I am not baffled. I am not surprised. And it’s not just Big Man and Bubba. It’s also not just rural Georgia and suburban Florida. And it’s not just some guy whose claim to authority is that he had been in proximity of Black folks. The assurance is so strong that in both of these fatal incidents the killers ignored the questioning or direct instructions of experienced dispatchers. The killers "knew" they had standing. It's in the air, and it’s in our systems. It is the hunch of white superiority, and you don’t have to openly profess it to somehow believe it. You don’t need a shotgun, a pickup truck, or a tiki torch to sense it.  I am trying out the term “unconscious whiteness.” I don’t think I stole that from anyone. But people more learned than me help explain it.

Dr. Jennifer Eberhard, author of Biased, and Dr. Jonathan Kahn, author of Race on the Brain, don’t seem to agree about which is more important, implicit bias or systemic racism. Dr. Eberhard insists that all of us are subject to biases that we aren’t even conscious of, although she admits the additional existence of systemic racism. Dr. Kahn thinks that too much attention to unconscious bias obscures the reality of systemic racism. Which of them is right? The killing of Ahmaud Arbery shouts the answer: It’s both! And add explicit bias to the contenders.

Big Man and Bubba saw a black man running and either believed he was up to no good or decided they could make a good case that he was up to no good. They and their erstwhile videographer, William “Roddie” Bryan, who has now also been arrested for felony murder, are so deluded in their thinking that the they believed releasing the video would exonerate them. That’s some entitled thinking. And it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. They were confident. They knew the system. They knew the people. And the system backed them for more than two months. And we all know that their confidence may still be rewarded down the road.

But there is a particular mindset revealed in Georgia and in Florida. And Travis and Kevin were subject to it in Oklahoma. It is the implicit or explicit belief that the neighborhoods where white people live are theirs to police. It doesn’t even matter if other people also live there. Trayvon Martin’s black daddy lived in the neighborhood where the boy was killed. To these white citizens, the right to defend does not end at their front porch or their property. In fact their rights don’t end with defense. They believe their whiteness deputizes them to follow a hunch and begin a hunt. And Georgia, Florida, and Oklahoma have encoded those extended rights with Stand Your Ground, Make My Day and “citizen’s arrest.” The laws might be written with limits; that doesn’t mean those limits will be enforced. The laws give license to any citizen to use lethal force in following a hunch. Did I say “any citizen”? We can pretend that these laws are meant to protect ANY citizen. But we know it’s not true. The incident that includes the murder of Breonna Taylor and the arrest of Kenneth Walker is just one example of the inequities. But that incident deserves its own discussion at another time.

My suspicion and my fear today  is that, although none of my white friends would go grab the shotgun to pursue Running Black Man or Walking Black Boy, many of them relate to the impulse.  Many of them understand the fear and the “right” and “obligation” to defend themselves and their families from a possible threat. Many would “understand” why two black men driving a marked delivery truck out of a gated community look threatening and should be questioned. I don’t know how many of my white friends feel deputized by their whiteness. But I am not surprised by the actions in these cases.

In neither of the fatal  cases was there a threat of violence until the killers instigated it. In fact, in neither of these incidents was there a witness to a crime—because in neither case was a crime committed by the victims. In both of these cases, the killers were the only ones armed. Neither victim was a threat in any way. They were simply perceived as such. Running. Walking. While Black.

So what can you do? I’ve walked around the answer to that question for years of talking about race. And I’ve hinted at one first step. For Dr. Taharee A. Jackson, it’s one step out of several. She’s right. But let’s start with at least this one. Jackson says,

One of the single greatest acts of racial justice that you, as a White person, could commit is to name your White identity and to claim your racialized experiences.

She explains:

One of the most pernicious aspects of racism and white identity is that they are meant to be invisible. As a White person, your White identity and the structures that maintain White racial dominance are not meant to be discussed, uncovered, identified, or questioned.

This is why you are not even named as White in books. You are so often the main characters that we just assume you are unless otherwise indicated.

I hint at this in my TEDx Talk, What I Am Learning from My White Grandchildren. The point is:  Whiteness has substance. And all of these perpetrators know it. And they use that substance as a badge of authority. But the substance of whiteness is not legitimately authoritative. It’s worth pondering why so many think it is.

The River...on Fire

Spotify prepared a playlist for me that marries acapella pop songs from Pentatonix with Christian rock from The 77s. In the mostly Christian music mix are indie songs from Tonio K, 90s Christian pop from Cindy Morgan and 80s Christian blue-eyed soul from Mylon Lefevre. And there’s Leslie Phillips and Nichole Nordeman, and then more Pentatonix. I don’t listen to as much commercial Christian music as I used to, and I’m not sure about Spotify’s algorithmic rationale, but I’m not mad. I only skipped a few songs.

I listened this morning as each of those artists sang. And then out of the blue, I hear this piano and strings intro, and the tear ducts well up. No words yet. No conscious association, just a feeling and automatic physical reaction. Something in my subconscious and in my body remembers. It’s “The River” by Rich Mullins. I am barely listening to the lyrics, but the reaction is uncontrollable. 

Maybe because I had already read in the morning that today, March 20, 2020, is the 20th anniversary of Gene Eugene’s death. Gene and his inimitable band, Adam Again, could have been in this unusual mix.

I know that associating “The River” with an entirely different musical entity seems like a non sequitur, but tell that to my body, which knows certain things. It knows that next month marks 20 years for my dad. So Gene’s passing is forever attached to Dad’s. And to Rich’s.

Favorite memories of my childhood include hours of sitting in the family room with Dad and my brothers listening to music. With music there was little generation gap in our household. We listened to entire album after entire album. Mostly soul and jazz, but occasionally rock or country or classical made the playlist. And gospel. Dad was a non-church-goer, who maintained a residual affection for gospel music from his childhood. He was completely unschooled in Contemporary Christian Music. On a drive from Denver to his home in Colorado Springs in the 1990s, I played "The River" and its album companions for Dad. I explained that I had actually sung on the collection, The World as Best as I Remember It, Vol. 1. Maybe my body is remembering that road trip with Dad.

Twenty years ago, when I learned of Gene’s passing, I immediately thought of Rich’s death three years earlier. It was a traffic accident on the open road. Another road trip. In my mind’s 2020 retrospective, the song “The River” foreshadowed Rich’s death. 

“Maybe she can come to Wichita. And maybe we can borrow Beaker’s bike. Let the road wind tie our hair in knots. Let the speed and the freedom untangle the lines. Maybe fear can vanish before love. O God, don’t let this love be denied.” 

Rich sang those words through Spotify this morning. And I wept, remembering that I haven’t listened to much Rich Mullins in years. 

Spotify could not have known that the first song in my brain this morning was “River on Fire,” from Gene Eugene from his band's release Dig. A Facebook friend had posted video for the song in honor of Gene’s anniversary. The words came straight to my mind:

“I could be happy, and you could be miserable. I’ll pull a metaphor out of the air: the Cuyahoga River on fire.” 

He refers to the infamous oil slick fire near Cleveland, Ohio in 1969. While Rich’s Wichita river longs for anticipated love, Gene’s Cleveland river laments a burned out love.

I am happy in love, but I am not above Rich’s longing or Gene’s lament, even if prompted by Spotify’s algorithms. Somehow my body still knows.

Second Sunday of Advent: A Home for Love

Kodak Instamatic 233-X from threepointsofthecompass

Reflections from my book, 
Home for Christmas: Youth Study Edition

Unfortunately, I don’t remember many specific Christmas seasons. I don’t remember many specific church services, Christmas parties, shopping excursions, or holiday concerts. I don’t remember many Christmas mornings.

But I remember one. It was my first year of college. I had gone away for school, and was fortunate enough to come home for Christmas. It was a great time to see old friends, to be with my family, to visit my old church, and even to sing again in the church choir. There wasn’t much of the material stuff that I was thinking about, but I was hoping my parents would be able to buy me a camera for Christmas. There were no smartphones then, and I wanted to document my college experience. Christmas day came, and after I opened a few small gifts, which did not disappoint me, my parents said, “We have one more thing for you.” “Let it be a camera, let it be a camera,” I thought. The box was too big for a camera, but you know that trick about wrapping smaller gifts in big boxes. I opened the box. It was a television. Apparently, I had talked so much about the tv that my roommate had in our tiny room, that my parents, who knew I would be moving to another room, thought a television was what I wanted. I wasn’t sure how to respond. I felt loved that my parents were trying to read my mind, and I felt unloved because they read wrong. I said, “Thank you.” And Dad said, “You don’t look very happy.” I tried to explain the expression on my face. My loving parents were understanding, and we returned the TV for a camera.

The gift of my parent’s love (even when it doesn’t deliver what I hoped it would) is, well, a precious gift. And too many people are not as fortunate as I am.

In the Bible, we learn a lot about love from Jonathan, his father, Saul, and Jonathan’s son Mephibosheth. Maybe you have heard about Mephibosheth, maybe you haven’t. Some would say he had a good life…at least in the beginning. His grandfather, Saul, had been king. And although Mephibosheth’s dad, Jonathan, never got to be king,  Jonathan was lifelong best friends with the next monarch, King David.

The Bible talks a lot about Jonathan and David’s friendship. They made vows to each other when they were young. 1 Samuel says that “Jonathan loved David as much as himself.” (1 Samuel 18:3 CEB)

Jonathan proved that love over and over, especially when Jonathan’s dad was trying to kill David. According to the Bible, Jonathan’s dad was so jealous of David that he was continually trying to kill David. Jonathan first started warning David, then started hiding him, and then started hiding WITH him. Jonathan was in such a risky situation that his dad even tried to kill HIM. So as Jonathan showed his love for his friend, David, he was also living through the lack of love from his own father.

Eventually both Jonathan and his dad were killed in a battle. By that time Jonathan had children of his own. His son, Mephibosheth, was 5 years old when his father and grandfather were killed. David had become king, and now it was his turn to prove that he understood how to love. He remembered his vow to Jonathan. He wanted that vow to continue to the next generation, so he invited the young Mephibosheth to live in his home. They became family even though they were not blood. They were kin.

Father Boyle likes to talk about radical kinship. At Homeboy, they practice that kinship every day. Person after person talks about the love they have found in their Homeboy family. Truth be told, many had already experienced a kind of family in their gangs. But unlike Jonathan, who would die for his “homie,” the gangbangers were more likely to kill for the gang. Here at Homeboy, they are practicing the power of love.

In some ways, the holiday season is the worst time to think about love. Too often we measure love by material things we have hope to be given or by whether certain people remembered us. That one Christmas day that I remember left me confused about my parents’ love. It shouldn’t have. They had showed it in so many ways, even in their attempt to give me the perfect gift.

I have since learned a lot about love. Maybe not enough. But enough to focus more on my loving than my being loved. This is what King David did. When his best friend died, his first question was, “Is there anyone left in Jonathan’s family that I can show kindness to? How can I demonstrate my continued love for my friend? And how can I make a difference in someone’s life?”

Martin Luther King, Jr. once said “We must discover the power of love,

the redemptive power of love. And when we discover that, we will be able to make of this old world a new world. Love is the only way.”

At Homeboy, old rivalries die, as they practice kinship—as they work together, pray together, learn together, and laugh together. They bear one another’s burdens. And they experience love when they share love.

First Sunday of Advent: A Home for Hope

Photo from Moley Magnetics

Reflections from my book, 
Home for Christmas: Youth Study Edition

I would hate to be an electronic device. Because it happens every few months. A new phone is introduced. Or a new tablet, laptop or desktop computer. Some folks are fortunate enough and eager enough to buy the new device immediately. They have heard about it, read about it, and anticipated the release date. They buy the new one and either put away, give away, sell away, throw away, or otherwise dispose of the older gadget. The older gadget probably works perfectly fine, but times have changed, and the new is thought to always be better.

So what happens to that older device? If it was sold or given away, it might get life for another year or two. Those of us who aren’t fortunate enough or eager enough will happily or unhappily buy last year’s model. We are content that it is better than the one we currently own. But in time that older devise that is new to us is put away, given away, sold away, thrown away, or otherwise disposed of again. Even if we wanted to keep it, the issuing company wouldn’t support it; they almost make you feel embarrassed for still having it.

Eventually throwing away is the only option. And in most communities, that means the device will end up in a landfill, serving no-one, and actually harming the environment. Tons of electronic waste, or e-waste are heaping up in our landfills.

But some companies are finding ways to recycle those devices. Homeboy Recycling is one of those companies. As Kabira Stokes, CEO of Homeboy Recycling, puts it, “Here in California, we have two huge problems: Our landfills are overflowing, our prisons are overflowing. We believe we can solve both of these problems at the same time.”

She says, “Seven out of ten people who leave the California correctional facility return within three years. It’s not because they enjoyed their stay there. It’s because it is a broken system.”

And for her, the beauty of training previously incarcerated people to recycle electronics is that it reminds us that both the workers and the old devices still have value. It’s a message that we easily miss in a disposable world. Our prisons and jails can easily be treated as places to dispose of unwanted people, people treated much the same way we treat old electronics.

It is too easy to think of people who have committed crimes as people we can throw away. But that is not what the Christian story says. According to the Christian story, no-one reaches the point when we are worthless. Each of us is valuable to a loving God, no matter what. The story of the Lost Son in the Bible is a great illustration.

A young man tells his father that he is leaving home and he wants the inheritance due to him. He basically says, “Dad, I can’t wait for you to die. I want to get whatever is coming to me now.” Rather than argue with him, the father grants his request. The young man leaves home, goes to another country and spends all of the money on all the worst things. He is finally out of money and ends up trying to find work. He finds himself feeding food to pigs and hoping to eat the food they eat. He is poor, depressed, lonely and feeling guilty. And then he remembers home. He decides to hope maybe he can return. He remembers how loving his father had been. He decides to take a chance on that love. He rehearses the words that he thinks might work. “Father I have sinned against God and against you. Please take me home and treat me like one of your servants.” He figures that’s the best he deserves, and maybe the best his dad will give him. He travels back home, and as he’s approaching the house, his father sees him. His father goes running after him to welcome him home. The son can barely get his rehearsed speech out, when his father starts planning a party for him! That’s the kind of joy the father has in his son.

Father Greg Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries talks about God’s love for all of us that way. He says that God delights in us—that God is too busy loving us to have any time left for disapproval. Like the lost son, we can confidently turn from anything and find a loving God ready to welcome us home. Though we are infinitely more valuable than old electronic devices, we can find new life just like they can. That is our hope.

Sacrificing Everything. Without Even Trying.

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Taya Kyle, widow of “American Sniper,” Chris Kyle, delivered a solid, sane, and mostly logical critique of the recent Nike ad featuring NFL ex-quarterback Colin Kaepernick. Her critique is right on the money (accidental pun claimed). To the point: Kaepernick, the devout Christian, has not sacrificed “everything.” He has sacrificed, but the loss is nowhere close to “everything.”

She elaborates, saying that men like Pat Tilman, the devout atheist who left the NFL to enlist in the armed forces and then was killed (by “friendly” fire), sacrificed everything. She mentions other “warriors” who have lost their lives because of what they believe in.

She likens Kaepernick’s “sacrifice” of his career to her own career “sacrifice” in order to stay home with her children. I find it an awkward comparison, but her point is still made.

The argument is solid and important. Nike has perhaps overplayed by using the word “everything.” By so doing they have commercialized, sanitized, and sensationalized a legitimate cause.

But it would be absolutely wrong to let Nike’s marketing decision and Taya Kyle’s critique distract from that legitimate cause. We cannot forget that cause. We cannot forget that Kaepernick’s protest is also about lost lives. Taya Kyle ignores those lives.

A black boy with a toy is shot in the park. A black man is shot for open-carrying in an open-carry state. A black man is shot in the back. A black teen is shot in the back. A black man is killed by a policewoman invading the teen’s apartment. A black school-worker is shot while co-operating with the police during a routine traffic stop. A black woman mysteriously dies in police custody.

These people did not actively “sacrifice everything.” They did not calculate the risk and select sacrifice, like Kaepernick did, like Tilman did, and like so many others have done. They did not have the chance. No, they were simply going about their lives being black. And their lives were taken. They did lose EVERYTHING. For no reason. That is what the protest is about.

Something Lurking in the Gym

Last Saturday I almost came to blows with an African American dad while I watched my white grandson play pick-up basketball. I have written before about how race sometimes “lurks” in our interactions. This race-laden incident threatened to steal the joy and spirit of our regular Saturday mornings at the gym.

Some context: Every Saturday morning when my white wife, Laura; my white grandson, Damon; and I walk into Coleman Community Center, I am reminded of the history told to me by Doug Williams. Doug is a white administrator at a local state university. Years ago when I was out of work he agreed to meet with me for an informational interview. He ended up granting me way more than the 20 minutes I asked for.

Doug talked about growing up in the 1960s. He had graduated from Glencliff High School the year before the all-white school was forced to integrate. Doug told me about the time in his high school years that he received a phone call at home. His mother answered the call and hailed him to the corded phone in the kitchen. When Doug arrived in the kitchen, Mom, with her hand over the phone, whispered, “He says it’s Leroy.”

“Okay,” Doug said.

“Who’s Leroy?”

“I’ve told you about Leroy. We play basketball together.”

“Is he… a Negro?”

“Yes.”

“You never told me he was a Negro.”

“I didn’t know it mattered.”

Doug told me that during the segregated Glencliff/Coleman community of youth, the only place black teens and white teens interacted was in the gym at Coleman Community Center. The center was the place that Doug regularly played basketball with black guys.

The Glencliff/Coleman community has grown much more multicultural in more recent years. Glencliff High is an international center. Coleman Community Center also reflects that diversity…except in the gym.

When Laura, Damon and I arrive at the center on Saturday mornings, we observe a predictable scene in the gym. There are often single players each claiming one of the six goals, while being trained by a dad or a personal trainer. Players and trainers are all black.

Damon and I usually find an open goal and play one-on-one before others arrive, especially if Akam, the Kurdish eighth grader, hasn’t arrived yet. We might get in a game of two-on-two or three-on-three before the high schoolers and young men arrive. It varies week to week, most Saturdays, except for Damon and Akam, all of the gym-dwellers are African American.

Damon has earned the respect of all of the players. The boys have fun. There are the usual disputes about who knocked the ball out or whether someone was fouled. Most of the time the offender knows he is wrong, and sometimes laughter ensues. Disputes are resolved quickly; everyone just wants to get back to playing. And when the games are over, there are fist-bumps and high-fives all around and promises of “See you next week.”

Last week I was watching the boys play five-on-five. I looked up and saw a familiar African American dad, who had been coming with his son the past three weeks. In those weeks I had struck up conversations with him. We had recognized each other because I had taught his eighth grade son when the boy was a sweet first grader.

On this day I tapped the dad on the shoulder and said, “Hey.” He barely looked at me and grunted. A few minutes later he turned to me and started badmouthing Damon under the guise of “coaching.” The smirk on his face betrayed his real meaning. While his son strutted and taunted on the court, I decided to return (grand)parental fire (because I am such a calm and gracious guy). I commented on his son’s “attitude” on the court.

So it was ON. This dad is a big guy, and he thought (I assume) that if he abruptly moved closer to me while spewing, I would be intimidated. He didn’t know that I am both too old and too young to be intimidated. After a heated exchange of words, I eventually walked out of the gym.

When I came back with a calmer demeanor, the dad just started talking smack every time his son came up with a good play or Damon missed a shot. I was sitting behind and away from said dad, so he had to turn around to keep making his comments. I finally asked him to stop talking to me. He asserted his right to say whatever he wanted to. My loving wife encouraged me several times to not engage him at all.

The game ended, and his victorious son unleashed this lengthy angry taunt into the gym. It was unlike anything we’ve seen in the weeks we have been playing light-hearted Saturday morning pick-up basketball. Ignoring my wise wife, I turned to the dad and said, “That’s the attitude I’m talking about.” I honestly don’t remember what else transpired before we were up in each other’s faces, but a shouting match ensued.  And management came. I took another walk.

While outside I spoke to another African American dad, whom we had befriended in earlier weeks. One week he had asked Damon to play one-on-one offense so that his son could work on his defense. On this Saturday, I asked this dad if he had witnessed the scene I had just caused. He hadn’t. I apologized for it anyway. Then he said, “You know, in days like these it is disappointing when we start at EACH OTHER like this. It’s enough to have to deal with that treatment in general society. You would think that at least WE could keep it together.” He meant, of course “we black folk.” It was lament, not criticism.

The rest of the of the conversation was typical. We talked more about our boys and their basketball experiences. Then, newly calm, I returned to the gym.

The “my boy/your boy” conversation is one I have had with dozens of parents. Three weeks ago I launched into that conversation with Dad #1.  But whenever I complimented his kid, he criticized Damon.

So why was this dad all focused on Damon? He made no comments about any other kid out there. And in three weeks he and his son had become increasingly anti-social, and the son had become increasingly angry on the court. Aside from Damon’s obvious talent, I can think of only one reason he was singled out for this constant criticism. It was something lurking.

By the middle of the first five-on-five game last week, Damon didn’t want to play anymore, but, as he told his Meemaw, “I wasn’t gonna go out like that.”  He finished the game, and his team handily won the next game. Still Damon was disturbed.

I own my part in the drama. The following week the whole scenario occupied a lot of my thought life. I first apologized to Damon and then tried to encourage him, “We can’t let them steal the joy of our Saturday mornings. We do this for fun. Don’t let them take this from us.” But I had no idea how I could instruct my own emotions before the next Saturday. I did pray. I did consider whether we should show up at all. I did think of what I wanted to say to reconcile with this dad, but it would all be built on how wrong HE was. And I had already committed to a wise woman that I would not speak to the man at all.

I did go over the past three weeks in my mind trying to figure out what went wrong before I had decided to “return fire.” And why was I so inconsolable after the incident?

I think the discomfort was based in something more than immediate. It drew on the historical romance I had been told about Coleman/Glencliff. It was the sense that this place of peace, this place of community against the cultural odds, was being turned into a place of conflict. And the battle was engaged against me and my grandson for no respectable reason.

By week’s end, my emotional energy had dissipated and I had pictured for myself how I would act. First, I would get back out on the court myself. No-one can take the game too seriously when I am on the court.

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As it turned out dad and son didn’t show. I don’t think anyone spoke of them or of our incident. But there was a palpable relief hanging in the air. The boys were lighter than usual. They played hard, but they laughed as hard as they played. And there were fist-bumps and high-fives.