Tag: racism

Peace in the Park

Yet another coincidence. Opening my blog, this prompt was directed at me.

I feel like I need to say something about the statue being removed from Confederate/Springfield Park. I had no idea this was taking place. I think many people didn’t know. There was no uproar like the recent past of Mayor Curry’s term in office. Recently people fought hard to remove other statues honoring the Confederacy.

Some have compared it to honoring Hitler. That got responses. “How dare you!” But truth be known the whites were fighting for the right to enslave a race of people. To maintain the right to treat them like animals. To own them. To make money off of their labor. To violently whip them. To rape the women. To believe in White Supremacy. That is like Hitler. He believed he was of a superior race. Well, guess what? He wasn’t. He lost the war. His beliefs were wrong and the opposition prevailed.

Jacksonville is a hard headed city. Severely slow to change. For the most part it is Baptist. Evangelist. Continuing to boil the soup of racism. People will deny it – but

The statue needed to come down.

It was said, that maybe it could be placed in a cemetery, by the graves of soldiers who fought in the Civil War.

I thought of Gravely Hill where my ancestors are buried. Wonderful, historical, people who were branded miscreants an evil by a local writer. I was shocked. One Tommy gun toting gangster does not define the whole group. Not to mention, they were people of their time. This cat might be a bit prejudice as he touted his father as being like Jimmy Carter after having told a story numerous time about his father enjoying the story of a black man being killed. That is not like Jimmy Carter. Sorry.

We twist the past into the present. We color it with whatever Crayola we choose.

The statue is a woman holding a baby. She portrays the mother of the south. The Confederate South.

For one thing, that concrete Southern lady could not go there because the section my ancestors are buried in is historical. It is a part of Jacksonville public land. It’s on land that was once a plantation. It is as Southern as it gets. They were all Crackers by birth.

I cringe to think of that statue being there further prompting the fictitious idea that there was something good about slavery and white dominance.

But many do not see it like that. They continue to romance the idea of the south, with our Confederate Jasmine.

We have a distinct culture. Saying hello, nodding, hugging, fighting, and drinking sweet tea. No matter if we only went to the fifth grade or have a PhD. We are part of the United States. And that encompasses a large land mass. Separated by our cultures. In New York they hate the Puerto Ricans. Out west they are still circling the wagons. South West it the whites against the Mexicans. Every division of our country is divided by our pasts. Our culture is disappearing. Along with the statue all of our ways are being erased. And truth be known, there are many things about our way of being that I much prefer over anything northern.

It’s funny, most people that I meet from up North assume because of my Southern drawl, I am uneducated and untravelled. Ugh. Prejudices abound.

A fellow Westsider, portrayed my family as people who are low IQ and mocked our Whitehouse/Westside accent like we are toothless fools. Good Lord. One extreme to another.

We have ALL been through a lot. Things have changed. We were forced to change by affirmative action. We were forced to integrate.

I have beautiful stories of people my age who grew up in this era. I also can tell ugly stories.

Today as I am writing this. Having lived through the 64′ riots. Yes, I was a child but I remember them well. There is no way I am going to portray all of the black people as being good wonderful, minstrels in LaVilla minding their own business and all of the white people as being evil killers. That is a convoluted and twisted image to portray in this day and age. Yes, it will get you attention and sell your books. It will coincide with todays climate of opposition, separation and hate. Why take these painful steps climbing the stairs out of darkness, only for a hand to reach out and push us backwards.

I am for peace.

It’s much more difficult to walk a path of peace. Than to stir the pot of problems.

Take a look at Jacksonville. Because of affirmative action forced on us, fighting and scratching all the way, we have educators, firemen, policemen, city workers, meter readers, electricians, plumbers, who are people of color. We have neighbors of color. Many interracial marriages. ( Which by the way, produce the most beautiful babies you’ve ever seen.) This is not the old south. This is the new south and it’s going to get newer.

With people like Donna Deegan, our mayor, pulling us forward, the change is accelerating. Once again we’re feeling the pain, like babies cutting teeth. But it’s just another progressive step towards equanimity. Jacksonville is growing up.

One day it could very well, ALL be people of color. Does that mean we will all be happy, joyous and free? I don’t think so. People are people.

But in the meantime, I will not participate in the hate and denigration of all white people.

My race is human.

I am a Cracker by Birth / A redneck by default / A peace activist through reading, writing and education.

Personal Waste

I do not understand the New Gringos. But I have witnessed it over and over. No desire to assimilate into the culture of the country.

A ride to the beach use to be like a dream and now it’s a nightmare.

I don’t care to elaborate on this freaky manner that tourism and immigration (progress) has caused.

After surviving my life’s traumas I woke up to an unrecognizable world. But I am not “woke”. According to Trump the KKK are good people. Homeless people are sleeping on the sidewalks, dying from phentanol, and some people think all white people are bad and all black people are good.

I give up. I surrender. It’s best for me to work to have a good day and be kind to the people in front of me.

To provide details of the misery I have created for myself, would be stirring the cauldron. I can’t straighten this world out. Kimberly and Kristy are behaving like mean girls, but chances are they are oblivious to their ignorance. And Ellen can remember when. I do too. The change is horrific. The people on the beach are being bull dozed over. Pura vida.

I know my heart. I am not greedy or jealous of anyone. I don’t even understand those two character defects at the moment. I can’t imagine being angry at some poor woman trying to feed her kids. Or hurt some child; not wanting them to experience a lunch, in the school hours. I’m not fearful. That’s the worst. And the best.

The answer is meditation.

Crabs in a Big Brown Bucket

Meet Rafa. He has lived with all of his life until last night.

We are in Costa Rica wondering exactly what happened. But really we know. It’s gonna take a while to process.

Rafa’s Dad came to live with us over twenty years ago. He was living in a man camp. And kept getting fired from all of his jobs. I met him when a man building my fence asked to hire him. When I saw how Nestor held a hammer I knew why he got fired all of the time. I took the hammer from his hand. ‘It’s OK.”

He came to live with us. He got married. He had two children. We lived here like a family. Many things have occurred. We have been through a lot together.

Rafa graduated high school and wanted to go to college. I believe Rafa is an exceptional person with a high I Q.

His parents refuse to let him attend the University. We offered to pay for his tuition. He is now working as a laborer. He is now a laborer who belongs in academia. He wants to be in academia. I didn’t make this up for him.

His parents have moved to a Nicaraguan “hood”.

There is much racism here in Costa Rica. The general consensus is Nicas are not smart. Drunks. The women are loose. And they will never get anywhere. I have experienced a lot of racism dumped on this kid. And now I have seen it dumped on him by his own parents.

Unbelievable. They sincerely believe he needs to stay out of school. No education for Rafa.

Continue reading Crabs in a Big Brown Bucket

Black Bottom 3

Once upon a time. I took a friend to the swamp bank. It was green with algae. Ugly. Not like it use to be.

I invited a cousin. Beloved. 

We shared what we could. We answered questions. We wanted him (my new friend)  to get familiar with the past. The old days of Whitehouse/Westide. It’s fringe. It’s fun and it’s dark. It’s Southern Gothic. 

A lot was told. The Goat ( I call him that because of the stable life he has created for himself, his wife and his four daughters. He has grandchildren. He is a well known figure in the Westside community. Respected. ) made a statement about John Hysler giving the word to kill black men that were kidnapped and forced to work whiskey stills. 

The writer ran with it. He mistakenly touted stills on Old Gainseville Rd. He made up a neighborhood where the men were kidnapped from. It seems to me like these are important facts. In a story where much is left to the imagination, I cling to the known. In my opinion he made many errors. It was disappointing to me. He had no interest in us. As a matter of fact he was demeaning. As he is with most all Whitehouse/Westside people. And yet, I still call him friend.

Continue reading Black Bottom 3

Black Bottom

Out in the swamp, in Baldwin, Florida, under the earth, by a body of water, lay the bones of black men. Stolen from the streets of Jacksonville. Killed by vicious, backwoods moonshiners. Men who believed black people were like animals. Convinced they were animals. Put on this earth to be supportive of them. To provide a service; be it barking to protect, pulling a plow, or a source of transportation.

If they were of no use any longer. You kill ’em.

Now some people think killin means shootin. Not thinking, that if you want to kill a man, at an illegal whiskey operation, you don’t want to create an explosive sound. One that would draw attention to your egregious deed. You can slit their throat. Shove their face in the convenient mud. Suffocating their life’s energy. Laugh at their struggle. Why deprive yourself of the entertainment?

You could drown them in the creek and feed them to the gators. Save the time of diggin a grave. And you know those white, backwoods moonshiners didn’t do any digging. It would be a good guess those demoralized, threatened, tortured, helpless men, dug their own graves. Their flesh and bones long ago decayed. Now consumed by the swamp ooze that abounds in Florida.

Stagnant – missing – lost.

But all of this is an educated guess. We don’t know exactly who or how all of this happened. Pure evil murder.

But be sure it happened.

I am a Cracker by Birth – A Redneck by Default and a Peace Activist through reading, writing and education.

Hello, Old Friend

It’s 3:30 in the morning and the rain has woke me. I can’t help, but hear it’s relentlessness, on my tin roof. The sound of the rain brings joy to my heart. It promotes contemplation. It heals me. It washes the earth.

When I was young, on a Saturday afternoon, in the middle of this neighborhood, looking to score, at the local tavern, The Island Bar, I found myself surrounded by police cars, I was shocked to be white. It was so obvious. They were there to break up a fight, I was really wishing I was a different color. They looked at me, cutting their eyes, saying, “what the hell are you doing here?”

Continue reading Hello, Old Friend

Friends and Overgrown Children Who Don’t Know How to be Civil

I was in her apartment. It was a two bedroom, one bath, concrete hovel. It was navy housing. The war was going on and I loved to smoke pot and listen to Cat Stevens. I was in the company, of a stranger, strange neighbor.

She shared with me that her parents were in the KKK. She had been so proud, of her father in his robes. Attending rallies was the family pastime. She told me about the philosophies, of the KKK. They wanted to keep the white race white.

She boasted that her boyfriend, in 1964 was the National Leader of the KKK. She attended St. Augustine Rallies. She claimed they fed a black man, to the hogs. She laughed.

I was silent. I loved Cat Stevens. I was twelve.

I went to visit a relative, who worked in the Georgia education system. She was so proud of her job. She told me how stupid the black students were. The faculty just had to deal with them, but it was so difficult and a waste a time. My backbone straightened and I came down upon her with an intellectual vengeance. I showed her who was stupid.

I walked out, went home and rarely ever visited again. I was 36..

I had a friend that I admired. She was an artist and a middle school teacher. I went to her class, to see the students work. She let me know, which work was created by black children. She said they had zero creativity.

I could no longer be her friend. I was 40

I was close to an older woman, who told me her Daddy owned nigger town. She made the claim, that black people could only go so far in education. They couldn’t cut it. They would quit and give up. And she abhorred Venus Williams. She believed that Venus had destroyed women’s tennis. She was a highly respected and affluent member, of the Jacksonville community.

I stayed by her side, until her death. I was continually shocked at her class consciousness and racism. I am in my sixties.

I still like Cat Stevens

Racism, friends and family, and overgrown children who don’t know how to be civil.

Yes, for God’s sake, don’t ever speak up. Don’t loose it. Hold it inside. Sing a song. Look the other way. Take it on the chin. Pull yourselves up by the bootstraps. Dodge the bullet. Don’t throw water on the burning cross, that would be too uncivil.