Meeting a Hero

One day back in the late 80's, a few of us helicopter pilot types met at the Hitching Post Saloon in Camarillo, California. We played pool and drank beer, but when we paused, my friend and coworker Roger said, "I want you to meet someone."

He led me to the end of the bar where an older gentleman sat sipping whiskey and reading the newspaper.
"Hal, this is R.J." I shook his hand, and was surprised by the strong grip from the slight, weathered-looking man.
"R.J. was one of the Tuskegee Airmen."

I was stunned. There, in front of me, was a man who played a part in military aviation history.

I sat with R.J. for a while. After a couple of beers, I get nosy, so I zeroed in on trying to understand what it was like to be a black man trying to become a pilot in a military where racism was still institutionalized.

The quiet, soft-spoken man had stories. Stories about how some of the training cadre made life unbearable for the Tuskegee cadets, and stories about how ill-received they were upon their deployment to combat.

But, there were also stories of training cadre and commanders who sought to compensate for the hatred the Tuskegee Airmen faced day in and day out. I asked R.J. if anything he encountered during his time as a black aviator had left him bitter.
"Not really," he said. "Except . . ."

He looked at me, seeming to weigh his words.

"They sent several of us to a different base by ground transportation to pick up some P-51's to ferry back to our base. There were only a few of us, with empty seats all around. About halfway there, we stopped at a camp to pick up some German P.O.W.'s. Even after everything we'd lived through, we were still shocked when we were ordered to stand to allow the Germans to sit."

R.J. paused, looking like he was somewhere far away, took a sip of whiskey, and met my eyes again.
"We were fighting for our country. They shouldn't have done that." He didn't look angry. He only looked sad.

He shook my hand again. I'd been dismissed, and I left R.J. alone with his whiskey, his newspaper, and his memories.

Race and the Media

I was heading home on an airline flight, having a engaging conversation with a man who was quite the history buff. We talked about the state of race relations in the United States. I remarked that as far as we'd come in our country, I still felt that it was harder to grow up black in America instead of white.

My friend for a flight ("McFriends" I call them) agreed. We talked about President Obama, and the significance of his election.

Then the conversation turned to the Civil War, and that's when my row mate decided we were no longer McFriends. I remarked that it appeared that Abraham Lincoln was no friend of the black man during his tenure as a congressman. I went on to state my belief that although Lincoln later embraced emancipation, he was not largely motivated to preserve the Union by a desire to end slavery. Instead, I said, it was mostly about money and power, as are most wars.

Not immediately noticing the chill that had come over our conversation, I dropped the real bomb.

"I think the state of race relations would be much better in our country had the Civil War never happened. Between the Civil War itself, and the way that the black man was used as a pawn against southern whites during Reconstruction, it set the stage for a hardened, institutionalized racism in the South that's still there."

The man looked at me with what seemed to be disgust.
"You know, until now, I wouldn't have fingered you as a racist."
"As far as I'm aware, I'm not a racist," I said.
"If you think we'd be better off had the Civil War never happened, you're a racist."

I tried to point out that I was only speaking in terms of how the Civil War and its aftermath affected race relations for generations to come, and that obviously there would have been a plethora of ramifications beyond race relations.

No matter. My McFriend was no longer my McFriend, and in his eyes, I might as well have flashed a KKK membership card.

I'm thinking about that encounter today after reading Bob Barbanes' blog post regarding the George Zimmerman/Trayvon Martin affair. It appears that the "mainsteam media" has followed the lead of Fox News, deciding to discard the truth to build a big news story.

My God, I hope I never have to take another person's life while defending myself or my family. I remember talking to a retired cop who'd once shot and killed a young man who'd robbed a liquor store, and even though he was a Vietnam veteran, it was evident that the shooting would haunt that man for life.

But I've also had this thought: "If it ever happens, I hope the bad guy is white."

Maybe, in your eyes, that makes me a racist. I think of it as facing reality.

(Thanks to Bob for the link to NBC's apology for their "mistake.")

Reflecting on a Past Resolution

The New Year's resolution I made and broke this year was the first real resolution I've made in some time.

In fact, the last one I made was about twenty years ago. I know that because it was before Rhonda and I got married.

I realized that I was getting into the unsavory habit of talking about people behind their backs, and it dawned on me I was getting so bad about it that I could have listed backbiting as a hobby.

So, my early-nineties New Year's resolution: "I will not talk about people behind their backs."

Unlike my recent resolution concerning my writing habits, I kept that resolution faithfully, for two months.

After two months, I decided to give up on holding to my resolution. Why? Well, EVERYBODY in the work place started irritating the crap out of me. When someone offered a "good morning," I more often than not wanted to snarl in response. You would have thought I'd given up coffee or something.

So, I went back to talking about people behind their backs, albeit more judiciously. It's an unsavory, low-minded habit, yep.

But in my case, it acts as a relief valve, and makes being civil to assholes more bearable.

One Resolution Blown to Hell

Well, my New Year's resolution to write six hours a week hasn't come even close to fruition. In fact, Since the end of January, I doubt I've averaged six minutes a week.

I've never really obsessed over getting older. I really don't feel much different than I did twenty years ago; aging so far has brought more positives than minuses.

But now, halfway through my fifties, I'm struck with how time is getting more precious, whether I have one year or forty left on this earth. I'm struck with how much living I've done inside my head, and not engaged with the world in the here and now.

My job takes me away from home, and when I'm away, I grieve over every lost hug, every laugh, every warm moment with my wife and son lost to those wanderings inside my head.

Writing is part of that world, that world inside my head. Sometimes I think it detracts from the riches of my life instead of adding to it. Before I can truly engage with writing as a life journey, I'll have to make peace with the feeling that it could be a detour away from what really matters.

I'm not a writer. I'm a guy who writes now and then.

Will that change? I don't know. I'll have to get back to you on that one.