The Never-Ending Battle . . . Over The Battle Flag . . .

Malcolm, my blogging buddy who runs the show over at Diversity Ink (and Pop Culture Dish, Presented by Malcolm), recently started a discussion about the Confederate flag.

In a separate post on Diversity Ink, are my thoughts on the subject. Even though I've taken the liberty of duplicating my remarks about the flag here in The Old School Mix, I hope you will take at peek at Malcolm's comments on the issue, as well as some of the other topics being discussed by the Diversity Ink contributors. As always, feel free to add your own opinions to the mix.

The first time I was moved to write about this subject was way back in 1989. My essay appeared as a guest column in The Memphis Commercial Appeal and was penned in response to a previous guest column by an individual, who, among other things, described the Confederate battle flag as a "symbol of a proud and honorable people."

While I acknowledged the writer's right to interpret the Confederate flag in a positive light, I shared my own reasons for not being able to do so. The following is a somewhat revised excerpt from my original essay, which also holds the honor of being my first published newspaper piece.

Flag Remains A Symbol of Oppression

by Lori D. Johnson

It is difficult to understand how people can disscuss the Civil War in terms of brave soldiers and battles fought without mentioning that not all of the ideals fought for were admirable. How does one embrace the Confederate flag without embracing the evil beliefs which prompted its creation?

As a Southerner, the Confederate flag is also a part of my heritage. But unlike Mr.____ , I detest it, just as conscientious individuals in Germany, South Africa and indeed all over the world, detest the symbols of Nazism and apartheid as symbols of oppression. For me, the flag does not represent hospitality or regional pride. Instead, it represents the Confederacy's efforts to preserve a caste system, a way of life that was wrong and unjust.

Yes, it is honorable for soldiers to fight and die for the causes they believe. While it is only fair that we acknowledge their sincerity and courageousness, in the same breath we must also condem their convictions when they uphold the degradation of other human beings as proper and righteous.

As an African American, I recoil at Mr. ____'s attempt to equate the battles of the Confederacy with those of the civil rights movement. The former was a struggle to protect the ill-gotten rights of a privileged few. The latter sought to guarantee the inalienable rights of all who choose to live in America and believe in its Constitution.

Let us not forget that the war is over and the South was defeated. The flag served its purpose and is entitled to a place in history. It is not entitled to a place on the flag poles of a country that strives to make real the promises of freedom, justice and equality for all.

As a woman, the flag symbolizes to me the Confederacy's approval of the exploitation and abuse of my gender. It did not wave to defend the honor and dignity of enslaved women and girls subjected to the desires of men who were not their husbands or chosen lovers. It cast no shadows upon the breeding of women like cattle. It did not rise to condem the bastardizing of children destined for the auction block and sold to the highest bidder.

As a human being, my perspective prevents me from ever interpreting the Confederate flag as anything but a symbol of oppression.

It is not my wish to forget the past. There are too many lessons yet to be learned. But what has the South to gain by giving odes to an ancient relic of a lost cause? The challenge of the present is setting forth a new course for the future. Let us create new symbols under which to unite and put away the old ones, which had caused so much pain, for so many, for too long.

A Vote For Change In 2008 . . .

I early voted yesterday. I live in North Carolina, one of those all-important "swing states" and folks here have been early voting since last week. Given all of the local new reports about the record turnout and having witnessed for myself the overflowing parking lot at the library when I intended to cast my vote, I knew to arrive early. So, even though the polling place didn't open until 11:00 am, I arrived at 9:30. It was good thinking on my part, because, sure enough, there was aleady a line of 15 or more people in front of me.

Patience is not one of my virtures. Most of my friends and family members know if they keep me waiting for too long without a damn good reason, I either leave or start (whatever it is) without their slow behinds. The last time I can remember waiting in a line with that many folks in front of me was for concerts tickets to see the R& B artist, Maxwell back in 2001. The main thing the Maxwell ticket line had going for it was constant and steady movement. In contraxt, the early voting line I joined yesterday at 9:30 was one that didn't lurch forward until 11:00.

Still, I resisted the urge to say, "later for this." No, I stood there with the others and waited, comforted by the fact that at least I'd arrived early enough to stand inside of the building as apposed to outside in the elements. My decision to endure the 1 and 1/2 hour wait was further affirmed when by 10am the line behind me was already outside and consisted of probably three times the number of people standing in front of me.

I first registered to vote shortly after my 18th birthday. Even though I haven't necessarily voted in every election since then, I've always taken the right to vote seriously. For me, it goes beyond "civic duty" or even the often touted, "folks died for your right to vote," line of reasoning.

I don't have any memories of the speeches, rallies, protests, marches, sit-ins, beatings and murders that took place during the Civil Rights movement. Even though I was living in Memphis, TN at the time, I was a preschooler when Martin Luther King was assassinated. All I can remember and never will forget from that chaotic and emotional period in our nation's history is the sight of my mother weeping . . . (see here for the full story)

But what I do know and fully appreciate is my history--my own personal history . . . my family's history . . . United States history as well as the history of African Americans in these United States. And I know it hasn't all been pretty and triumphant or the crystal stair (smile) that some might have us believe. There has been, on the other hand, plenty of inexcusable, unwarranted and unacknowledged horror, pain, struggle, poverty, depravation and inequality, the kind of wich doesn't necessarily fill me with pride for my country or fellow citizens.

Just this past weekend, a suspicious event at one of the local polling sites, prompted my husband and I talk to talk to our school-age son about the historic suppression of the Black vote, the Voting Rights Act of 1964 and the election tampering and tomfoolery that's occured in recent years in places like Ohio and Florida.

So, if you're waiting for me to say, "It doesn't matter who you vote for, as long as you vote," it ain't gonna happened (smile). Sorry, just because something is the nice, polite, politcally correct thing to say, doesn't make it a truth I'm willing to buy into. Nope, for me, the truth is, it does matter, this year more than ever. Our nation seems to be at a crossroads and I, for one, am fearful of what lurks at the end of the narrow and treacherous path we've been plodding and stumbling along for the past eight years . . . if not, all of my life and then some.

That's one of the main reasons why, yesterday, I was so willing and eager to wait in an unmoving line for however long it took to cast my vote . . . my vote for change. And if you really want to know the truth, some of us have been standing in this line for generations. When the time finally came for me to press that lever, don't think I didn't feel the presence of all those who dreamed of such a moment, but never lived to see it, standing right there beside me.

And later that evening, when my son arrived home from school and the first thing out of his mouth when he burst through the door was, "Mom, did you get to early vote?!" not only did his interest and enthusiasm make me smile, it made me view my relatively small sacrifice within the larger context of generations to come.

Slavery & The Civil War . . . A Personal Connection . . .

This past Saturday afternoon, instead of turning on The Best of Soul Train and spending an hour reliving the '70s, I tuned into a segment of CSPAN'S BOOKTV and allowed myself to be taken even further back in history. How far? Well, the US Civil War period, to be exact.

The program I made a point of watching this past Saturday on CSPAN's BookTV featured a segment on Andrew Ward and the material in his new book. Mr. Ward is an author & scholar who has researched the US Civil War recollections of former slaves and compiled some of his findings in a book entitled The Slaves' War: The Civil War in the Words of Former Slaves (Houghton Mifflin).

Mr. Ward's research is right down my alley. I love read, studying and listening to oral histories and only wish I had more time in which to immerse myself in such pursuits. One of the best things I ever did (years ago, before I got so darned busy and my story-telling grandmother got seriously ill) was sit down with my M'Deah and record her recollections of our family's history in an area of South Memphis (Whitehaven) known as Johnson Subdivision (Johnson Sub, for short). Without those cassette tape recordings, which I later transcribed, I may have never known about my own family's involvement in the Civil War.

As luck or fate would have it, my grandmother had lived in close proximity to her grandparents, interacted with them on a regular basis and knew a number of details about Margaret and Charlie Cannon, whom she affectionally referred to as "Grandma and Grandpa."

Charles Cannon (or Charlie Cannon as my grandmother called him), was a name I'd stumbled aross years later, long after my grandmother had passed and while I was in the public library one day, trying to find information on another one of my ancestors, the man and former slave said to have founded Johnson Sub, Prince Johnson. One of my great aunts had told me that Prince, who was her grandfather (and my great-great grandfather) had served in the Civil War. So, I'd been researching pension records trying to document Prince's service in the Union Army when I came across the pension record of a one Charles Cannon.

All of the details in the Colored Man's Application for Pension, which had been filed on April 11, 1927 (approximately sixty-two years after the Civil War) made me think he just might be the "Grandpa" or "Charlie Cannon" of whom my M'Deah had spoken so fondly, but I KNEW he was "my" Charlie when I saw his wife's name "Margaret."

But most shocking to me was that the five page document--witnessed, notarized and signed with his "X" contains extensive details of Charlie's service alongside his owner James (Jim) Cannon in the 154th Tennessee Infantry Regiment Company B of the Confederate Army.

Yes, y'all, my great-great grandfather, a former slave by the name of Charles Cannon served in the Confederate Army and two years before his death in 1929, drew a pension for his service. Truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction sometimes, ain't it?! (LOL).

What do I make of Charlie Cannon's service in the Confederate Army? Well, he was a SLAVE owned by a one James Cannon. To be honest, I don't really think poor Charlie had a choice in the matter, one way or the other. In any case, I do know his application for a pension in 1927 was based on absolute need. The application records his and Margaret's combined yearly gross income as one hundred dollars and their two room box house, which was situtated on a half acre of land had an assessed value of two hundred dollars.

So, are there any other weekend genealogist out there? If so, how far back can you trace your ancestors? Have you collected any oral histories? If not, what are you waiting for? (smile)

THE HISTORY LESSON . . . (More On Name-Calling) . . .

Back in high school, I had a favorite teacher, who, with his big grin, jerky movements and small, wiry frame, reminded me of a cricket--Jiminy Cricket to be precise. He was a older fellow whose wisdom and intellect I'd accepted without question until the day he opened his mouth and spat out the words, "Those dirty Japs!"

The first time I heard him say it, I was stunned. I thought to myself, Surely, I must had misheard him. I didn't want to believe that my favorite teacher, a man whom I'd admired for his quick wit and keen sense of humor, not to mention his command of American history, had actually made such an offense comment.

But it was true. Again and again, while covering the U.S. involvement in WWII, one of my high school teachers used the terms "Japs" and "dirty Japs" in reference to the Japanese. And each time he uttered the words, I squirmed in my seat, made uncomfortable not only by his use of the ethnic slur, but by my own hesitancy when it came to voicing my objections.

Some memories stay with one always.

No, I'm not Japanese. I'm not even Asian. (Well, as far as I know *smile* According to the hubby, I do sorta kinda look Asian when I'm asleep). By self-definition, I am an African American of the female persuasion. But if it matters, and in this instance it did, there was a young woman of obvious Asian ancestry in that particular high school history class. I don't recall her name. She and I weren't friends or even acquaintances. The possibility exists that she was no more Japanese that was I, as does the possibility that she took no offense to our teacher's comments. But the fact remains that we were both young women of color, bound together in one sense by our vulnerable status as the only two visible minorities in a classroom full of young, White students, and bound together in another sense by our silence.

I can't help but think we should have said something, if only to one another. Why didn't we? Was it youth? Shyness? Fear? Ambivalence? Embarrasment? Or was it simply too far an emotional distance for either of us to cross. Twenty-plus years later, I still don't know.

Looking back on the incident, I now find it both unnerving and somewhat ironic that the teacher in questin reminded me of a cricket. The truth is, I have a fear of crickets, a fear that involves my not knowing where the little critters are bound to jump next.

And indeed, it is a small jump from Jap to nigger/from faggot to coon/ from spic to jigaboo/

If I, as an African American, wait until the slur turns from slanty-eye bastard to big-lipped baboon, then have I not, in fact, waited too late? Of course, I have. I think even way back then, I somehow sensed it was so.

"In Germany they came first for the Communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't Communists. Then they came for the Jews and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics and I didn't speak up because I was Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time no one was left to speak up for me."

(Rev. Martin Niemoller, 1892-1984)

"If they take you in the morning, they will be coming for us that night."

(James Baldwin, 1924-1987)

And for those who still don't get it, the "History Lesson" here is--just as there is no safety in silence, there is no safety in drawing the lines of intervention around our own ethnic, racial, sexual or religious identities.

(Written while listening to Erykah Badu's "Honey," "The Healer" and "Master Teacher" from the CD entitled New Amerykah: Part One (4th World War). Check the refrain from "Master Teacher":

"What if there was no niggas only master teachers?

I stay woke . . ."

MEMPHIS & MARTIN . . . & THE INHERITANCE OF A DREAM

The Lorraine Motel

Memphis, 2004

from

Lori's Pic Collection

"Whenever you are engaged in work that serves humanity it has dignity and it has worth.

From MLK's speech at Mason Temple in Memphis, TN,

March 18,1968

While I was much too young (preschool age) to remember most of the details surrounding the event, I was living in Memphis during the Sanitation Workers' Strike of 1968. I want to say I remember hearing the now famous "Mountaintop Speech" on the radio the night before King was gunned down. For years, I've been able to conjure an all too vivid of image of myself as a little girl, listening to the rise and fall of that distinctive voice as I stared up at the ceiling in the darkened back bedroom of my grandparents' North Memphis home . . . Though, I must admit, the memory could very well be a false one that willed itself into creation over time.

But there is one thing I do remember with regards to that sad and brutal event--a memory equal in intensity only to the one I've held since I was three and the middle finger of my right hand was accidentally crushed in the unexpected slam of a car door.

On the day of MLK's funeral, rather than make herself comfortable on any of the available den furniture or even the floor, my mother choose to squeeze herself into my little red rocking chair. Positioned there, in front of our 16-inch black and white TV set, she sat and rocked with tears streaming down her face as she watched the slain civil rights leader's home-going. Barring the onset of Alzheimers, that image of my weeping mother is one I will surely carry with me to my own grave. As an adult, the image permits me to not only look back and see "the big picture" but feel it on a more emotional and personal level as well.

"If you bend your back, people can ride it. But if stand up straight, people can't ride your back. And that's what we did. We stood up straight."

Taylor Rodgers, an organizer with Local 1733 AFSCME & a participant in the Sanitation Workers' Stike of 1968

Due to my father's military career, most of my early years were spent moving in and out of Memphis. Shortly upon my return to the city in the early 80's, a friend I'd met at college (LeMoyne-Owen) drove me by the Lorraine Motel late one night. This was in the days just prior to the motel's subsequent resurrection as The National Civil Rights Museum, when it still looked like the run-down and abandoned building that it was . . . a place more befitting the likes of pimps and their two-bit hookers than a King and his humble entourage. Anyway, my friend talked about his memories of the '68 strike, when, if I'm not mistaken, he couldn't have been more than 9 or 10 years old. He said he'd never forget the sight of tanks rolling past his house. To him, it looked like something out of a movie. He talked about the confusion and outrage he felt at the city father's decision to send armored vehicles into his peaceful, working-class Black neighborhood in the hours/days after King's death.

My friend YN (who teaches at the small liberal arts college in Atlanta I mentioned in a previous post), was also living in Memphis during the Sanitation Workers' Strike of 1968. She was a preteen when she stumbled upon the "I AM A MAN" sign her father, a self-employed landscaper, had tucked away in a closet. I can still remember the sense of pride and awe I felt, as a 20-some year old, when my friend introduced me to her father and afforded me the opportunity to shake his hand.

It's all right to talk bout the new Jerusalem, but one day God's preacher must talk about the "new' New York, the "new" Atlanta, the "new" Philiadelphia, the "new" Los Angeles, the "new Memphis, Tennessee. This is what we have to do."

from MLK's "Mountaintop" Speech

at Mason Temple, in Memphis, TN

April 3, 1968

Not too long ago, a writer, whose work I admire, wrote a piece that implied Memphis harbors some sort of "collective guilt" over the death of MLK. As one born and nurtured in the Bluff City, not only do I respectfully disagree, but I must add, that even to suggest such is to exhibit an unfamilarity with either the old or the prevailing Black Memphis "mindset" (LOL). We simply aren't those kind of people. So, don't let the masks or the Hollywood distortions (via Craig Brewer's twisted lens or 3-6 Mafia's ignorant madness) fool you.

The truth is, we harbor about as much "collective guilt" over Martin's death as the African American residents of New Orleans do over the breeching of the levies. And why should we? The tragedy that occured in Memphis on April 4, 1968 was not of our making and could have just as easily happened in any other dark, neglected, impoverished corner of these United States.

The truth is, like so many others, I am but one generation removed from Black folks who farmed, slaughtered hogs, picked cotton, worked in the mills, toiled on the river . . . Southern born men and women of color, who after years of contributing to the wealth of this nation with their hands and their backs, like their mothers and fathers before them, stood their ground and said, "Not me boss. I ain't running . . . not North or nowhere else. I earned this here piece of the Delta. Done paid for it ten times over already with my blood and my sweat and my tears, same as all the kin who come before me . . ."

And while we certainly do salute Martin for coming to Memphis and sacrificing his life in the Struggle, I'm sorry, but guilt over his death is not even something we ought to feel. Righteous indignation, perhaps. But never guilt.

Recently, I heard a truly gifted poet/spoken word artist from New Orleans, a woman by the name of Sunni Patterson. Oh, this sister is fierce! Near the end of her piece, "We Made It" (check out the clip) she spins a bit of truth about how some of us have come to view death.

" . . . Death don't come in vain

Not for us to remain in enslaved

Or our spirits to remain in cages

It comes so we might be courageous

To fulfill our obligations to our God and all creation

And stand here in determination

Able to look Death in the face and say

We made it . . . We made it . . . We made it . . ."

from "We Made It" by Sunni Patterson New Orleans poet/spoken word artist