Of Old Statues and Racial Pain

It was my intention this evening to just put a pause on my journaling because we were leaving on a trip to Arkansas. Anna's sister and brother in law are relocating there and well it would not do but for us to stuff ourselves in a car for 12 hours to make the trek.

So, as we began our little Hobbit journey, we looked in the rear view window to wave goodbye to the short nosed busy body with the ruffled feathers peaking over the hedge. Her feathers always seem to be ruffled about something or someone.

As we sailed haltingly down the interstate 35 without any significant traffic because of COVID-19---wait did I actually say that? The traffic was horrible and people were no longer thinking about COVID-19. Masks were cast recklessly aside and folks were running headlong into an impending re-occurance of the disaster we were not completely free of.

Anna and I were chatting and talking clients, cases, challenges and the things of our practices. That is what therapists do—at least that is what we do. But having caught up we passed by West,Texas and I was reminded of the tragedy that befell them. I thought I remembered the explosion that leveled the town was actually started by a volunteer fireman trying to help the department raise their budget.

Growing up in Odessa, I was not exposed to a lot of things, and exposed more than healthy to some seriously carcinogenic oils and odors. However, Volunteer Fire Departments were something of which I had no knowledge or exposure to. Our firefighters were city employees, stationed at firehouses around the city and when they took off sirens and barking dogs had us looking every direction to make sure we were not going to be run over by the professionals. It wasn't until my first year at Odessa College, I heard and learned about Volunteer Fire Departments. A new friend at the Baptist Student Union was from Notrees(You got it because there were—wait for it—no trees. Our Boy Scout troop actually did a camp out at Notrees and from that day forward, I refused to pray for my scout leader who subjected us to such torture. This friend noted with pride he was a member of the Volunteer Fire Department. I responded with a quizzical look and said, “Volunteer Fire Department? What is that?” A conversation ensued in which he regaled me about some of his adventures working with the VFD. I have forgotten most of his comments except when he told me, “Our motto is 'We have never lost a lot yet.'” We laughed, I remembered.

Imagine my surprise in the years to come at least two communities where I pastored had volunteer fire departments. Our last residence was in a community with VFDs. One of the interesting features of this venerable institution was that often they were funded by the County Commissioners based upon the fire calls they responded to. So occasionally, a VFD person would take it upon himself(always a man) to set a few fires to help out the funding of the department. I sort of think about that in the political climate right now in America. We have a great “fire starter” but a less successful “fire extinguisher,” and in the process does great harm. So to distract for the miserable job of containing the mess, he sets another fire as a distraction to the one he was unable to control.

The other random thought I had traveling down I35 was the uproar over Confederate heroes memorialized in statues placed in public places most often in the South. It reminded me of a Member Care trip Anna and I made to see all our families scattered through out Eastern Europe. One family was in Hungary right outside Budapest. The visit with the family was memorable, as were the sights of Buda on the one side of the Danube and Pest on the other side. It was on one side of the Danube we were able to look across at the Hungarian Parliament Buildings. This incredible sight looked for Anna and I straight out of the Lord of the Rings saga. Somewhere in being shuttled from place to place, our hosts pointed out a road that went to a statuary park where all the heroes of Communist era's statues had been relocated to.

I don't believe whites can fully appreciate what the trappings of the old South do to African Americans. It seems the society has not moved on, has not left behind a dark, dark period in the history of this nation that kept African American descendants as slaves. It is as if, nothing had really changed and so these symbols flaunted with such pride and nostalgia are intentionally done to hurt those who were most vulnerable to slavery. These are not empty symbols, empty names, meaningless statues, these are a history of injustice and oppression.

All of that is to say, let the Hungarians influence us. Gather all the statues in each state, designate a park of some kind where these are displayed for those who want to come and see. Remove them from public spaces that are supposed to invite all to enjoy the space. It would be a huge step toward repentance and reconciliation which would not go unnoticed.

Wash you hands, mind the gap—even in Arkansas, and be kind.