Thursday, December 22, 2022

LONG HAIR





 

                                     

 

Our hair grew, and our hearts wilted. 

We took beauty and filled it with drugs until emaciated,

We found ourselves lying broken in the dark.

All of it seemed a bit funny yet the laughter bled,

Into a hollow place.

Gray now and wondering, I work to pay penance,

Yet the end will not come.

Arrogant still, I refuse to forgive us … forgive myself.

I’ve seen purgatory and it does not want to let me go.

Monday, December 12, 2022

Jesus Freaks

 

It was my senior year in High School. We were the last class that was not going to be “bussed” as per the new federal law. Throughout the country there had been riots and marches. The borough of Watts in LA had been burned, Kent State, Selma, spitting on soldiers returning from Vietnam. It seemed as if the whole country was on fire.

Things had gotten tense at school until one day it all came to a head. Fights started on the commons area. Before it was over students had spilled out of classes to join the fray. Anger and hate were like a poisonous gas

Administration, school security and eventually local police managed to restore some order and get folks back to class after a couple of hours. That night word began to travel that the next day some were bringing weapons. That was before the propagation of firearms among young folks but knives, chains and all manner of objects were at hand. Word was to look out for girls hiding sharpened hair picks in their afros.

Lunch came with some scattered fights in the halls until everyone was again gathered on the concrete commons area; whites on one side, blacks the other. The only exception was the “Jesus Freaks” sitting on the grass where they always were. They were sort of our original hippies; soiled blue jeans, vests, long hair.

They were tolerated because they never bothered anybody. They’d just play guitars and sing folk songs, so we hardly noticed them anymore. It was a “peace and love” thing.

You could feel the tension rising. There was a lot of glaring and balled up fists. Some began to shout profanities and try to goad one another into an altercation.

I was on high alert, watching everything, tensed, ready. Then out of the corner of my eye a tall thin “Jesus Freak” named Pat, sat his guitar in the case lying open on the grass and strode toward the black crowd at the top of the steps across the common.

He gestured for someone there to come to him. A petite black girl in an Indian cotton blouse and bell bottom blue jeans walked down a couple of steps. Pat turned and stooped and the girl sort of shimmied up onto his shoulders. He walked back toward his buddies. They all stood. One picked up Pat’s guitar and began playing that old camping favorite, “Kumbaya.” No kidding … freakin’ “Kumbaya”. They started singing. You could hear the girl’s clear soprano above it all as Pat turned and faced the crowd. A couple of the hippies headed towards the black crowd and students there joined them to walk back onto the grass singing, back slapping, punching each other on the shoulder.

Across the concrete no man’s land, you could see confusion. One guy shouted, “to hell with this,” and stomped away. Gazes began to soften. Heads began to hang. Weapons were pushed back down into pockets. A white football player in his team jersey started walking toward the black crowd, toward a fellow football player. They both reached out their hands and shook.

At that point many started to walk into the void to shake hands and hug, laugh and sing so that before long there was a joyful noise, people on shoulders, some sitting on the steps together hugging …  crying.

Unlike the day before there was no intercom announcement to return to class. When the bell rang. The Jesus Freaks gathered their stuff and began to head that way. Most followed.

Other than a few isolated incidents there were no more riots at my school. All the assemblies and counseling, all the newsletters and announcements and newspaper articles … none of it, had made the slightest difference until Pat stood up and crossed that barrier.

That’s the day I learned about a different kind of courage. The kind that can change the world. Alone, striding across the grass that one thin guy changed OUR world just like another thin guy changed the ENTIRE world two thousand years ago.

We looked at Jesus Freaks different after that.

The irony that Pat looked like the Jesus of our Bibles, on our walls, did not escape me. Here now during this season of Advent as we wait for Christ’s coming, I remember. When Pat stood that day, we were all witness to the restoring birth of Christ in our hearts.

All the hate was dissolved into love. (Even though we didn’t want to call it that) That’s what this season means to me. We are renewed in the light that dwells in our hearts. We are reminded of that glowing baby swaddled in the manger come to save us … come to heal all that separates us from the Divine light that is our Creator

 Come to show us how to live.

 

In Christ’s name we pray,

Friday, September 16, 2022

BRAVERY

 

   


                                                                  

 My son rode the yellow school bus in grade school. He was 5th or 6th grade when we got a call to come to the school. There had been an altercation on the bus. A girl 10- 15 pounds heavier than him had gotten mad and attacked him.

 I’m rather old school. I figure if someone attacks you it’s game on so I’m thinking he’s at least been suspended.

“Where do we pick him up then?” I ask.

No Mr. Hicks, he’s in class. There’s no reason at all for us to reprimand or punish him,” the principal says. “that’s not why we called you here at all. The girl has been suspended for attacking him, but you see he refused to fight back.”

Stunned I mutter, “What the hell?”

“We asked him why not and he said his Mom told him to never hit a guwell.” Him and his twin brother pronounced girl this way. Must say I kind of hated it when it faded.

“We asked you to come in, so we could tell you in person what a fine young boy you have.”

I was born in the fifties. Bottom line, someone attacks you, especially someone bigger, you go to it. I was also taught not to hit girls though. I left confused.

His Mom admonished me for my rant about defending yourself.

When I got home from work, he was in his room. I went in. He was sprawled on the bed reading a schoolbook. I sat down beside him. He gazed up with those big chocolate eyes like his Mom’s. 

“Hey Dad! How’s it going?”

He’s got a scratch on his forehead and a budding bruise on his cheekbone. My blood rises as I tousle his hair.

“Understand you had a bit of a tough day, Sport.”

“Ah, it wasn’t so bad. She was probably mad at something else. We usually get along fine. Actually, I get along with her better than most.”

Seeing he’s ok, I go to take a shower. Looking in the mirror I see a guy that has spent a lifetime scrapping one way or another and for the first time ever I’m thinking maybe something’s off. I was in a few scrapes on the school bus back in the day. Granted it was never with a girl but 10-15 pounds is a lot.

Then it hits me. I always figured it took courage to fight. In that moment I thought of all those kids watching as she pummeled him. He’s no sissy and had his share of scuffles but he just took it in front of everybody.

Then I hear the guy in the mirror say, “I’m thinking that’s about as courageous as it gets.”