Can The United States of America overcome a seeming penchant for inflicting violence upon African Americans in various settings and situations, even in the year 2015?
America has never hesitated to use violence as a means of controlling African Americans. This should be no surprise when one considers the fact that America is a nation that was conceived in violence, the American Revolution. When there were major disagreements about the use of slavery, the nation resorted to violence and engaged in a bloody civil war. The nation has engaged in two world wars, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the invasion of Iraq, and the war in Afghanistan. There are still other violent conflicts that could be named.
Let’s take a look back in time and briefly summarize the black experience in this nation. It was an act of violence when African men and women were placed into slavery. It…
I stepped onto my my front porch last Friday night and remembered to breathe. My eyes were tearing up (righteous indignation and MCHM will make you cry), and my head was pounding. The stench in the air is something I’ll never forget. Licorice is a close approximation – sweet with a pungent bitter kick on the back of the palate – and it was everywhere.
There was a heavy rain falling and puffs of fog and low clouds made the air feel dense, even claustrophobic. Was I breathing chemical-laced syrup delivered by the rain or just “normal” air?
[Whatever that means in the Kanawha Valley.]
across the Elk River from the site of the spill on Jan. 12.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Wide awake with a chemical with a name I couldn’t pronounce stuck in my nose and mouth, my head hammering in the grip of a vicious migraine I remembered…
to inhale.
Exhale.
Then two things became very clear:
I was really angry. The illogical kind of brain-stem anger that helped our ancestors kill big animals with rocks and sticks.
And I love this place, even though at times, it drives me completely and utterly insane.
West Virginia was born out of the Civil War, and it seems we are still fighting it.
We say we need the jobs that industry brings to our state, but we carry a BIG chip on our shoulder when it comes to outsiders, who bring the jobs we say we need. We don’t own much of our own land. For decades, others come take what’s in the ground beneath our feet away from us. They keep the money. We keep the misery and stereotypes.
This is the angst of appalachian people. We all handle it differently. Some leave for good. Others try to. Some believe that their suffering serves a noble purpose. For most of my life I have distanced myself from my own roots.
A Civil War of the heart.
I was born just over the state line, barely on the north side of the Mason-Dixon Line, in Cumberland, Maryland. My family, like many West Virginia expats followed economic opportunity. The pursuit took us to southeastern Ohio and to the metropolitan New York City area, specifically to Mahopac, NY and Stamford, CT.
My mom never let us forget our West Virginia roots, though I didn’t really understand what that meant at the time. Robert C. Byrd’s “Mountain Fiddler” album made it through every move, and my parents said they would get back to West Virginia if they ever could. We grew up eating biscuits and mom often added white gravy to hers. A jar of bacon grease sat in the refrigerator next to the butter, and we could always count on my grandfather to take us to a ramp feed during our visits to Summersville when they were in season.
[Grandpa frying up ham in a black skillet with bacon grease and ramps. “Hmmm…fat man knows what to eat.”]
We would drive to Charleston and Huntington to visit THE AUNTS (they deserve their own blog post) and my cousins. In the back seat, us kids always had a contest to see if we could hold our breath through Nitro. This was the 70s, people, and let me tell you the smell of sulfur or whatever the hell they were making in the chemical valley in those days was horrible.
When my family moved back to the state in 1983, I was a full-blown Yankee, which did not play well with the locals. The best thing I can say about the 3 years I spent in high school in Clarksburg was that I learned early that the world can be cruel and unfair.
A tale two bands. In the photo on the left, i’m smiling (Westhill H.S., Stamford, CT, Fall 1982) on the right – I just look shell-shocked (W.I.H.S. Clarksburg, WV, Summer 1983) And I was.
I was desperate to leave, and I did. I vowed never to come back (note to the young: never say never, trust me on this). I wound up back in the state in the summer of 1996. This time, I moved to Charleston, near the country of my mother’s people. She told me “they” had really cleaned up the valley. It’s true that the smell had improved since my childhood.
But it was still there.
A few years later I read the essay my next door neighbor’s daughter was working on for college admission applications. “I’m trying to find a nice way to talk about how bad the pollution here is,” she told me. “But I can’t say it smells like burnt ass on a college application.”
Uh, yeah.
Walking home from work last Thursday afternoon, I thought about that description as I hurried home to get out of the air, which smelled worse than usual. I checked Twitter, and saw the Gazette’s first story.
Then I waited.
My husband was out of town, so it was just me, the golden retriever and our two cats. The dog knew something was up and spent most of the evening starting at me anxiously. I waited with many of the comforts of someone who lives in a first-world nation; internet, electricity, cable. I was warm and I had enough to eat.
West Virginians worked together pretty well this week. But we deserve answers. Photo taken in the East End Rite Aid, Charleston, WV on Saturday, Jan. 11. This store is walking distance from my house.
I waited for word on when my air and water might really be clean again.
I’m waiting for the corporation that is responsible to stand up and admit they really screwed this up. I want them to say they are really, really sorry.
I could wait a long time for all of this to happen.
There’s one thing I’m not waiting on.
The end of the Civil War in my heart. That’s over, friends.
I belong in West Virginia. My heart is hers.And I will fight for her.
I saw the white sneakers first. My dog approached them with cautious joy, tail flopping from side to side. Everybody is a potential friend as far as golden retrievers are concerned. The sneakers were attached to denim legs and they did not move. It was a good spot for sleep – by street standards anyway. Celebration Station is a 20 year old playground, with plenty of wooden cubbies for kids to play hide and seek in.
Some call the wooden maze home for several hours each night.
I had a friend ask me recently if “I felt safe,” living in the East End of Charleston. It’s true that my neighborhood is diverse in just about every way. The middle class, a few wealthy folks, and the poor are likely to rub elbows in the Rite Aid near my house. Though I’d say that cigarillos and tallboys of malt liquor are the drugs people pick up most there.
Moxxee Coffee, right across the street, is more of a doctor/young-ish professional hangout. Sitting in front of glowing screens, tapping away, becoming hyper-caffeinated on their drug of choice.
Celebration Station is my dog’s favorite place. He darts around the wooden playground equipment, favorite orange ball clenched in his jaws. His eyes dare me to catch him – I never do. Miles chooses when the game is over and stops; drops the ball and asks for a hug as only dogs can.
The playground is adjacent to the local elementary school, where Miles is a bona-fide celebrity. All the kids know him. “Miles, it’s Miles,” they shout, running up to pet him. Miles sits agreeably among them, soaking in their praise and pats on the head. He often looks at me as if to say: “Yeah, this is good. Of course I deserve it.”
And so, yesterday morning, when he spotted the white sneakers – before I did, of course – it made perfect sense that he would be happy. I wasn’t so sure. Which brings me back to my friend’s question, or rather, my answer.
I told her I wasn’t scared, and I remember being a little offended too. This NYC-area street girl be afraid in little ‘ol Charleston? C’mon. Not me.
But the truth is that I was a little scared in that moment. Not that this person would hurt me, or my dog, necessarily, but then again, I don’t react well to being woken up from a deep sleep. I was scared because this person leads a life very different from mine. I’ve had some tough experiences in my life – but I’ve always had a roof (in a house) over my head.
I was scared because the truth of that person’s life was something I didn’t really want to hear about on a Sunday morning. It might inconvenience me. On the other hand, I imagine what having a cup of coffee and some breakfast with this person would be like. What’s their story? How did they get to this point in their life? What has happened to them?
Perhaps my fear lies in the tension of the choice. I decided that Miles I needed to get back on Quarrier Street. “Let them sleep,” I thought to myself. Yeah, right.
For the rest of the day, I looked at people’s sneakers.
I think about a million different things to write about every day. My dog’s latest piano composition, the lady smoking cigarettes, pushing a cart while trudging down Quarrier Street, the guy who comes to our back door regularly looking for a few bucks so he can pick up his thorazine (i’m not kidding). While toiling away at my desk, using my best creative energy to write copy for work, I dream about the real writing I could be doing.
Then I sit at my desk at home and can’t think of a bloody thing. Part of it is that I want every word that flows from from my fingers pecking at little black keys to be perfect. Which I know is impossible – and yet, the voice says: “if you were really good, and talented, you wouldn’t have to try so damn hard.”
This is a great falsehood and I know it, but I still trap myself in the prison of perfection. And, so what happens? Nothing. I don’t write for fun or pleasure. I don’t take the time to just let the words come without judging myself.
Too wordy
Too many adverbs
Too many words nobody understands
Not good enough
The litany is endless.
I’ll never forget the first time I picked up a trombone. The slide made it different right away. I loved the fact that I had twist my torso at the right shoulder so I could extend the slide all the way out. “That’s too big for you,” the music teacher said. I was in 5th grade. I’ve played the trombone now for nearly thirty years – nothing motivates me more than being told that I can’t do something.
But to get pretty good at it, I spent hours practicing scales and etudes. I didn’t date in college much, because I had to practice. I also listened to any kind of music I could find, and heard it as an extension of music history class. I loved thinking about how Bach and Joy Division sounded alike (It’s called the chaconne or ciaconna). Safe to say I became quite the music nerd and it’s never really left me.
Years ago, I sat in a radio production booth and dreamed about a show that featured interview segments and performances with local musicians. The joy that came with producing that show also came with plenty of hiccups. I taught myself how to use audio editing software, buttoning sound snippets together in front of a grey monitor display until my wrist and shoulder ached.
My production has actually improved from listening to great stuff – and that’s true today more than ever. I’ve written over on my tumblr blog about one such show, Welcome to Nightvale.
When I was younger, I wanted desperately to be different from my parents. And I am. The dog lives inside and climbs on whatever furniture he wants, for example. Our cats are decidedly more indoor than out. My husband and I don’t have a perfect marriage (does anyone?), but it’s very solid. I’ve never owned a car for less than 5 years, and I’ve never bought a new one.
Then there’s the truth: I am very much like my folks. My house will always be “lived in” (that means messy). I am stubborn, just like my dad. Though I’m hesitant to ride on a boat with my father (a few really bad experiences scared me off), I love the water.
I love books and reading, like my mom. I was in her attic the other day and found the boxes of books that lined every house we grew up in. The original blue woven color of Nancy Drew mysteries were some of my mom’s first books, and she passed them on to me.
Mom dragged my brother, sister, and I to the organic health food store when we lived in Athens, Ohio in the mid 70s, long before such things were considered cool. When she tried serving us whole-wheat pasta, I reminded her (as only an 8-year old can), that “spaghetti is white!” And let’s not even talk about the time she tried to give us spaghetti squash with marinara sauce
Cold cucumbers soaked in white vinegar were my favorite snack after playing outside on a hot summer day. I still remember mom showing me how to pick cucumbers carefully, so my hands and arms didn’t break out from handling the plant’s prickly stalks. My mom was no gourmet cook, but she knew good food.
Now, I only eat whole-grain pasta, and I love vegetables. I’ve never craved sugar-coated cereal, except for a brief college obsession. All because of my mama.
Next up: The Pesky Ark, Part II: Mom’s Summer of ‘64 in Nashville
Been gone a long time, yet I can’t quite say goodbye to this blog. Since I’ve gone to work for the United Methodist Church, I’ve hung back from the music scene and public media.
I’m ready for that to change.
Part of the reason I stood back for awhile was that I needed the break. My years at West Virginia Public Broadcasting were great, especially the last few, when I had the opportunity to do some cool stuff with some really talented people.
In the end, though, I wanted to explore options that my role there would not have allowed me to. I wanted to get better at something I felt a natural affinity with: connecting story with an audience. When this is done with care and attention, the community wins – and grows – with the content. In the end, it’s something you make together. For me, there is nothing more rewarding than that.
The years at WEKU were incredible. I learned so much there about the other side of public media. PTFP grants, stretching the hell out of a budget, watching our work reach new platforms and audiences. Really cool stuff – and incredibly hard work.
The recent struggles at West Virginia Public Broadcasting, highlighted by Phil Kabler have provided a glimpse into the struggles I experienced – and a few that I haven’t.
Between the years 1995 and 2010, public television stations’ cash revenues rose, plateaued and then crashed with the 2008 recession, falling altogether 14 percent: down $291 million (adjusted 2010 dollars).
Public radio stations, meanwhile, expanded their revenue by 67 percent: up $355 million.
– From “Current”, the publication for public media, January 2012
I will save the reasons for public television’s demise for another post. It can be summed up in one sentence: Public television forgot it’s core values and mission a long time ago. All you have to do is watch it for a week during a fundraiser and you will get the idea. The bottom line: you can’t insult your audience by replacing shows like the The NewsHour, Frontline, and Nova with Yanni at Red Rocks and expect revenue and viewership to go up. People have been pointing this out for a long time.
With all due respect to women’s sports (I’m a woman, after all) – WVPB’s decision to air WVU women’s basketball is a classic example. When I heard about this decision – I knew desperation must be behind it. Anything to get viewers, even if it is completely incongruous with your mission.
Kabler’s column makes the case for why public media is still needed – and necessary – in American society:
Some would argue that Public Broadcasting is an anachronism in an age when there are multiple cable networks that provide similar programming, as well as dozens of satellite radio stations and innumerable Internet radio channels.
However, not having legislative coverage through public television’s outstanding “The Legislature Today” would be a major loss for viewers around the state.
Commercial TV stations in the Charleston-Huntington market generally do a poor job covering the Legislature and, presumably, coverage is even worse (or non-existent) on TV newscasts from stations in outlying cities.
– Phil Kabler, The Charleston Gazette, June 10, 2012
Quality local programming is a must for public media’s future – West Virginia Public Broadcasting has some great stuff on the air now. The Legislature Today and West Virginia Morning (on the radio side) are examples of local programs that serve West Virginians with high-quality content.
The problem is that WVPB simply doesn’t have the personnel at the production level to do more than they are in terms of local programming. There are some very talented, hard-working folks over there who make great content. Unfortunately, it appears that upper management at WVPB is out-of-touch with them, public media best practices, and the needs of their audience. Commercial broadcasting is driven by very different interests than public media – and right now WVPB’s top management has a commercial perspective in terms of how they run things.
That’s a problem.
Brave New World
Knowing who you are as a media organization has never been more important than it is right now. Digital and social platforms have transformed the industry, pushing us all into unfamiliar ground. It’s the classic challenge/opportunity coin. One public media outlet, Ideastream in Cleveland, Ohio, is adjusting to the new world.
Instead of a newsroom, there is a content center, where a staff of 18 prepares news and information and educational content for television, radio and the web, with support from another dozen technical and support staff. CEO Jerry Wareham, the former president and general manager of WVIZ-TV, and COO Kit Jensen, the former president and general manager of WCPN-FM, share a vision of multimedia community service. “I think this radio and TV stuff is so 20th century,” says Wareham, speaking of the traditional separate organizational structures of the services. Their numerous collaborations include Cleveland’s newspaper, The Plain Dealer, which partnered with ideastream on a four-year multimedia project“The Quiet Crisis” on the economic downturn in northeast Ohio.
Think of the possibilities this kind of silo-busting presents for the state of West Virginia.
I highly recommend Rethinking Public Media, a white paper written by Barbara Cochran in 2010 for more on the challenges and opportunities that face public media. The possibilities are there; in fact, they are limitless. And we as a society need it.
But, the leadership at the top must have a deep understanding and commitment to public service with the community. They must love and cherish public media and what it can do to enhance the lives of West Virginians.
I hope they do, because West Virginia needs and deserves a great public media service.
Ah, summer. Life finally slowing down for a bit after a rather manic spring season. And, I’m thinking it’s time for a change in terms of this blog. I’m trying out some new stuff tech-wise; starting spaces over on tumblr and typepad, which bills itself as a slightly more professional wordpress kinda thing. So far, I find it a bit more difficult to deal with, though that’s probably due to my familiarity with wordpress more than anything else. I also started to dabble around with google + (I was lucky enough to get an invite from a friend), and so far, it looks pretty cool.
First of all, both Google + (GP) and tumblr are minimalist compared to Facebook and WordPress. Google + has a cleaner overall interface, which I like. I also like the way GP organizes by ‘circles’. I refrain from posting certain things to my current FB page – because I don’t want everyone I’m ‘friends’ with on FB to see it. With GP, I can control who sees what. To be fair, FB has the ability to direct posts too, but the process is a bit less streamlined.
Tumblr is a blogging web space. Again, clean, simple, and good design are built in and easy to get started with. I like the fact that I can upload photos up to 10MG in size – something you cannot do on FB. I also like the link-friendly way tumblr allows users to share photos and other content. It allows for a more seamless posting experience, which is nice. Sometimes I spend way too much time adjusting photos/text alignment in wordpress…it’s frustrating. On the downside, I can only post one audio file per day, which could be troublesome if I began hyper-producing audio pieces again.
Both GP and tumblr reflect the changing digital platform space for content delivery. It will be interesting to see how they fare.
SpinBeat 