Month: July 2020

There Is Hope

Published by mhelbert on July 15, 2020

I opened my eyes on the horizon before me. The path that I walked led inexorably toward a reckoning. While I could not foresee all that lay beyond my vision, my mind’s eye caught snippets and scraps of the possibilities.

I was clearly aware that injustice had engrafted itself upon and within the very fabric of our shared reality. Powers that insinuated themselves as Masters of Destiny flowed into our culture as deadly gas permeates even the very walls that we try to hide behind.
So blind had we become to even the existence of these Powers that they could reach out and touch us without any nerve conducting the pressure to our conscious minds.

Yet, here I am.
So many years later looking upon the wreckage of dreams unseen; hope unrealized.
For the World that we inhabit is a world of our own creation.
It has been built brick by brick. The mortar mixed with the blood of the innocent.
The constructs of Race, Gender, and Class form the superstructure of this World.
The steel girders welded and riveted together in order to bear the weight of those Powers.

And yet, here we are today seeking to put a new facade on that structure. Powerwash the block and marble that reflects the Sun and creates a spectacle of beauty and truth.
Black Lives Matter.
Yes, they do.
The Glass ceilings that separate us by Gender, that hold Women in thrall to man-made servitude must be shattered.
Those enslaved by poverty, both economic and of the soul, cry out for emancipation.

There is a thing that Augustine, that august Bishop of Hippo once named. As he looked around at his World he saw the many Powers that existed even then. He pronounced judgment on them and named them:
Original Sin.
While his attempt to cast the Light of God on what he believed was humanity’s underlying curse, he was, alas, wide of the mark.
For the Original Sin that he saw was that of Innocent Humanity turning its back on the Paradise and Blessing of God.
No, Humanity has never been innocent.
In one version of the story when God announced that Humanity was to be created, the Heavenly retinue cried out,
“No, no, no!”
They knew that humans would be disobedient and headstrong and muck up the Very Good Creation.
Yet, God told them that they were correct. But,God would provide a way of deliverance.
God declared that all of the Cosmos would rejoice when Humanity came into its inheritance.
That inheritance is to share in the Reign of Jesus who is the King above all kings.

I saw in this that the Powers believed that they had all of the strength and wisdom necessary to make them invincible to all of those who would seek to usurp their authority.
They held Spirits of Politics, Economy, Culture, and all of the lesser gods in their hands.
“Nothing can stand against our might,” they cried!

Yet, in the depths of the hearts of the Slaves a spark burned brightly.
The Heart of God, that is Jesus, had been the point of ignition for these lights that burned within the humble breasts of all of these People.
And soon, a great conflagration had erupted.
It was a fire without heat that did not consume.
Within it was the Voice of the Almighty who proclaimed judgment against the Powers.
Their might was thrown down and destroyed.

A nice story, eh?
I could end it with,
“And they lived happily ever after.”

The reality IS that the might and strength of the Powers have been cast down.
Yet, the structure remains to this day.
It is this structure that is yet to be dismantled and hauled out to sea where it may be useful as a haunt for fish.
Then, perhaps, we will all find freedom.
Until then, we must continue to let the fire that has kindled within us grow. We fan those flames as we march and sing and hold each other up, not simply as equals, but as Sisters and Brothers with Love and Respect and Honor.

The good news is that the Powers have been disarmed.
The better news is that we are ABLE to stand against the structure that the Powers thought was too strong to fail.
It has.
Now we must work to tear it down.

Tuesday Morning Musing_7-14-2020 Version

Published by mhelbert on July 14, 2020

Call it Information Overload.
Call it stuck in the News Cycle.
Call it George.
Whatever it’s called, it has caused my brain to be constipated.

Eyes have not seen; Ears have not heard all of the crap floating around in the air.
Well, maybe that’s not entirely accurate.
After all, there is truly nothing new Under the Sun.

But, all at once?
I find that I must bore a hole in the back of my brain in order to let some of that stuff that’s clogging up the neural pathways to leak out.
I had a Bag-O-Poop stuck to my belly to catch and dispose of the waste.
Now, I need one of those to stick to my head to catch the crap that I must allow to escape.

To wear a mask, or to NOT wear a mask.
That is the question.

Do Black Lives REALLY Matter?

How many verifiable lies have flowed from the halls of power today?

The Russians did WHAT?!?

How many people died in the last 24 hours from Covid?

Are those our local police? Or, is the the local Militia?

Who to trust; who to listen to?

Am I stuck in an echo chamber in which the same ideas that I hold simply bounce and rebound around the walls until I am lulled into a stupor, a complacency that renders me useless?

At what point must I scream,
ENOUGH?!?!?

I don’t know.
Truly, I don’t.

So many thoughts about Justice and what it might look like in our culture.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandia….Wait…
No, Where in the World is God?
Has the Holy Spirit gone to Jamaica for a vacation and a sip of rum?
Where are the people who claim to follow Jesus?
You know, the ones who have stood up at the altar with tears streaming down their faces calling out and professing their personal fealty to the King of kings?

All is silent.

All is calm.

Except for my soul.

It twists and turns trying to see the promised redemption of the Cosmos.
It cries out to Yahweh in hopes of an answer; a whisper of hope.

It is beyond my strength to sit and do nothing, though.
For me that would be to seriously Miss the Mark and fall short of the Glory that God prepared for all of us to share in.
But, I must admit that I am tired.
My brain is saturated.
I don’t know where or how to start to release all that is pent up within those Little Gray Cells.
Perhaps, this is a start.
Just maybe simply sitting and throwing words up in the air to see where they may fall will begin a cascade of something meaningful.

Or, maybe I’m just kidding myself.

We’ll see.

Color Blind?

Published by mhelbert on July 6, 2020

Last week I wrote how my Dad reacted to the murder of MLK.
My Dad grew up in a small town where there were few, if any, African Americans.
He was a child of his time.
Jim Crow was still the rule of the Land, if not the actual Law.
Blacks were viewed not only as “Other,” but as “Less Than.”
Outside of a few city slicker, bleeding hearts no one even thought twice about it.
Most folks were like my Dad simply trying to get their piece of the American Pie.
They really had no time to think about things like Equal Rights and Red Lining.
Hell, I’m pretty sure my Dad went to his grave having never heard of Red Lining!
No one cared.
Period.
They had their own worries and concerns.
“Blacks? Who cares? Let them worry about themselves. That is, as long as they don’t show up in my neighborhood!”

My first contact with Blacks was when I was a very young child. I lived in a lily-white world. Except, on garbage day.
That’s when the Negroes came down our street with the garbage truck to collect the stuff that we no longer wanted.
The Garbage.
Imagine my young, white mind seeing this.
My dad went to work somewhere magical every day.
Negroes collect garbage.

Of course, my parents never said anything to dispel that thought.
As far as they were concerned my observations were spot on.
Negroes collect garbage.

Throughout my youth I never had any other real contact with African Americans.
Oh, yeah, they showed up on the news fairly regularly.
But, with Dad’s commentary in my ear, there were no positive images seen or understood.

That is, until Music.

I remember the first time I heard “Green Onions” by Booker T. & the MG’s.
Holy Shit!
What was that sound?
Do you feel that?

First the ears, then the eyes Opened!

Later, who’s that guy with the ‘fro?
Jimi Who?
Oh. My. God.
Is that a guitar?

Mind. Blown.

The circuits in my brain began to search for new pathways to describe and explain the cognitive dissonance that I experienced.
I had always heard that Blacks were something, (note “something,” not “someone”), to be at best ignored. They had no talent or ability that would interest a white person.

But, Bloody Hell!
That guy could Play!

I picked up B.B King, and Albert King.
Fats Domino and, of course, the King of Soul…James Brown.
(My Dad had no use for Brown. He referred to him as a Screaming N-R.)

Once on a journey to the hinterland of Cleveland Public Hall to relish the sweet sounds and harmonies of Three Dog Night, I heard nature’s call. When I got to the Relief Portal I found that all of the stalls had a coin slot on them. So, now it costs a buck for a coke and a quarter to get rid of it. They had us coming and going.
However, one young man, about 6 feet tall and ebony of hue, wearing a sheepskin vest and a wide-brimmed hat held the door open for me. “No way someone should have to pay to piss.”

More of the instilled hatred that my Father tried to pass on to me was flushed away.

Yet, my destiny seemed to be in following my white forebears through life. I got a job with a mostly white business. That business busied me for the next 40+ years. I had limited contact with folks who did not look like me.
I found myself engulfed in the cultural tsunami that was Ronnie Reagan.
Yes, I have repented of my youthful foolishness. My back striped from self-flagellation.
But, the mantra of that time was, that nothing was more important than the economy. And, that economy is ‘Color-Blind.’
That meant that everyone and anyone had equal access to the same prosperity. All you had to do was work hard at it.
See!
Color Blind!

Unless, of course, you were one of those Welfare Mothers who became baby factories for no other reason than to suckle on the Government Teet.
Or, you were one of those crack head, absentee fathers who stuck his dark wick into any willing receptacle. Of which, there were apparently an endless supply. (See Welfare Mother.)

No. Racism didn’t die when the laws changed.
White folks thought it did.
That’s why white folks invented the term Color Blind.
You see, Lady Justice wears a blindfold. So, if the Law says ‘Equal,’ then that means that 400 years of oppression suddenly vanishes. Just like that White Jeannie with the skimpy harem outfit and the blink and nod thing. Gone!

Now that I’m older, so much older…
I see that the only color that white folks are blind to is White.
Yeah, I know that technically White is the absence of all color, but play along.

Who was it that affixed the moniker “Red Man” to indigenous Americans?
What group of people colored the Asian “Yellow”?
What enlightened culture labeled an entire continent, “The Dark Continent”?
Oh, you thought that was because of the deep, dark jungle?
Yeah, probably not entirely.

White people, the squeaky-clean, sparkling progenitors of everything good and worthwhile in the world have done more to demean and destroy anyone, or any culture, that may seem to set them in a poor light.
White folks can’t stand to be “Losers” or “Also Rans” or anything less than King of the Hill.

But, in more ways than we care to admit.

We are.

Actually, that pretty much sums this up.

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Musing on a Thursday Morning in July

Published by mhelbert on July 2, 2020

I’m not really sure when it all began. I suppose part of it was when my elementary school teachers started telling my Mother the myth of my under-achieving abilities.
“He’s not living up to his potential,” they all agreed.
Yet, none of them could seem to tell us what that potential was. It was an elusive Olympus that created a legend of gold flowing from my mind only to be flushed away as so much waste after too many baked beans.
Legends die hard, though.
You see, even though the adult experts in my life told the myth, the results told a different tale. If I was indeed squandering this God-Given Gift, then why was I still in the upper 98th percentile on all their guiding metrics? Why did those quarterly reports of every student’s academic worth constantly contain the only vowel allowed?
I could coast and still bring the gold.
Yet, I was never able to make the Powers happy.

I did have one or two teachers throughout who thought that they could play the game better than I could. One, in particular, thought that by giving me and incomplete in his class would awaken the hidden genius within. So, even though I scored the highest of anyone he had ever taught on the season-ending Final Exam, he made good on that with a great big “I.”
So, I figured, I’ll show him. I signed up for his class the following year.
And, proceeded to receive another “I” for Idiot.
Not even that stopped me. I graduated well above average in my class in spite of doing only about half of the work.
Maybe they pitied kids like me.

Part of my issue, well maybe, more than part, was my inability to respect authority. I was a rebel from the beginning. I viewed most rules as mere suggestions. They were not meant to be bent or broken. They were simply beneath my consideration. Especially, the ones that made on sense other than, “because I told you so.”
This attitude could have cost me dearly. But, I also developed an ability to speak the language. My dad had a sign at his desk where he worked that read, “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, then Baffle them with Bullshit.”
I found that I was able to do both.
Not a great combination for someone with a larger than life sense of Self.

But, that wasn’t really an accurate assessment.

I was, (and Am), extremely insecure. I developed the persona of a rebel thinker mostly because no one else at that point in my life had staked out that patch of real estate.
I could hold my own with anyone who thought that they could actually reason with me. The ones that I had problems with were the people who wore their Bullshit Monitors. They didn’t speak my language at all. So, we developed a kind of mutual understanding. I wouldn’t BS them; they wouldn’t kick my ass. That worked pretty well.

As I grew older I met others who were far more human than me. I was just a little shit who could talk his way out of a beating. These others, who stood head and shoulders above me in awareness, were aloof to all of the petty crap that I tended to wallow around in. These were the ones who had read about the “Bay of Pigs,” and who knew about Jerry Reuben and Abby Hoffman. They were the intellectuals who were “woke” long before that term meant something other than what we all did in the mornings. They were the people who understood what that first “Moratorium” was about.

I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out how to get a girl to like me. I joined a band when I was 12. I was the rhythm guitarist. Which in my mind meant, Second Fiddle. For someone who had achieved greatness in his own mind, that was simply not going to fly. So, I left that band and through myself into playing the instrument. I strapped on my guitar when I walked in the house after school and it didn’t come off until I went to bed. I practice 8 hours every day and more on weekends. I played the grooves off of Jimi Hendrix, Steppenwolf, Led Zepplin, and James Gang.
This was the first time in my life that I actually gave myself wholly to any endeavor.
Eventually, my work paid off as I became a bonafide lead guitar player who could jam for hours with anyone. I had worked into a niche where I refused to learn other players’ solos. That was their voice. I developed my own. Improvisation ultimately led me to listen to other players.
Phil Keaggy from a local band called Glass Harp opened my mind to the limitless possibilities of the instrument. Al DiMeola, Joe Pass, Herb Ellis, Steve Howe, and other players ushered me into the world of Harmonic Melody and piano style. Vast horizons of the Ether became accessible.

Yet, I was always what my dad called the “Also Ran.” You know, Johnny came in first place. Mike also ran.

Here I was, destined for greatness. I mean, just ask my third grade teach and my Mom! But, I got a job, joined the union, and put a sign on my desk in 1980, “Vote Republican for a Change.”

What happened?

One day I was watching as Sirhan Sirhan assassinated Bobby, James Earl Ray murdered Martin, and Chicago erupted while Mayor Richard J. Daly sat at the Democratic National Convention with his arms crossed not realizing that the world was giving birth to something new.

In all honesty, I was a thirteen year old kid whose dad muttered something about, “about time someone did something about that N——r” when MLK was cut off from the living. I didn’t understand any more than Daly what was happening. Hell, I just played the songs! I didn’t really listen to the lyrics. Even as young people fell on the grass and concrete of Kent State a few years later, I was more concerned about learning CSNY’s “Ohio” than about the message that Neil was shouting to us.
“Wake up!” he was saying.
“What key is this,” is all that I heard.

So, I guess it wasn’t at all unnatural for me to join the crowd of Republicans in the 80s. After all, the revolution never really got off the ground. Woodstock was the last hurrah of a tribe of coddled, over-indulged white kids who found out all too quickly that what was said in “Cabaret” was all too true; ‘Money makes the world go around.’

Maybe that deep sleep overcame many of us.
We “grew fat and got lazy” as John Kay accused us.
I don’t know for sure what kind of haze enveloped my mind. It certainly wasn’t Purple. I lost many years bowing to a god that was less than even my own ability to underthink and underachieve.
It took crisis to put a fire under my ass.
I walked into that fire and got burned.
The scars are still visible. And, to my ever living shame, burned those whom I love.
But, that’s another story for another time.

I believe that I’m opening my eyes a bit. The sun is shining through the windows of my heart and bring warmth. It’s also illuminating the dust and cobwebs that have accumulated in a rather lackluster lifetime.
But, there are also some gems set in gold lying about that shine with brightness of burgeoning hope.