Obligations

Over the years, I've written and destroyed this a thousand times.  I may tear this down and try another day.  "A gentleman doesn't complain about these things."  I thought.  "YOUR story isn't what matters here.  Think of how much pain they were in."  I still think.  I cannot tell their story fairly because it's their story, not mine.  Since I cannot tell their story, I cannot fairly tell my part in it.  A few people know what happened to me; not many.  

I encountered people in pain, and I was durable, and that's all that matters.  That's the only story to tell.  My only regret is the times when I complained or asked mercy from people who weren't in a position to give it.  I bear some guilt for even thinking about this.  There have been enough blessings in my life to more than compensate for any dark spots.

In relationships, I always believed it was my obligation to keep track of and constantly evaluate my own devotion, commitment, motivation, and, most importantly, progress on getting done whatever it was that needed doing, but never applied the same evaluation to my partner because that would be quid pro quo, and a gentleman doesn't ever ask that.  Everyone comes with things that need getting done.  Some are more of a challenge than others.

As a result, I often found myself in way over my head before I realized the water was rising and ended up with a lot more people who could say, "I'm so glad you could help me beyond this problem," and hardly any who would say, "I'm so much happier when you're near."  My purpose in their lives was temporary and not meant for my benefit.

It's tricky because a gentleman should never expect quid pro quo, but then you end up in a situation where you do things not expecting anything in return, but then you don't get anything in return, and then you're out on a limb, and you can't go back, so your only choices are to hold on and pretend like what you get in return doesn't matter, or close your eyes and let go and hope for a soft landing or at least one you can survive.  Ultimately, I was asked to help, not to grow attached, although getting attached was often inevitable, considering the time and effort required to help.

"Hello, you're interesting and attractive.  Tell me about yourself."  It's the "tell me" part that forms the trap.  Once you know someone's in trouble, what is there to do?  Saying, "I'm so sorry." Seems like a cop-out.  I always assumed that fate put these people in my path and gave me the tools to make some sort of repair on their wounds for a reason.  It was the path I was designed to take, not one intended to improve me.

I've been lucky; there have only been very few times when anyone intentionally used this dilemma against me.  Most of the time, women in my life have been gentle and recognized the dichotomy of this situation, and kept me out of trouble themselves.  There have been times, though--a few, when I ran across somebody who was in such a crisis that they didn't notice I was in over my head until it was too late because they very much needed whatever it was I was doing.  

Those are the worst.  Usually, I'll try to find a way to hold on until their crisis is passed and then find a way to drift away unnoticed.  That usually works pretty well, but it leaves deep marks that nobody ever really knows about.  When it's over, we both walk quietly away, hiding both shame and regret.  Shame for getting so attached when I knew from the beginning this wasn't a story meant for my benefit.

In the end, it might be easier to just pass a note that says, "I like you.  Do you like me?  Check Yes or No."  This "at your service" business can be the ruin of a man, but I can't even feel bad about that because a the end of the day, it's still easier to be a man than to be a woman, and it's probably our fault that these dichotomies exist in the first place and whatever unpleasant event I faced was still kinder than what they went through.  

The rules are confusing and not really fair to anyone.  It's much easier just to say, "don't come to the aid of anyone," but we live in a world filled with people in crisis, and turning away when you can help seems cruel and something you wouldn't want done to you in return.  I did what I was asked to do, and I knew there was no reward for me in the end.  It was a yes or no question, and I always assumed "yes" was the kinder choice, every other aspect or outcome I leave to the gods and the ravens.

What Name Shall We Call Her

When planning our wedding, my fiance gave two dates, between which we had to pick a day to get married.  At first, I thought she picked these dates to be near my birthday.  Instead, she told me those were the last dates for us to marry in time for her to complete and file the name change paperwork and begin the new school year with her pupils calling her Mrs. Campbell, not her previous husband's name.

I asked if she wanted to go back to using her father's name.  I knew him before I knew her and loved him dearly.  I wasn't her first husband, and she'd already had a pretty remarkable life with her father's name.  It would have been a fine choice by me.  She said I was being an asshole, and I didn't understand.  She was probably right on both points.  Sometimes I can try very hard to understand and still miss the point.

Before that, when my sister was to marry, many of us, cousins, uncles, and peers all wondered what name she would choose.  For her part, my mother swore that she wouldn't say anything to influence her decision either way.  My father never made any comment.  By her early twenties, my baby sister already had one of the most remarkable careers of our generation.  I hesitate to say that our father's name was considerably well-known.  It kind of makes me sound like a conceited asshole, but I think it's true.  Dad was at the peak of his career in those days.  It'd take him being dead for twenty years for his name to lose its potency.  

Would she keep her name, hyphenate it, or choose tradition and take her husband's name?  My sister's wedding was slightly more organized than Patton's conquest of Africa.  Patton never had the advantage of spreadsheets.  I never commented either way, but I was very curious about what she would choose.  It took her a while to announce a decision, but ultimately, she chose tradition and sentimentality and took Jay's name.  So far, her marriage has lasted longer than any of the others in this generation of our extended family; maybe tradition and sentimentality were a winning factor. 

In planning my wedding, my fiance and her daughters were already on my cellphone plan, and I put them on my internet plan and a few other things.  I changed my will and bought a new suit, but I never had to worry about what people would call me.  What my identity would be.  There wasn't any thought of that at all.  It doesn't seem quite fair.

Forgive me for indulging in a bit of wokism, but this bit about how one has to change their name when they marry because the patriarchy sees you as the property of either your husband or your father would probably bother the crap out of me if I were a woman.  I loved my father-in-law dearly, but would I have been comfortable taking his name?  

I'm more traditional than most folks.  (I still wear a tie).  I'm also dangerously sentimental unless I consciously work around it. Still, I'm also very well-read and a lifelong observer of our world from as many different perspectives as I could imagine.  I've never had to change my name on Facebook, or my driver's license, checking account, or credit cards.  I know women who have done it as many as five times.  I can hardly criticize anyone for making marriages that didn't last.  Mine didn't either.  Is this fair?  We're making these women choose a path and complete tasks no one ever asks of men.  Your name is a big part of your identity.  How would I respond if someone wanted me to change mine?

We didn't create this tradition.  I don't think the modern world would.  We were born into it.  Most of the women I know chose the traditional naming conventions without much difficulty or consequence, or any I could see.  There are women I love, though, who have yet to choose a life companion and make their own way in the world.  I monitor what sort of world we're leaving them very closely.

Today, in the ancient land of Persia, women are being murdered for violating the tradition of covering their faces and hair.  It's a tradition, just like the tradition of what name a woman takes when she marries.  I don't know if they'll read this, but four women on my list are of Persian ancestry or extraction.  The crisis is that close to my life.  I'll call it Iran when the men who run the country choose to cut the noose around their people's necks.  Until then, I'll use the more ancient name to remind them of their more noble past.

I once swore, on pain of death, to live by the motto "Dieu et Les Dames" where does that leave me here?  Clearly, our traditions aren't always in the best interest of women, and God commands that I put the needs of compassion and justice above my own life.  My vow demands I consider and contemplate these issues closely.  They matter.

There's nothing I can do to change or influence any woman's decision about the name she chooses. Still, I believe it's my obligation to be aware of what these choices mean and acknowledge the sacrifice they are making in their life that I was never asked to do.  

Lunch At Primos

I had lunch at the Madison Primos today.  I ordered the shrimp remoulade and the gumbo.  Dishes I've had maybe five hundred times before.  As I understand it, the Primos family sold their interest in the business, although Kenneth sat just a few tables over from me.  The purpose of the trip was to see how well I could get around using Uber.  That part of the trip was flawless.

Before they died, both my grandmothers used a meal at Primos as a lure or reward for some task they had for me.  Primos #2 across from the baptist hospital for smaller tasks and Primos Northgate for heavy lifting or longer trips.  This continued from the beginning of my memory until their deaths, with a few trips to Morrison's Cafeteria and Shony's thrown in.  

Both the recipe and the presentation of the dishes I ordered had changed considerably from those days.  It was a bit unsettling.  The shrimp remoulade remained exactly the same most of my life, but today it was different, both the preparation and the dressing.  What I remembered was probably a recipe that Pop came up with in the thirties or forties, and that was what I was expecting, but I got something else.

What they brought me was good, but I couldn't help feeling the shifting of something lost.  There was a time when most of the restaurants in Jackson were run by Greek immigrants, and they had a certain style and a very recognizable taste, and I'm worried that flavor is edging over the night's horizon.  I tried to order a gingerbread man too, but they didn't have any.  They had plenty of fudge squares, but that wasn't the memory I was trying to defrost.  

Jackson peaked in the eighties.  The poverty and racism that plagued us since Lefleur started trading furs on the banks of the Pearl River were at an all-time low.  New construction was vigorous.  Deposit Guarantee and Trustmark were so strong that out-of-state banks struggled to find a toe hold in our market; most didn't bother.  It was the time of moderate democrat governors like Bill Winter and Ray Mabus and moderate mayors like Dale Danks.  

Maybe we flew too close to the sun.  The spell would soon break, and we began our decline that gained remarkable momentum as it headed groundward.  The simple answer is that black families had a slightly higher birth rate than white families, and in the nineties, the balance of race electoral votes shifted along racial lines, causing something of a white panic to get out of town. 

If you drive through Eastover or Woodland Hills today, there are actually more houses and more expensive houses than there were in the eighties.  The Bible says that the poor will always be with us.  It seems the wealthy are just as indelible.  The upper middle class seems to have grown at a fairly steady pace.  It's the middle class and the working class that fled.  There was a dramatic rise in gun violence after Katrina that started an alarm bell warning everyone who could to get out of Jackson as soon as possible, leaving South and North Jackson with property values dropping so quickly that some people had to start all over from scratch in Madison or Rankin county.  

In a sense, people panicked because people they knew also panicked, and nobody wanted to be the last one out.  There was no Moses for this exodus, but there were property developers snatching up every bit of bottomland they could find, as long as it wasn't in Hinds county.  There's this story that it was just the White middle and working class that fled, but that's not true, as many black middle and working-class people left as did white, leaving Jackson a city with very wealthy people on one end and very poor people everywhere else.  That situation isn't sustainable, as evidenced by the crime crisis and the infrastructure crisis we're going through.  

The mayor, I worry, has more allegiance to the pipe dream of the new Africa movement than he does to the idea of building a successful middle-class people where race isn't the only bonding factor.  I understand the impetus that began the New Africa movement, and I even sympathize with it. I understand his father's work in it and why he did it and had I been in his shoes, I might have done the same thing, but that was sixty years ago.  It wasn't a workable idea then, and it's even less workable now.  People died for that movement and nothing was gained.  

What does work now is finding a way to bond together the two broken halves of Jackson that can support and sustain a smaller population of poor and indigent.  We always had a blended culture.  It's time to recognize that, and embrace it, and recognize that it's our strength, not our weakness.  

The best times for Jackson were when moderate democrats who did their best to be colorblind on all issues were in charge.  Maybe it didn't last very long, but it did exist.  I'm not sure how we get back to that, but I'd like to.  I can't think of anything that's more bold or more new than a racially hybrid city, with a devoted focus not on the rich or the poor but on the working and middle class.  I can live with somebody changing my favorite shrimp salad or second favorite gumbo, but my home needs some loving care.  I intend to do my best.  Hopefully, I'll find some fellow travelers along the way. 

A Season of Loss

This isn't a very pleasant story.  I'm sorry.  Please stop now if you're sensitive.

Sixteen years old.  I was working out five times a week and had just begun experimenting with anabolic steroids.  I also began experimenting with women and took on my first girlfriend, who was more than just "do you want to go steady?"

I enjoyed the experiment so far.  I had someone to talk to, someone to focus all these crazy teenage emotions on.  Someone I could hold up as proof that I wasn't alone, even though I still felt very alone.  

School let us out on Wednesday for Thanksgiving, in case we had to travel, and Friday off, too, so we could drive home.  The dentist for my shiny new girlfriend wanted her to have her wisdom teeth taken out on Wednesday so, by Monday, she could go back to school.  

With her wisdom teeth out, she wouldn't be able to partake of much of the Thanksgiving feast.  She mostly took painkillers and remained in bed.  I was allowed to visit after my family finished their dinner, as long as we kept the door open.  My girlfriend wore the prettiest nightgown and robe she could find, but the sides of her face were swollen like I'd punched her.  

This was my first real test as a boyfriend.  I had to be compassionate and responsible but also respectful and gentlemanly and still somehow romantic, which I had no real experience in.  It was a challenge.

I sat and talked on the foot of her bed, with her family a few steps away in the living room.  We held hands and talked about passions we didn't understand.  A body passed by quietly in the hall.  "Hey, Daddy."  She said but got no reply.  The door to his bedroom closed, then locked.  We didn't talk for fear he'd hear us trying to be romantic.

Pop.

I'd heard that sound before.  My brother accidentally discharged his .22 once in his room while getting ready to clean it.  I recognized the smell.  

A mother's cry.  She called his name over and over and banged her fists on the locked door that wouldn't budge.  In an immediate crisis, the wheels in my mind spin, but find no purchase.  Another consciousness takes over my body that somehow has a plan of how to respond.

"Let me," I said and guided her to the side.  I shook the doorknob and pushed with no effect.  Although still drugged and very confused, my girlfriend stood at the door to her bedroom.

"Get back," I said and pushed the door again.  "Stay back," I said to both of them, with fear but mostly panic in their eyes.  My body had a plan.

I planted my feet shoulder-width apart and drew my open hands back, level with my shoulders.  After spinning up as much resolve as I could, I focused my eyes on a spot on the door and slammed my open hands there as hard as I could.  The privacy lock in the door handle snapped, and the door burst open.  Nobody moved.

Inside, I could see his legs sticking out of the bathroom door inside the bedroom.

"Stay there,"  I said.  Her mother froze, but my girlfriend made a step to see inside herself.  "STAY THERE!"  I said.  And she did.

I'd met this man maybe three times.  We shared maybe fifty words together.  A puddle of black-red grew on the bathroom floor.  An expanding circle of life and death.  One arm was twisted back in a strange way holding a pistol.  I won't tell you the rest of what I saw.  For years, I had no visual memory of some of it.  My brain was merciful to my mind, I suppose.  Eventually, it all came back to me, though.   A horrible image saved for a day when I could handle it, I suppose.

The police left around midnight.  I drove home to get a change of clothes, as I'd promised to spend the night on the sofa in my girlfriend's living room.  My mother and father were still up in the den waiting for me.  "Will you call my friends and tell them what happened?  I don't really know how to do this."  I asked.

"Of course."  Mother said.  After that, nobody really said anything.  I expected them to have something brilliant to say that would help me navigate these strange and treacherous waters, but all they could do was be there, which is what I was about to do.  I was going to my girlfriend's house to sit in her living room and say I was going to sleep, but not sleep, and just sort of be there as if my body would somehow fill the hole in their lives long enough to arrange a more permanent patch.  It took a while, but they did arrange a more permanent patch, and I could extricate myself from this trial without causing any further damage.

My mother insisted that I see a psychologist.  She'd done this before.  He was a pretty good guy; by then, we'd become pretty good friends.  He was instrumental in helping me resolve recurring panic attacks in my twenties, but beyond that, I don't think he was ever really able to heal me.  That I did myself.  Sometimes well.  Sometimes poorly.  

For the next twenty-five years, my mother would ask at thanksgiving if I was ok.  I was ok, generally.  I felt no pain or panic or regret.  All I felt was cold and empty, but that's better than pain.  Eventually, as other deaths passed and other losses were sustained, that coldness spread to Christmas and Halloween, and eventually, I quit celebrating the holidays altogether.  It was a season of loss, and I chose to endure rather than celebrate.

This week will be the first thanksgiving I've celebrated since before some of you were born.  I'm at peace with the past and look forward to the celebration.  I am, in time and in deed, thankful.