Dear Spike:
Just months after Utah became a state in 1896, the U.S. Army announced its intention to station a regiment of black soldiers at Ft. Douglas in Salt Lake City.
Sen. Frank Cannon pleaded with the federal government to send the so-called Buffalo Soldiers somewhere else. And the newspaper I work for shamefully backed Cannon's argument, warning among other things that that the black soldiers couldn't be trusted to keep their hands to themselves on the city's trolly cars.
But the Army held its ground, and in the spring of that year, the first soldiers of the 24th Infantry began arriving at the fort up on the hill, just a few blocks to the east of the plot of land where our home would be built, 10 years later.
About two years later, the soldiers of the 24th joined Teddy Roosevelt in his famous charge up San Juan Hill. They returned to Utah as heroes — marching down Main Street to the thankful, heartfelt cheers of thousands of Salt Lake City residents.
The next year, the regiment was reassigned to the Philappines. Again, the people of Utah turned out to cheer the unit as it paraded down Main Street one last time. For most, it was the last time they would ever see that many black men in one place.
Sometimes I wonder what this state would be like if the Buffalo Soldiers had stayed — if only just a little bit longer. If they had, would it have taken 80 more years for the Mormon church to lift the ban on blacks in its priesthood? If they had, would David Martin and Theodore Fields have been gunned down on Aug. 20, 1980 for having the audacity to commit the offense of jogging at the park with two white female friends, less than a stone's throw from our home?
I don't know the answer to that question.
I was thinking about the Buffalo Soldiers today after sharing a coffee with my friend, Becky, who was agonizing over the impending fate of the California Supreme Court's recent ruling, legalizing marriage for homosexuals. Becky, who is engaged to marry her partner later this year, was fretting over new legal challenges to the court's decision — and wondering "when people will realize that we're just so damn normal."
I don't know the answer to that question.
But something tells me that by the time you're my age, you'll be looking back on the marriage bans of the early 21st Century the same way I look back on that disgusting newspaper editorial from the late 19th Century.
And while there's likely to be plenty of whooping and hollering and flag-waving and drum-banging between now and then, I don't believe that's what's going to change the world. Rather, just as the Buffalo Soldiers did in Salt Lake City more than 100 years ago, people like my friend Becky are opening closed minds — convincing people that they are, in fact, "so damn normal" — simply by being so damn normal.
How long will it take?
I don't know the answer to that question.
But I think you will.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
WARMING THINGS UP
Dear Spike:
The mercury tipped above 80 yesterday, which was a little bit strange because we hadn't even had a 70-degree day yet this Spring.
And then today we had a blizzard, which isn't strange at all for Salt Lake City in mid-April, except for the fact that YESTERDAY IT WAS FLIPPIN' EIGHTY DEGREES OUTSIDE!
If there's one thing you can count on not counting on in this world, it's the weather. And that's a real nice thing, because it always gives you something to talk about with people on the bus, in line at the grocery store or while stuck in an elevator.
"Some weather we're having. . . " is all you've got to say. And with those four words — BAM-O! — the ice is broken.
Some folks say everything is part of God's plan. If that's true, I'll bet She created the weather just to get us all talking. And if that's the case... well... way to go God.
The world can be a cold enough place without us being cold to one another. The weather is a pretty good place to start warming things up. Where things go from there is up to you.
Love,
dad
The mercury tipped above 80 yesterday, which was a little bit strange because we hadn't even had a 70-degree day yet this Spring.
And then today we had a blizzard, which isn't strange at all for Salt Lake City in mid-April, except for the fact that YESTERDAY IT WAS FLIPPIN' EIGHTY DEGREES OUTSIDE!
If there's one thing you can count on not counting on in this world, it's the weather. And that's a real nice thing, because it always gives you something to talk about with people on the bus, in line at the grocery store or while stuck in an elevator.
"Some weather we're having. . . " is all you've got to say. And with those four words — BAM-O! — the ice is broken.
Some folks say everything is part of God's plan. If that's true, I'll bet She created the weather just to get us all talking. And if that's the case... well... way to go God.
The world can be a cold enough place without us being cold to one another. The weather is a pretty good place to start warming things up. Where things go from there is up to you.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
FROM YOUR VILLAGE
Dear Spike's Friends:
Spike's first birthday will be here soon. All fretting aside about WHERE THE HELL THE PAST 10 MONTHS WENT, I would like to enlist your help in putting together THE GREATEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT OF ALL TIME.
No, it's not a pony.
So I know this is waaaaay presumptuous of me, but at least I'm not asking for cash. No, what I want is blood. Your blood. And sweat. And tears. And maybe a little bile, just for kicks.
Here's the deal: I would like to give Spike a book of letters from people all over this country and all over this world — from people who know her and from people who don't.
I think we'll call it, "Dear Spike: Letters From Your Village."
Catchy, no?
Here's how it works:
1) You write a letter to Spike. Appropriately, it will start "Dear Spike:" and end with "Love,(yourname)"
2) EVERYTHING ELSE IN THE LETTER IS UP TO YOU.
3) It can be very short or very long.
4) It can be very happy or very sad.
5) It can be very serious or very funny.
6) It can be about ANYTHING YOU WANT except...
6a) It can't be about me or Spike's mom, even if you know us.
6b) It can't be about how much you love or hate DearSpike.com, even if you really love it or hate it.
7) You send said letter, by May
8) I'll publish all the letters here at DearSpike.com.
9) I'll edit them all into one big, beautiful file.
10) I'll send them off to print.
11) Someday when Spike can read, she will receive a book written to her from people — many of whom she doesn't even know — whose stories will nonetheless touch her heart and make her laugh and make her cry and make her think and make her love and make her sigh.
12) It will be a beautiful thing.
So, OK, I know that right at this very moment, there is someone from Nottingham, England, who is saying: "Surely, this chap doesn't expect me to contribute to this bloody project."
Oh yes, I do. And I'm hoping — really, really hoping — that Spike also will receive letters from Omaha and Dublin, from Perth and Nashville, from Vancouver and Baden-Wurttemberg and Tampa and Lexington and Raleigh and Nasiriyah all the other places from which people have stumbled upon this blog and then, FOR SOME STRANGE REASON, thought it would be fun to come back again and again.
And if you know people in Bejing or Mexico City or Mumbai or Capetown or Toledo (Ohio or Spain, either way) or anywhere else on the globe and you think they'd enjoy participating in this little birthday experiment, would you invite them along?
OK, now I'm all giddy. This is so crazy, it might just work.
Love,
spike's dad
Monday, April 7, 2008
NEVER LET GO
Dear Spike:
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
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