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An Excerpt


Image by Viewminder
"When we saw the plane crash my dad let me out of the car to go check it out even though I had to walk about six miles home after that.

Something he’d be arrested for today.

That was the day I decided that I had to become a pilot.

Because the pilot I’d met that day was so cool.

I was maybe eight or nine and I had to trek through about a half a mile of muddy field to get to the plane.

By the time I got there the pilot was gettin’ chewed out by his girfriend and duckin’ flyin’ suitcases and stuff.

He was really happy to see me.

I guess I provided a little ‘diversion’ for him and I noticed his girfriend cooled off right away too… I mean she stopped throwin’ shit at him at least…

although she was still pretty pissed about his losing an engine… his only engine… on the way to their vacation.

She said they’d taken off earlier in Minnesota.

He showed me the inside of the plane and told me how everything worked.

His girfriend sat on a suitcase with her arms folded lookin’ pissed.

That’s how girfriends can be you know?

Dude saved their ass… glides his powerless plane into a muddy field… avoids the powerlines and barely dents that sweet Beech Bonanza… neither of them gets hurt… the guy’s a freakin’ hero…

and she’s all mad at him.

‘We should’ve just drove’ I heard her say… ‘I told you we should have driven.’

If she knew just what he’d done right there… by the time I arrived on the scene she’d have been making voracious love to the guy or otherwise demonstrating her affection for him in a more romantic way.

Bonanza’s are known to glide like a brick when the engine quits.

Her boyfriend done good.

Another hundred feet and he’d have plowed it into a treeline.

I think he deserved a real and sincere and generous ‘atta boy’ at least.

‘If this plane’s a rockin’ don’t come knockin’

She shoudda showed old boy some ferocious love right there I’m telling you.

Then I would have decided to become a pilot the next day.

‘Mom, dad… I’m dropping out of school to become a pilot’ I can see myself saying.

‘But you’re only in the fourth grade’ my mom would say.

‘It’s been my lifelong dream.’

I thought that guy was so cool… I mean… he just crashed a plane and he was talkin’ to me.

He did everything right because he kept his cool.

The only thing he didn’t do right is deal with the girlfriend properly but I didn’t know that then.

Of course now I understand that the proper reaction to the girlfriend would have been to say something like…

‘baby… I know that I’ve just saved us from certain fiery death and everything… but revelling in the moment would be selfish… and even though I’m totally pumped up and all jacked on adrenaline I can feel the emotional disconnect growing between us at the moment… which saddens me more than I’m probably letting on because of all of this excitement… and I really just want to reassure you that I love you and I care about you more than anything in the world… I want you to know that you are the most beautiful woman in the world to me… even sitting on a suitcase in a muddy field after we just crashed in a plane because of my arrogance and stupidity… that I’m sorry that the airplane’s engine quit… you didn’t deserve to be put through this… you deserve to be flown around in a plane that’s taken care of by a more competent mechanic… and I chose aircraft mechanics poorly and in a way that wasn’t considerate of you… I was wrong… I feel like I let you down… and I don’t like how that makes me feel inside… when the airplane’s engine quit my first thought was you… I was scared that I could lose you… I wanted to discuss how you were feeling inside right then and there but I had to fly the plane… I promised myself that the second we survived this crash that I’d address these issues together with you… that’s why I’m talking to you now… because I’m keeping that promise that I made with myself… I didn’t like how the whole episode made me feel… and it made me feel powerless and vulnerable and I’m going to need time to deal with those issues on my own… and I promise to reach out to a professional for help if I have to… I can understand why you’re angry and you’re right… we should have just driven… I should have listened to you… because every time I fuck! up royally it’s you that’s there to tell me what I should have done… and I know it’s because you love me and it comes from a good place in your heart… it’s because you care… not just because you want to change me… I’ll take life more seriously from now on I promise and I want you to know that I’m totally focused on your emotions at the moment if you need to talk about it… just know that I am completely emotionally available to you at this very second… I’m sorry baby… I don’t even care if that piece of shit plane burns with all our luggage in it and I promise to kick that mechanic’s ass next time I see him… I’m just glad that you’re alright… this plane crash has changed me for the better and it’s made me look at everything differently… I feel like a whole new man… I’m so grateful to have you in my life… I promise you that as soon as we get home I will start thinking about all of that shit around the house you’ve been telling me to fix… and I really hope that as we grow old together we look back on this crazy little moment as something that we can laugh about… something that brought us closer together… and made our love stronger… who’s my hot little copilot huh… you are… c’mere you sexy little love nugget… somebody looks like they need a big hug.’

I think that covers all the bases.

Then… just to go the extra mile and because I’m a romantic at heart…

I would have walked back to the plane… grabbed the radio microphone and said loudly enough that she could hear me…

‘Midway Tower this is Beechcraft yadda yadda yadda… I just made that mayday call… I just want you to know that the most beautiful woman on earth… the love of my life and I are on the ground safe and sound… and that I was wrong and I should have listened to her… we’ll be driving next time… over.’

‘Roger that Beech yadda yadda yadda… we’re glad you’re safe and goodluck with the girlfriend… hope you didn’t FUBAR that’ I can imagine the tower would respond.

They should put that in the ‘post crash checklist’ under ‘dealing with your wife/girlfriend after the crash.’

Shit… they should have ‘pilot type’ checklists for girlfriends and wives.

Damn… I could make some money with that idea.

Laminated… with index tabs and everything… bullet pointed issues to address… key words to say over and over again and a sample script tested on female focus groups and approved by psychiatrists, marriage counselors, therapists and divorce attorneys for every scenario.

Things NEVER to say highlighted in red.

Every guy would need a copy of that.

Dealing with womankind without it’d be like flyin’ by the seat of your pants.

My instructor always said… ‘no matter how crazy it gets… stick with the checklist… when the shit hits the fan your head’s gonna be up your ass.’

And he was right.

That dude crashed eight times… flew like a madman-kamikaze wanna be… smoked a pack of Pall Mall filterless cigarettes a day… half of them in the cockpit with me where he’d fall asleep with them burning in his mouth… he drank whiskey straight like water… married an ex-nun and lived to almost ninety.

Lenny Prorok you were the best pilot I’ve ever known and certainly the most fearless.

You did things with airplanes that God, physics and the Wright Brothers never intended… and the FAA certainly objected to.

I miss you.

The guy knew what he was talking about.

If I ever doubted him he’d pull out his original pilots license and show it to me… pointing out that it was signed on the back by Wilber Wright.

Every good argument in the cockpit always seemed to end with ‘see this… this is Orville Wright’s gahdamned signature!’

The guy used to hit me in the cockpit if I messed up.

We flew through some crazy skies together me and that old bird.

Crankiest mofo I ever met.

But the dude could fly.

Man could he fly.

He proved to me that he could land a Cessna 152 in a football field once.

The little move he pulled at the end ‘to clear the goal posts’ he said… that was some scary ass flying.

Wing on a ‘knife edge’ in the craziest sideslip I’ve ever seen ten feet above the ground with the stall warning horn screamin’ as loud as I ever heard it.

That manuever had a ‘pucker factor’ of eleven and it probably took a week for my cajones to relax enough to come out of my esophagus.

I thought that was the end.

Pilots like to use acronyms and rhymes to remember stuff.

I stick with ‘BISYWaR’… busywar… it works in every situation… BISYWaR is an acronym for ‘Baby I’m Sorry You Were Right.’

The little ‘a’ doesn’t mean anything… it’s kinda just thrown in there to make the acronym more ‘wordlike’ and memorable.

The acronym makes sense too.

You don’t use it at the right time… you’re gonna be busy at war.

Put that in your mental pocket guys… right next to the place where you have instant and total recall of the date of your anniversary.

And don’t just use it a lot… use it every chance you get… make it a goal.

No… make it a ‘lifestyle.’

The secret to the phrase’s success is its simplicity and its honesty.

Sometimes a guy is sorry.

Sometimes a guy is sorry his girl is right.

Either way.

I’ve learned since then that women are far more complex than any flying machine ever built.

Even helicopters.

Sittin’ in the pilots seat as the pilot finished gettin’ all of their stuff outta the plane I wondered how I’d have done in the same situation…

would I have kept my cool I wondered…

would I have done everything just right so we could walk away from the ‘forced landing?’

I’m as curious about myself as I am about the world.

It’s all about curiousity I guess.

That’s what it is that I think drives me to get out there and get up close to people on the street.

I’m curious.

I always have been.

I want to know more.

I wanna know about everything.

That’s a good thing I think.

One day I swear I will find out where the marshmellows grow.

Music from Leon Haywood: One of the Founding Fathers of the Viewminder Relationship Institute

The tragic story of the16th St Baptist Church, Birmingham Alabama


Image by iamNigelMorris
The 16th Street Baptist Church bombing was a racially motivated terrorist attack on September 15, 1963, by members of a Ku Klux Klan group in Birmingham, Alabama in the United States. The bombing of the African-American church resulted in the deaths of four girls. Although city leaders had reached a settlement in May with demonstrators and started to integrate public places, not everyone agreed with ending segregation. Other acts of violence followed the settlement. The bombing increased support for people working for civil rights. It marked a turning point in the U.S. civil-rights movement of the mid-twentieth century and contributed to support for passage of civil rights legislation in 1964.

The three-story Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was a rallying point for civil-rights activities through the spring of 1963. The demonstrations led to an agreement in May between the city’s black leaders and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) to integrate public facilities in the country.

In the early morning of Sunday, September 15, 1963, Bobby Frank Cherry, Thomas Blanton, Herman Rash, and Robert "Dynamite Bob" Chambliss, members of United Klans of America, a Ku Klux Klan group, planted 122 sticks of dynamite with a delayed-time release outside the basement of the church.

At about 10:22 a.m., when twenty-six children were walking into the basement assembly room for closing prayers of a sermon entitled "The Love That Forgives," the bomb exploded [1] According to an interview on NPR on September 15, 2008, Denise McNair’s father stated that the sermon never took place because of the bombing.[2] Four girls: Addie Mae Collins (aged 14), Denise McNair (aged 11), Carole Robertson (aged 14), and Cynthia Wesley (aged 14) were killed in the blast, and 22 additional people were injured, one of whom was Addie Mae Collins’ younger sister, Sarah.

The explosion blew a hole in the church’s rear wall, destroyed the back steps, and left intact only the frames of all but one stained-glass window. The lone window that survived the concussion was one in which Jesus Christ was depicted knocking on a door, and Christ’s face was blown away. In addition, five cars behind the church were damaged, two of which were destroyed, while windows in the laundromat across the street were blown out.

Victims
Carol Denise McNair was born September 17, 1951, 11 at the time of her death. She was the first child of photo shop owner Chris and school teacher Maxine McNair. Her playmates called her Niecie. A pupil at Center Street Elementary School, she had many friends. She held tea parties, was a member of the Brownies guide organization, and played baseball. She helped raise money to support muscular dystrophy by creating plays, dance routines, and poetry readings. These events became an annual event. People gathered in the yard to watch the show in Denise’s carport, the main stage. Children donated their pennies, dimes, and nickels. Denise was a schoolmate and friend of Condoleezza Rice. She is buried in Elmwood Cemetery. About five years after the bombing, Denise’s parents had two more daughters.
Cynthia Diane Wesley was born April 30, 1949, 14 at the time of her death, she was the first adopted daughter of Claude and Gertrude Wesley, both of whom were teachers. Her mother made her clothes because of her petite size. Cynthia went to school at Ullman High School, which no longer exists. She excelled in math, reading, and band. Cynthia held parties in her backyard for all her friends. Upon Cynthia’s death she was found because of the ring she wore, which was recognized by her father. She is buried in Greenwood Cemetery.
Carole Rosamond Robertson was born April 24, 1949, 14 at the time of her death. She was the third child of Alpha and Alvin Robertson. Her sister was Dianne and her brother was Alvin. Her father was a band master at the local elementary school. Her mother was a librarian, avid reader, dancer, and clarinet player. Carole, like her mother, enjoyed reading. She excelled at school and was a straight-A student, a member of Parker High School marching band and science club. She was also a Girl Scout and belonged to Jack and Jill of America. When she was at Wilkerson Elementary School she sang in the choir. Her legacy helped create the Carole Robertson Center for Learning in Chicago, a social service agency that serves children and their families. She is buried in Greenwood Cemetery.
Addie Mae Collins was born April 18, 1949, 14 at the time of her death, she was the daughter of Julius Collins. Her father was a janitor and her mother a homemaker. She was one of seven children. She was also an avid softball player. A youth center dedicated to Addie and her ideals was created in Birmingham. Her younger sister Sarah was with her at the time and lost her right eye in the blast.[3] Addie Mae is buried in Greenwood Cemetery.

Congress of Racial Equality march in Washington, D.C. on September 22, 1963 in memory of the victims of the Birmingham bombings. The banner, which says "No more Birminghams", shows a picture of the aftermath of the bombing.Outrage at the bombing and the grief that followed resulted in violence across Birmingham. By the end of the day, two more African-American youths had been killed. Sixteen-year-old Johnny Robinson was shot and killed by police after throwing stones at cars with white people inside. Two white teenage boys riding on a bike shot 13-year-old Virgil Wade, who was on a bike with his brother.[4]

Three days after the tragedy, former Birmingham police commissioner Bull Connor inflamed tensions by saying to a crowd of 2,550 people at a Citizen’s Council meeting, "If you’re going to blame anyone for getting those children killed in Birmingham, it’s your Supreme Court." Connor recalled that in 1954, after the Brown v. Board of Education decision had been reached, he said, "You’re going to have bloodshed, and it’s on them (the Court), not us." He also suggested that African Americans may have set the bomb deliberately to provoke an emotional response, saying, "I wouldn’t say it’s above (Dr. Martin Luther) King’s crowd."[citation needed].

Following the tragic event, white strangers visited the grieving families to express their sorrow. At the funeral for three of the girls (one family preferred a separate, private funeral), Martin Luther King, Jr., spoke about life being "as hard as crucible steel." More than 8,000 mourners, including 800 clergymen of all races, attended the service. No city officials attended.[5]

On July 2, 1964, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, ensuring equal rights of African Americans before the law.

More shoe stores per capita than anyplace on Earth


Image by J. Star
Last night, we went to Juarez. We parked in El Paso to walk across the border, because getting your car into Mexico is easy, but getting it back out is something else again.

South El Paso, right by the border crossing, is an incredibly visually stimulating place. The streets are lined with shops that have garage doors instead of regular doors. When the garage doors are open, clothes on racks spill out onto the sidewalks, toys hang from the open garage roofs, people are everywhere peddling and shopping. The prices are very cheap. The number of shoe stores was astounding. The shoes were available to try on, in El Paso.

Crossing into Mexico, we queued up at the bridge over the Rio Grande with thousands of people, all of them Hispanic (we stuck out like sore thumbs). We walked along the road next to a high brick wall with barbed and razor wire on the top of it, shredded plastic bags caught up in the wire and fluttering in the night breeze against the purple sunset. To get into Mexico, we had to pay thirty-five cents to one of the women working the windows on the right. To the left, hundreds and hundreds of cars were lined up waiting to get into the U.S. The line moved so slowly that many women were able to work selling things to the people in the cars–they carried food and flowers, candy and gum around in the snarling traffic mess, trying to convince the drivers of the cars to purchase what they had.

At the bridge’s apex, I looked down at the Rio, which is partially walled with concrete at about a 20-degree angle. The sun had gone down behind the mountains to the south of Juarez and the sky was purple and orange; the muddy river reflected the lights and colors of the sky. Graffiti covered the concrete on the Mexico side, all in Spanish, which I don’t know a lot of, but the messages were clear enough–Osama isn’t the criminal, Bush is, stop bombing the world, fuck Bush, etc. Some of the artwork was quite elaborate–a ten-foot-tall graphic of Che Guevara caught my eye as particularly well done.

Along the river, a man caring a hat looked up at the thousands of people crossing the bridge, calling out in a cracked voice and holding up his hat. I couldn't make out what he said, but got the gist of it well enough.

In Juarez, many of the first stores we came to were pharmacies–the kind of pharmacies where you could buy medicines you need a prescription for in the U.S. In addition to the pharmacies were a number of CD stores and–*more* shoe stores. Only the shoe stores in Juarez had the shoes locked up, all on display in glass cabinets, as if the shoes were works of art to be looked at, not useful accoutrements for the feet. There were *so many* of them. Despite the fact that there were people everywhere, I only saw two or three people inside the shoe stores, looking at the shoes.

We kept walking. The sidewalks were rough and uneven, and full of people. So many different smells came wafting out of the different kinds of buildings we passed, all dedicated to commercialism; I looked for it, but I didn't see any kind of housing, only endless fluorescent-lit stores and restaurants. Smells of bleach and food, of piss and garbage, of animals and Windex and rot.

We walked past a young man sitting on the curb behind a beat-up SUV, his head in his hands, an older woman patting his back and arguing with a man. We walked past shoe store after shoe store after shoe store. We came to a plaza, with a park. Signs in Spanish admonished people to stay off the green areas, which were fenced in. People sat around the park on the walls that lined the small green spaces, many of the people alone, not talking to anyone else, sitting with their hands in their laps, faces down.

At the top of the plaza was a big church. The doors were open. Inside, people sat in the pews, some looking at the minister, some simply seemingly happy to have a quiet place to sit down. I leaned in to the edge of the doorframe to try to see in without disrupting anything. A teenage male came up to the doors as I was doing so, stopped and crossed himself, and went into the church.

On the way walking out of Juarez, we passed several homeless women holding up cups and begging. We passed five cats prowling the base of a trash can, four of them kittens. We passed a dog who had recently given birth. We passed two cops on bikes. At the border crossing back into the U.S., we had to show our identification, say why we were in Mexico, and explain what was in our bags.

Once we’d gone through that, we started back across the bridge. A woman with three children sat against the wall of the bridge, trying to sell candy. One of her children, a girl who couldn’t yet have been three, followed people, holding out her hands. She followed people a lot longer than I would have thought. I put my hand on her tiny head and she turned around and walked back to the woman.

The same man who had been walking under the bridge with his hat was still there, his voice hoarser, calling up to people on the bridge.

Back in El Paso, all the stores were closed, the garage doors shut, everything a stark, dark contrast to how it had looked when we were crossing over just a few short hours earlier. The sidewalks seemed so easy to walk on; you didn’t have to look at them. They didn’t fall off in unexpected places.

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