The B. S. M. G. Report

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Comprehend the fight

To do what’s right

BAD

Wrong-headed: Incorrect headed in the wrong direction.

Although some people are critical of our country, I, for one, am astounded that things work as well as they do, considering how wrong-headed we are.

We are misguided. It is not malicious, but certainly is ignorant. And ignorant is a decision to ignore the logical.

Can we start with some stats?

Arguably, the most persecuted minorities in our country are the LGBTQ, Jewish and black communities.

Watching television, you are probably convinced that America is fifty percent gay, because they are well-represented in the entertainment industry and have gained the attention of politicians.

Likewise, if you listen to the pundits discussing the election, you might assume that the Jewish vote is at least thirty percent.

And in a quest to find truth, the number of shows and specials which are produced about the exploitation of the black race might cause you to think they are forty to fifty percent of the population.

Here are the real figures:

From the LGBTQ community itself, it is estimated that 4.5 percent of Americans are gay, Lesbian, transgender and such.

Just 2 percent of the country is Jewish.

And 12.1 percent of America is black.

If you add these three numbers, you come up with 18.6 percent of the census.

They are a threat to no one.

They have no plans nor ability to take over our country and turn it into black power, Zionist or homosexual.

Eighty percent of this country is white or other acceptable shades.

I just want to establish the statistics—for it is bad to begin a discussion believing false information. By no means am I offering these facts to make you think that because the numbers of these minorities are small, that they should be treated with disdain.

I’m just saying that you’ll never reach this country until you realize you are appealing that white people be more generous of spirit.

There’s just not much you can do if you’re gay, Jewish and black to change the heart of the United States of America to make it a home more suitable for your feelings.

If you’re a politician, a minister, a community organizer or just a concerned citizen, you should be motivating your white brothers and sisters to comprehend that this 18.6 percent that receives so much ambivalence, if not anger, are indeed “the least of these, my brethren,” that Jesus referred to when he was discussing those who need the most of our love and attention.

The problem in mentioning Jesus is that even though we tout ourselves “a Christian nation,” the religion of our country is…

SAD

Americanity.

It is a blending of our cultures, our likes, our religion, our prejudices, our egos and remnants of compassion.

It has absolutely nothing to do with Christianity.

If Jesus preached today, he would not last for three years. He would stir up trouble, get caught up in the 24-hour news cycle, be declared a cult leader and disgraced in two weeks.

Americanity has three premises:

1. America was founded by Europeans—basically white people.

2. Because of that and many other factors, we consider ourselves to be an “exceptional nation.”

3. Even though we accept an amount of integration, we do not want to lose the power of our white color and composition.

I understand that most people would not admit they have bought into these principles. Nevertheless, they are ingrained in you if you are not gay, Jewish or black.

Let me give you an example:

We are a country that is proud that we freed the slaves. Matter of fact, the average white person would point out that this is acceptable restitution—our gift to the black race for stealing them from Africa.

Now let’s take a Bible story everybody knows:

The children of Israel are slaves in Egypt. Moses wants to free them. Let’s say the Pharaoh agrees to free them, but then the slaves remain in Egypt, hanging around with those people who used to be their masters. How successful would that have been? How important was it for the Jews to escape Egypt, so they could really be free?

Yet in America, we tossed freedom to the black man, but forced him to live, work and worship around his former masters.

We promised “forty acres and a mule” and instead, trapped black families in a history that held them in bondage.

Simultaneously…

MAD

Even though the LGBTQ community, the black race and the Jewish folk are only 18.6 percent of the population, there is a group that is 52 percent, and they are still treated as a minority.

They are women.

They are fighting for their lives; they are struggling for their right to be heard. They are pleading for their bodies—they are demanding an equality that should have been guaranteed long ago.

Before we solve the problems with the gays, the Jews and the blacks, we are desperately in need of a GENDER MENDER: a mingling of education, humor and understanding that closes the gap between men and women.

Can you imagine how much easier it would be to grant equality to other minorities if the treatment of women was mitigated by common sense?

Instead, we pretend that women are about one percent of the population and ask them to stand to the rear and wait their turn.

You cannot solve the problems in the black community until you address the conflict between men and women.

You will not comprehend the difficulties faced by the Jewish race until the bigotry against women is resolved.

And you will never, ever complete the journey of a free America, and open the doors to the LGBTQ community, until men and women in this country arrive at a tender, but firm understanding of their union.

I can certainly assure you, however, that I am…

GLAD

There are young humans living and breathing.

They have survived the shenanigans of twenty years of war, political lying and cheating and murder in their schools.

They have no stomach for Americanity.

And they are completely turned off to the idea that minorities must stand in line and wait their turn.

They are our hope.

Yet even the young humans out there are screwed up on the issue of men and women—borrowing way too much tradition from their parents.

It is time to deal with the BAD. Look at the stats the way they are, realize that America is mostly white and needs to be appealed to for its better angels to make our plans work.

And please, once and for all, can we get rid of the sad Americanity—which believes in red, blue and white supremacy?

I’d like to see us get MAD and start to seek out a way to GENDER MENDER the difficulties between men and women.

Then we can be glad and offer the next generation a better palette, so their painting can be filled with color.

 

Stay on the Bus … January 21, 2013

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Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., had a problem. The bus line in his local community had begun to raise a fuss about carrying the colored folks of the town. There were so many reasons for the conflict that it’s difficult to explain–but basically, Rev. King was a Negro minister in a municipality which believed in and practiced “separate but equal.” Racial mixing was frowned on except in the exchange of cordial, but brief, greetings in the marketplace.

The problem the young minister faced was that some of his congregation wanted to rebel and object to the lack of equality and respect given to the Negro community. But most of the folks just wanted to get along. They saw no particular reason, after all these years of struggle and winning significant improvements, to anger the white community over such a silly, little issue as transportation. But he was also aware of the power he possessed among his people as a member of the clergy. They would more than likely move out in any direction he deemed righteous.

He prayed about it. After he prayed, he decided that the true wisdom of God was to use discretion and humility instead of demanding acceptance, which would only be viewed as arrogant. He negotiated a deal with the bus company to allow the colored folks, who sat in the rear, to redecorate that particular portion of the bus to suit their culture and liking. The bus company thought it was an odd request but couldn’t see any reason why allowing the Negroes to do what they wanted to on the bus, within reason, should be denied–since no white person would step back there anyway.

Matter of fact, Rev. King sold the concept to his flock under the banner, “Redecorate Our Lives.” In other words, rather than fighting against society, requiring respect, his suggestion was that the colored community establish their uniqueness and the beauty of their culture, and therefore become a testimony through cooperation. It was a roaring success. The white community was happy because things were let alone, and the Negroes felt they had achieved a compromise, which allowed them to retain some dignity of their own.

Rev. King became so popular that he was asked to head a confluence of black educators who became consultants for Congress in Washington, D.C. Although the body of legislators continued to be predominately white, this gathering of leaders from the Negro community was permitted to input ideas on how to make race relations better across the country. In fact, Rev. King was one of the founders of the NCFL–the National Colored Football League, which he proudly touted often had greater attendance in their stadiums than the nearly all-white National Football League.

Oh, there were some downs with the ups. Martin was not pleased that the music and arts scene, never integrated, failed to blend the sounds of gospel, blues and jazz into the mainstream of the pop music scene. But most of the Negro artists were able to etch out a living among their darker brothers and sisters.

Probably Rev. King’s proudest accomplishment was his “Back to Black” campaign, begun in the late 1970’s, to take American families on pilgrimages to Africa, similar to the Muslims returning to Mecca or the Jews to Jerusalem.

“Separate but equal” remained the law of the land but gradually was beginning to resemble equality more than just separation. Race relations were fine unless a few trouble-makers came along rocking the boat, insisting that the forefathers’ concept of all men being created equal was an inclusive concept MEANT to promote integration.

Although Rev. King was sympathetic to their feelings, he warned them that fighting against the general opinion of the population was not going to bring peace and contentment, but rather, a forced situation of interaction, which ultimately would only produce anger and resentment.

He was successful in calming the turmoil. He was well-respected within the black community and considered to be a healing force among the whites.

While attending a convention in Atlanta in 1992, he was preparing to give a speech when he had a heart attack and died. The topic of his last presentation was to be, “Separate but equal–thank God Almighty, at last.”

You see, this very easily could have been the story of the man. He would have lived longer, he would have been more accepted and he would never have had a bullet pierce his neck and bleed out on the balcony of a cheap motel in Memphis, Tennessee.

But everything we are today–all progress we’ve made, every idea of justice and every possibility of interaction, while looking each other directly in the eye, would be pure mythology. Dr. King wrestled with two Presidents to secure the civil rights legislation that steers the ship of social justice.

Yet we live in a generation which advocates “staying on the bus” instead of boycotting the corporation because of its unfair practices. We are civilized; we are rational and we are just … damned boring.

Remember today–one man had to make one choice. Do I find a way to work with the system? Or do I declare that system filthy, evil, and fight against it–willing to give my life?

Think about it.

Then–when it’s your turn–this time, don’t compromise.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

A Creeky Encounter … January 12, 2013

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It was a stream of water that ran by the road in my hometown. It was no more than four feet deep at its braggart’s point and so narrow in some locations that you could step across it on four rocks protruding from the water. Most people didn’t pay much attention to it. For some reason, they named our local high school after this brook–Big Walnut.

Most of the good white folk stayed away from it because it was a hangout–well, it was a place where some of the “negroes” from nearby Columbus would come to congregate on the weekends. There were a few fishermen’s shacks which had been erected near the water, where these darkened visitors would sleep and relax as they cast lines into the nearby flow, seeking to capture a particular style of varmint called a sucker. Now, a sucker was an ugly fish–big huge mouth, with what looked to be thick lips and humongous, bulging eyes. Yes, the good white folks of our town were very careful not to spend much time on the banks of the Big Walnut, or to ever even consider consuming a sucker.

I occasionally went down to look at the water because it wound its way through a very pastoral setting of trees and rocks. On one of those occasions, when I was gazing from the bridge down at the creek beneath, an older fellow saw me and motioned to me to come down and join him. I was terrified, surprised, frozen and intrigued, all at the same time. For you see, he was a negro.

I was fifteen years old and had never spoken with a negro. I had seen them. I had even tackled one in a football game with a nearby city school which was intergrated. But I had never had an actual conversation with anyone of that color persuasion.

He motioned to me again, and because he was an older chap and I felt deep respect for folks of that ilk, I picked my way down the hill to join him at the waterfront. As I arrived, he got a bite on his hook and right then and there, pulled up one of those ugly sucker fish, which looked to be nearly a pound and a half in size. He gave a hoot.

Negro:  Would you look at that, son? Halleluia! I have supper for tonight.

(I pulled back in terror at the sight of the ugly fish.)

Negro:  Have you ever eaten a sucker?

Me:  My dad says they taste terrible and have too many bones.

Negro:  Well, I probably have too many bones, and I’m not so sure I taste good, either. But if you smoke ’em, they are delicious.

(I must have had a comical, perplexed look on my face because he laughed.)

Negro:  Do you know what smoked is?

Me:  Cigarettes?

(More laughter.)

Negro: No! You’ve eaten ham, haven’t you? Smokin’ meat is like puttin’ it near the fire instead of on the fire, and lettin’ the hickory flavor do the cookin’.

(I nodded my head–not because I understood, but because I was bored.)

Negro: Do you like to fish?

Me: Yeah, kinda. My dad and older brothers are nuts about it. I like to catch fish.

Negro: Me, too. By the way, my name is Marsh.

Me: Pleased to meet you Mr. Marsh.

(I was speaking to him from a distance of about six feet, so as to give myself the first fruits of an excellent exit. He stuck his hand out across the distance.)

Negro: No, it’s not Mister. Just call me Marsh.

(I was staring at the hand of a Negro. It was big. I could see callouses protruding from every knuckle. I quickly glanced down at my hand, which more resembled a medium-sized, damp white terry wash cloth. What was I going to do? He kept his hand extended, determined to make connection. So I cautiously inched forward and shook his massive paw.)

Marsh: You come down here often?

Me:  No–because …

(I stopped in mid-sentence. I almost let it slip–that the community generally considered this to be reserved for Negroes and not available to the whites.)

Marsh: (interrupting) Let me guess. You don’t come down here because people who look like me seem to own this place, right?

Me: We call it Monkey Hollow. At least that’s what my dad said.

Marsh: He did, did he? Well, we people of a different point of view call it Goshen’s Point. Do you know the story of the place?

(I shook my head.)

Marsh: Tale is that an escaped slave arrived here with his wife and didn’t feel it was safe for him to live among the white folks, so he settled here by the creek, built a cabin and started to raise a family. He called it Goshen because that was the land where the Jews were safe from the Egyptians.

(Once again I nodded my head. I wasn’t really interested–just fascinated by being in the proximity of this aged Negro. I stepped a little closer–honestly, just to find out if he smelled different. I was told they did. He ended up smelling like fish and the residue of earth worms, which was not unusual for people who frequented the sport.)

Marsh: What is your name?

Me: Jonathan.

Marsh: That’s a good Bible name. Jonathan–the best friend of King David. A good young man who got himself mixed up in family loyalty. Instead of siding with his friend, David, he followed his dad…to death.

(I crinkled my brow a bit because I knew the story, but found it more interesting coming out of the mouth of this wrinkled alien.)

Marsh: Is this the first time you’ve ever talked to a nigger?

(My expression must have been worth a million dollars, because Marsh laughed like he had just discovered a treasure.)

Marsh: You have heard us called niggers, right?

Jonathan: Well, once or twice, I guess, but never … near one, if you know what I mean.

Marsh: I do, son, I surely do. Usually they call us Negroes, right?

Jonathan: I guess. If that’s all right.

Marsh: I guess there’s a name we call every person to their face and another one we use behind their back. What do you think, Jonathan? What would Jesus think about that?

Jonathan: I don’t know. Are you a Christian?

Marsh: I sure am. But not like you.

Jonathan: What do you mean?

Marsh: You see, Jonathan, I’m a Christian because I need to be one to survive and get along in this world. You’re a Christian because there’s a church down the road where your friends go, that has some mighty good pot-lucks from time to time.

(I was offended.)

Jonathan: I believe in God.

Marsh: I know, son. I know. It’s just that my faith allows me to believe that God believes in me, too. That God somehow or another is able to escape staring at my color and sees right down to the tiptoes of my soul.

(I frowned, making him smile. Marsh held his freshly caught fish up to his face)

Marsh: Don’t you think this sucker looks just like me? Big lips and bulgy eyes?

(I didn’t know what to say.)

Marsh: You run along. I sure have enjoyed our conversation. I just hope you know that we Negroes–niggers, or monkey, or whatever you hear us called–are able to talk and really don’t bite or hurt nobody.

(I bit my lip because I couldn’t think of an adequate retort. Marsh turned around and started fishing again. I wanted to say something meaningful, warm or profound, but ended up pulling myself up the hill in silence.)

Marsh was the first Negro I ever talked to. Since then, I have purposefully had thousands of other conversations in honor of my initial “creeky” encounter.

I also have grown up and left my small-town, both in location and in thinking. Truthfully, I never did eat a sucker, smoked or otherwise.

But I did somehow manage … not to become one.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity