Lost are the Ways of the Warrior

Friends,

It is time to stop with the emotionally charged responses to the ongoing plague of violence in this country. All the statistics, all of the cliché arguments do nothing, and I mean nothing to solve the problem. The media tells you what they want you to hear, and shows you what they want you to see. Our political leadership turns the names of the victims into weapons to strike at their opponents.

Make no mistake; there is no amount of legislation that is going to make this problem go away. The solution does however lie in the capable hands of “We, the People.”

In this installment, I am going to express to you my frustration with both sides of the gun argument, and where I feel the problem with our mass killings really lies.

Let me begin with who I am:

Me teaching a firearms safety class.

I am a warrior, descended from warriors. I am a former United States Marine, an outdoorsman, gun owner and enthusiast. I am even a National Rifle Association certified instructor. One may assume from this statement that I am part of the “Pro-Gun” camp.

My six children have never fired a gun. They have never played with toy guns. Firearm replicas were never allowed in my home. It has only been since my oldest daughter turned sixteen that we have begun the process of learning firearms safety. My children are not allowed to watch violent television programs (I can count on one hand the number of episodes of “Mighty Morphin Power Rangers” they have seen).

do not believe in open carry, I believe in background checks and age requirements. I guess one may assume that from this statement I am in the “Anti-Gun” camp.

Here is where “the middle” expresses itself. All I ask, is that you take the time to read this through to the end, and judge when it’s over.

To the “Pro Gun people, I say this;

Please. Just. Stop.

That "Certain Demographic."

Without fail, every time there is a firearms related tragedy, the first thing that follows are a rash of loud emotional ejaculations from a certain demographic. While, their educated and well spoken face is the National Rifle Association, the more common one is a stereotypical caricature of the red blooded American, posting in all caps on social media “They can have my gun when they pry it from my cold, dead hands!”

Sadly, these posts come across as uneducated and ridiculous as the cartoon characters who misspell them all over the internet.

As a responsible gun owner, these are the last people I want representing me or “fighting for my rights.” These are not representative of me and the majority of gun enthusiasts I associate with, yet I find myself again and again counted amongst them, because of their outspoken hyperbole.

Gun enthusiasts are not, uneducated simpleton masses.

Yet over and over, Facebook, Twitter and other online outlets produce ludicrous statements that others will blindly repost as truth. These arguments are irrational, and illogical, and do about as much good for the gun rights cause, as a thimble would when bailing out a sinking ship.

What is worse is that these kinds of people profess to represent me.

It is one thing to say something that makes you sound stupid. It is another entirely to include me in that stupidity. These are direct quotes that I have seen on the internet, spelling and all!

“Mass shootings have been around forever. Back in the day we had flintlock rifles. It took longer, but still.”

What?

This would be a "flintlock mass shooting."

Flintlock rifles were used in mass volleys, not mass shootings! It took a skilled rifleman close to a minute to reload a long rifle! During that time his enemy had the ability to beat him to death with a club, tomahawk or even a tree branch. Not the same thing as an AR platform rifle with a thirty plus round magazine! Not even close!

“Might as well ban spoons, they make people fat. Might as well ban tires, because cars run over people. Ban swimming pools, they drown people.”

At least this statement I can applaud the attempt at using consistent reasoning while comparing apples to oranges. Of course, wheels were designed to facilitate movement, spoons for eating without making a mess, and swimming pools for getting wet. A firearm is, on the other hand, a machine specifically designed to launch projectiles at extremely high velocity through flesh with the intent of killing a target. Be it for food on the table, or in defense of one’s life, killing is the purpose of the firearm.

“Guns are just tools.”

Me, using the "tool" to kill some paper.

Yes. Tools designed for killing things. I believe I have already established that.

“More guns in the hands of law abiding citizens, is the best deterrent against these guys committing these mass shootings.”

I could not disagree with this statement more. Currently in most places, the NRA “Personal Protection Inside the Home” course is all that is required to obtain a concealed carry permit. There is no standard for qualification with a handgun that I have ever seen in the last twenty years. A few hours of lecture and putting five holes in a paper plate at 7 yards and you too can go about strapped.
Two years ago I attended a gun show in Tampa Bay. I was treated to a person outside the entrance, clearing a pump shotgun with the barrel pointed at my head so closely that I physically pushed it out of my space. While I was there I observed people walking around with handguns in their pockets, small children holding pistols while riding on the shoulders of their adult, and a twenty something with greasy blonde hair sauntering about twirling a six shooter on his finger like Johnny Ringo in the bar scene from Tombstone.

This experience did not fill me with a lot of confidence. These are the people who carry every day!

Even those who are safety minded and want to be responsible can be problematic. An October 3rd article on Guns.com articulates my reasoning far better than I could have said on my own. Author Jeffrey Denning, divides shooters into four categories:

The Unconscious incompetent shooter is described as “a shooter who doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.” Someone who might “immediately tune me out when he realizes I am suggesting he change his technique.” Denning says in his article, “My guess is that even if I videotaped these types of shooters, they still might not have a clue what they are doing wrong, because in their mind, they can’t be wrong.”

The Conscious incompetent shooter is “much more self-aware,” Denning says, but goes on to say “that doesn’t mean, however, that this person is destined to become a good or even a decent shooter.”

The Conscious competent is self aware and has developed competent shooting skills. They understand what they are doing right or wrong and what it takes to make fixes.” Most shooters, says Denning “drift between type two and three.” He plainly and accurately states that “Repetition is all law of learning,” and that these shooters “know that improper repetition can create bad habits.”

Finally, Unconscious competent shooters are skilled tactical and technical shooters, “who have the right mindset” and have “put in the work many times over and can now perform single or multiple actions during a lethal confrontation.”

As a Marine, I had to be able to disassemble and reassemble my M16 A2 service rifle in seconds... while blindfolded. I spent hours “snapping in,” in the dust of Camp Pendleton. We drilled daily, over and over with our rifles until our actions became muscle memory. I learned to shoot with iron sights at two, three and five hundred meter distances. I earned the “expert” marksman badge every year I qualified during my enlistment.

Truer words have never been spoken...

With all of my handguns, rifles and shotguns over the years, I have made a point to have the same familiarity with all of them.

How many concealed carry permit holders can say the same thing? How many have purchased a weapon and put it in their holster or in their purse and never take it out and use it? How many have invested in tactical shooting instruction? How many really know the capabilities and limitations of their weapon? I know that the circumstances I would be willing to engage in a firefight would be different if I was carrying my Smith & Wesson .380, or my 9mm Glock.

More guns in the hands of unconscious incompetent or even conscious competent shooters is not a deterrent. It is a disaster waiting to happen.

Finally, to all the Pro Gun crows who supports open carry I say this: Open carry is not the world I want to live in.

On July 16th of this year, a lone gunman opened fire on an Armed Forces Recruiting Office in Chattanooga, Tennessee leaving four of my fellow Marines dead, along with one Naval Petty Officer. In the wake of this event, armed citizens took it upon themselves to “defend our defenders” under the rallying call “Freedom.”

“Freedom?”

These fine warriors took an oath to defend this country against all enemies foreign and domestic. They did this by travelling to distant lands that many of us only see in pictures of children

clutching AK 47’s while standing in front of bomb ravaged buildings. Many argue that we “fight the enemy on their ground, so we do not have to fight them on ours.”

Guess what. The enemy has won.

Because now, I see pictures of my own country with people draped in the American flag holding their AR platform rifles in front of bomb ravaged buildings. Freedom indeed. We look just like these “third world” countries we profess to be superior to.

Scary Weirdos Guarding Recruiters.
What the rest of the world sees when they
 see "Americans."

What is worse? The ones doing the “Freedom” stuff gaining international attention (That’s right, folks... this is the news that is broadcast around the world.) are idiots wearing kilts, and long underwear to these events! To be honest, I do not fear my daily trips through “the hood,” nearly as much as I fear the idea of running into these ass clowns!

Now, to the Anti Gun people I say this: Please. Just. Stop.

Your emotional overreaction to

these tragedies is equally as disgusting as the ignorant ranting of your opponents. Your righteous indignation is just as illogical and inane as the Pro Gun coalition. The knee jerk reaction to enact gun control measures will accomplish precisely zero in the short term, and even less in the long run.

Banning firearms: Making guns illegal will not stop criminals from committing crimes with guns. The idea that it will is so beyond fantasy, that I cannot formulate a metaphor that will do it justice. Making things illegal in hopes of solving problems has been tried and has failed repeatedly in this country.

First we tried with alcohol during the 1920’s. Prohibitions failure did not stop the U.S. Government from trying again in 1971 with President Nixon declaring “War on Drugs.”

Alcohol is now legal.

Drugs are just as prevalent now as they were in 1970.

Firearms are so prolific, that their accessibility would be virtually unchanged. Even if we were able to successfully eliminate all firearms sales and manufacturing, the resulting black market would fill the void without skipping a beat. The demand is already there, and there are plenty of suppliers out there eager to meet it—legally or not.

On August 11th of this year, ATF agents in Blytheville, Arkansas charged 70 individuals with illegal firearms trafficking.

In South Texas, 22 individuals were arrested in an operation that had young housewives purchasing over 200 AK47s for illegal transfer to Mexican gangs in February of 2012.

September of 2007 saw 12 suspected drug dealers, 59 illegal firearms and $187,000 worth of narcotics taken off the streets in Savannah and Chatham Counties in Georgia.

Guns are not going away. If you have stayed with me this far in hopes of reading some sort of profound solution to this catastrophic failure in our society, well, here it is.

This problem is not going away in our lifetime because we have strayed from the path. This is a cultural problem, not a gun problem.

We are a society ruled by our emotions. The entirety of my post to this point has been a direct reflection of our When I look at the tragedy, when I look at the grief, especially having tasted it myself many times, I realize that we are a nation of cowards without honor.

For when we are hurting, when we are wronged, we lash out at others making them hurt, and avenging ourselves often inappropriately.

Often we avenge ourselves on those who have done us no wrong, or wished no ill upon us. Our media bombards us with these stories— normalizes this behavior. Our social media perpetuates it, inspires others with it. Were we a culture of warriors, this would not be so.

“True Warriors have no reason to be cruel. They do not need to prove their strength. Warriors are courteous even to their enemies. Warriors are not only respected for their strength in battle but also by their dealings with others.” 
Bushido—Rei.

The hope for a solution lies in you and me teaching our children the warrior values. Red Cloud of the Oglala Lakota Sioux once said; “I am poor and naked, but I am the chief of the nation. We do not want riches but we do want to train our children right.”

Red Cloud

This is done by showing them love and respect. We cannot expect our children or our youth to respect us if we do not respect them, and we cannot respect our children or our youth if we do not first respect ourselves.

It is our moral and legal obligation to set boundaries and provide structure for our young people to grow and develop. We control their environment to allow them to safely take risks and get hurt enough to learn the important life lessons. We must teach them that it is okay to lose, and that everyone does at some point—but that they don’t have to like it.

It is important for us to let our children experience pain, and loss. These things are inevitable and unavoidable. Recently, a tragic event took place in which one of my young son’s friend was swept away by a rip current and drowned. My son was born just a few weeks after the death of his sister, thus he never met his sibling, but knew that she had been a huge part of his family.

He knew she was dead, but the understanding of the permanence of death escaped him. While he and I were processing this experience, he suddenly realized that his friend was nine years old, and that he was nine years old, and that his sister had been nearly nine years old when she passed. At nine, my son became aware of what it means to be mortal.

Because death is inevitable, and because of the deep wounds it causes, learning to deal with death and loss is just as important as proper medical care is to the healing of any physical wound. We must teach our young to honor all life, and that indiscriminate killing only leads to a dark place.

This is a forgotten value that spans all cultures. The Abrahamic religions God said to Adam and Eve, “Reign over the fish in the sea, the birds in the sky, and all the animals that scurry along the ground,” but did not instruct them to be cruel or inhumane.

The Holy Prophet of Islam has said "Whoever is kind to the creatures of God, is kind to himself."

The Creed of the Buddhist Shaolin Temple ends in the words, “For all life is precious, and cannot be replaced.”

My Native ancestors did not kill indiscriminately, but utilized every part of the animal for their survival. There was a deep reciprocal admiration for the animals, for the plants, and for each other. The great Lakota shaman, Sitting Bull stated very eloquently;

Sitting Bull

“Every seed is awakened and so is all animal life. It is through this mysterious power that we too have our being and we therefore yield to our animal neighbors the same right as ourselves, to inhabit this land.”

When we respect ourselves, and we respect life, and when we learn to respect that spark in others, we have returned to the way of the warrior. Being a warrior is not about inflicting damage on others. It is about protecting ourselves and our own.

When we have the mindset of protecting ourselves and our own, we will develop the skills and tools necessary to do so. With our increased proficiency, comes an increase in confidence. With our increased confidence comes an increase in our self-respect. When we have self-respect, we find it easy to respect others. When we respect others, we do not seek to harm them, even when we ourselves may be mortally wounded.

Violence is a reality. We are a long way from returning to the Warrior Culture of dignity, honor and respect. I hope to instill these values in my children. I hope they will instill those values in theirs. I hope to cause through my children, the ripples to expand across our society and eventually restore the warrior ethic. If I can leave nothing else for my children and those youth I have worked with over the years it is Meiyo—honor.

We have lost our sense of honor. Honor no longer drives a person from actions that bring shame to themselves, their family or their name. These mass shootings are the quintessential example of dishonor—the blatant slaughter of innocent men, women and children without cause or justification other than to wound, and then shamefully taking one’s own life, robbing the families and loved ones of any hope of answers, closure or justice. 

Violence is a reality, but nonviolence is another path.

Nonviolence leads to the highest ethics, which is the goal of all evolution. Until we stop harming all other living beings... 

we are still savages. 

The Lions and the Sheep

"I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.”

-Alexander the Great

What separates me from those who work for me and even along side of me is this: 

I am a leader. I am responsible for the outcome of this mission. 

I am tired of other people dictating to me who I am and what my performance is. Only I can determine how I will respond to pressure. Only me. I am responsible for the outcome of this mission.

My statistics don't lie. 

My people are good people who want to do good. 

If they see me falter, they will fail.

I cannot be the sheep leading the lions. I must be a lion leading the sheep.

We are still Savages.

From General Mattis to the General Workforce

“I don’t give a damn about the officers. If they don’t like what they’re doing, they can get on a plane and leave the Corps — go back where they came from. But I do care deeply about those 18- and 19-year-old Lance Corporals out on the frontlines.”

This quote comes form one of my Marine Corps heroes, the legendary James N. "Mad Dog" Mattis. Matts has never been one for mincing words, and his leadership style is just as forthright. 

As a manager, I believe the same applies to my "troops." They may not be Marines, but they fight the good fight every day in the trenches. Often they don't get paid nearly what they are worth, and put up with disrespect, verbal abuse and occasional threats or intimidation from our clients.

As managers it is our job to lead. It is our responsibility to give our staff someone to follow. If we can't or won't do that it may be time to go back where we came from. Treat your employees well, and they will live up to your expectations! Don't, and well...

We are still savages.

The Logic of a United States Marine

The recent discovery of my biological family has been an incredible journey. In the months ahead, I expect I will tell my story. There are a lot of pieces, and the very fact that I am here to tell you about those pieces is nothing short of a miracle. God’s grace. Providence. Whatever you feel most comfortable with. In order to tell the story however, I need to ensure that the details are correct. Until then, I would like to share with you another story. This story is one that I found by scouring through papers that were left for me about my family. 

It is the story of my Grandfather, who I have the honor of sharing a birthday. My Grandfather who was also a United States Marine. My Grandfather, who was also apparently, a smart man as well as a smart ass.

The following is a direct line by line retelling of the story as told by my Grandfather Weldon Spradlin, complete with his misspellings and typo’s. I think it is brilliant.

Spradlin's Company MCRD San Diego 1955

While in the Marine Corps I found it necessary to learn a good deal about military law. During the time I was training troops, I found it necessary to bend the rules on occasion, therefore I sometimes found myself afoul of the law. While this caused me no end of concern, it did inhance my education.

"The first time I found it necessary to learn about law I was charged with Willful Destruction of Government Property, to the specifications that I did order my troops to bury their rifles, order my troops to pour water over the graves until the ground was muddy and order my troops to run back and forth over the graves until they were obscured. For this I could have been sent to prison for twenty years.

I was guilty as sin.

I could find no military lawyer who would say he could win the case so I took out a copy of the UCMJ (uniform code of military justice) and a copy of the MCM (manual for courts martial) and went to work. I was able to get a delay to allow me to prepare and for the next two months I spent all my time with my nose in one of the books. Then we went to pre-trial.

After two day of presentations the prosecution had even me convinced that I should be bound over for trial. Then it was my turn. I called my only witness whom I shall call Pvt. A, because I can’t remember his name, and ask him the following questions:

Q. Pvt. A do you know what this is? (I held up a rifle)

A. Yes sir, that’s a U.S. rifle, caliber 30, M1.

Q. How long would it take you to field strip this weapon, wipe it clean and put it back together, blindfolded?

A. About 30 seconds Sir.

I then set up a table with the rifle on it, blindfolded him and had the court time him while he did so, in less than 20 seconds. I then addressed the court. 'Gentlemen of the court, the defense moves for dismissal. It should be obvious that the troops I have trained are of the highest caliber, there are few men in the world who can match what Pvt. A has just done. I also submit the record of the platoon on the firing range, of seventy fife men in the platoon all have qualified at least as marksmen, over half are sharpshooters and the had the highest number of experts on the range when they shot for record, and they shot with the rifles I am charged with destroying. It is true that some small damage may have been done to the rifles because of the methods I used in training, however, the demonstration you have just seen plus the records of these men on the firing range surely proves the ability of these troop to repair any damage done to the rifles. Furthermore it is evident that the cost of any damage done to the rifles has been more than offset by the value of improved proficiency of the troops. If this court believes that rifles that set records on the firing range have been willfully destroyed then you must hold me for trial, if not then you have no choice but to dismiss the charges.'

The charges were dismissed."

Spradlin "Keeping Watch" for his Honor Platoon circa 1955

Semper Fi, Grand Dad. 

We are still savages...

...and looks like we always were.

My Tribe is... A Tribe!

Friends,

Big Spring, Husband to my Great
Great Grandmother

Since my last post, I have made some incredible discoveries about myself, and where I come from. Some of these discoveries have been good, while others are what they are. Perhaps the greatest discovery is that after forty-three years, I have discovered that I have a whole family that I never knew. Adopted from birth, I already have a "story." I already have my "people," as I have written on in my post "All Good Things," last September. I know where my values come from, my work ethic, and my love for the outdoors. What I didn't know was where my hair went once I turned thirty-five, or whether I "have my mother's eyes..."

Well, it turns out, that I do.

I have found my birth parents, and actually met my biological uncle and his wife, two wonderful and amazing people who opened their home to my

tribe and shared with me not only their hospitality, but some images of my history as well. It seems that my humorous label for the population of small people I am responsible for raising is a more accurate moniker than I thought. 

Big Spring and his uncle,
the warrior Wolf-Eagle.

As I await the meeting with my biological mother (a wonderful woman who has remembered my birthday every year for over four decades) who will arrive in just a few short weeks, I devour the books she has sent me about my maternal lineage. There are thousands of pages to read, and the names and the dates are overwhelming. My uncle stated that he was the first in the family to have been born outside of the Federal Reservation established for the Blackfeet People near Browning, Montana. I see my mother's eyes in these pages, the same eyes I see when I look into the mirror, or into the faces of my children or the pictures of my newly discovered nieces and nephews. 

But the blessings of being descended from such a proud and noble people has its downside. I have discovered that diabetes and high blood pressure also come with the genetic package. I am discovering daily what the different physical sensations I have observed over the years mean to my body, as I learn to adjust to my body's issues with sugar. It isn’t the end of the world, but it did give me cause to pause for a moment and reflect on my mortality, and my quality of life.

I am not afraid of death, or of dying. I have experienced the power of that transition with two of the most important people in my life, my maternal grandfather, and my oldest daughter. Both of these experiences left me not with a belief, but an intuitive knowledge of life and what lies beyond. There is nothing there to be fearful of. As the Siksika Chief Crowfoot said, “Life and Death are no different, they only appear that way.”

If anything, these new discoveries have given me the opportunity to embrace life, and really enjoy it.

Hell, I may even learn to dance.

I still identify as that "Michigan Farm Boy," and forever will. But I would be lying if I said that I haven't felt the Spirits of my Ancestors throughout my journey to this point. 

We are still savages.

Suck it Up, Buttercup.

I was assisting a client with a crisis, this evening, and a story from my childhood again came to mind. It has come to be relevant on several occasions over the past month or so, and while I realize that this story is old to some people, I still see the value in sharing it, and the hard lesson I learned one summer...

When I was fourteen years old or so, I had an old Honda CT90 trail bike that looked a lot like a mustard colored moped on steroids. That little bike got me all over the nearly seven hundred acres of my grandparents farm every summer. Of course I rode with no helmet, often pushing the little 89cc 4 stroke to speeds that would have made my parents quite uncomfortable.

It was that summer of I guess it must have been 1985 or 86, that I was on my way from the dairy barn at one end of the acreage to “the house” at the other. It was a typical hot and humid Michigan summer, well into the 80s with air so thick you could cut it, so I was likely going even a little faster than usual to enjoy the breeze. I had just cleared the sand pit that we used to fill the free stalls in the cattle barn, and started into the massive hayfield on the south side of the lot my grandparent’s home was on, when it happened.

If anyone reading this has seen the movie “Spider Man” with Tobey Maguire, the scene where he first discovered his “Spider Sense,” you know where everything slowed to nearly a standstill? That is what happened precisely. I suddenly found myself airborne, floating what felt like a mile above my bike, which was proceeding in a straight line without me. I could almost count the spokes on the slowly turning wheels, and the wind that had been whistling in my ears mere seconds ago had been replaced by complete and utter silence. I closed my eyes. I knew this was going to hurt.

When I opened my eyes again, I could see my bike lying on its side, with the front wheel still spinning against the air. Nothing felt like it was broken, and I was pissed to say the least. I stood and kicked the rear tire, where I noticed the drive chain lay broken, and cried out as an excruciating pain shot through my ankle and up my leg. I looked down at my right ankle and saw that my foot looked more like a football already, and the swelling had just begun. Yep, definitely broken.

I sat there for a moment and rocked back and forth in pain. I felt the sweat running down the back of my neck, and realized that not only did I hurt, but I was really thirsty. Then I looked down the long row of fence posts that lined that hay field and swallowed hard—or would have if my throat hadn’t been so dry. It was almost a mile in the sun to my grandparent’s house, and help. I looked back over my shoulder in the direction that I had come, and realized it was just as far—if not farther—to the dairy barn and a phone.

So there I was, back in the old days before the advent of the cell phone, in the middle of over six hundred acres of woods and fields, sitting in the hot sun with a broken leg, a motorcycle that was going nowhere, and no one knowing which way I had gone. I was faced with three choices;

One, go back the way I came, through the sand pit and up the two-track to the dairy barn and call for help. Two, go straight ahead down the fence row in the heat until I reached the farmhouse and call for help. Or three, sit there in the sun and wait for someone to find me.

I tested my leg, found that there was no way it was going to bear my weight, and took my first step down the fence row anyway. The next hour and a half or so was excruciating. I walked, hopped, and at times crawled the distance of the field that my cousins sometimes used as a landing strip for their crop-duster. My leg was throbbing, the heat was unbearable. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls. I made my way to the kitchen and called my mother, who came and took me to the emergency room in Mount Pleasant.

At fourteen, I learned a valuable lesson in life.

You do what you have to do.

Sometimes there will be no one to rescue you. Sometimes there will be no outside support. No cavalry to save the day. No one with a big “S” on their chest. Nobody to do it for you when it gets tough. The only person you can rely on at the end of the day, is you.

In our every day work relationships, when we don’t feel valued or respected, it hurts. Sometimes the disrespect is intentional, mean or even cruel. When that happens, we have three choices;

We can complain to those who will listen, hoping that by venting and revisiting the past we will somehow feel better, stronger or validated. We can sit and wait, hoping that things will get better and feeling miserable in the meantime, or we can move on with our day and take care of our business.

Bills still have to be paid. Clients still need the services they have paid us for. Products still need service. Deadlines still have to be met, and none of these situations gives a thimble full of that product that our dairy cows produced about how you feel… And no, I am not talking about milk.

At fourteen I developed my disdain for weakness and the inability to make a decision. I realized that if you don’t choose, life will choose for you, and more often than not the failure to make a choice is not going to be in your favor. This realization was tested and proven twenty years later with the passing of Marissa, my oldest daughter. No matter how much it hurt, and how my world had just simply stopped, things had continued on as normal for nearly everyone else. The electric bill still came in the mail, groceries still had to be purchased and my other children still needed their father.

I had to choose to walk that fence row again, this time with a broken heart.

It is absolutely acceptable to hurt. It is unavoidable really. It is okay to want to vent. It is fine to process emotions. We are all human, and we all have them. It is the time and the place and the intent in and which you choose to hurt, vent or process that makes the difference. What you choose to do during times of stress, crisis, or pain is what defines who you are.

It’s what separates us from the civilized folks.

After all, we are still savages.

Oh, and just to finish the story of the broken leg. When I finally reached the house from my useless trail bike, I found the place empty. My grandfather’s truck was gone, and I did not see the tail end of my grandmother’s Ford Taurus poking out of the garage. I was completely and utterly alone. I gulped down several glasses of iced tea I picked up the phone to call for help.

Remember that this was in the mid 1980s in rural Michigan? Remember how I said that this was back before cell-phones? Well, some of you may remember something called that “party line” and I don’t mean that late night 900 commercial. For those of you who don’t know, or don’t remember, the party line was where two or more homes share a phone line.

I put my finger into the little hole on the phone dial where the number “9” showed, and I heard a woman’s voice in the receiver. It was the little old lady in the house at the top of the hill, carrying on a conversation with one of her friends or children, or perhaps grandchildren, who knows? I don’t know how long I was on the line before she must have realized I was there, but she said;

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I responded, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I broke my leg, and I need to call for a ride.”

“In a second, dear,” she told me. “We’re almost finished here.”

CTM

Heroes Come in all Colors

It was humid, as it almost always is in the Tampa Bay area. A woman walked the streets of St. Petersburg alone. She could feel the air hugging her face and thought how thick and heavy it felt.  She pressed on in the dark. On these dimly lit streets the humidity was punctuated by halos that appeared around the street lights in South St. Petersburg, in an area known as "Midtown." 

"Midtown" is a beautiful neighborhood, rich in history and full of promise for the future, but in the present, it is marked by liquor stores and poverty. Drug deals are commonplace and in the open, in spite of the community's efforts against the criminal element, bars are still mounted to business windows, and the homeless mark their territory with their empty bottles, and shopping carts. 

She continued on towards her destination, unfamiliar with her surroundings. She had a vague recognition of the area, where she was in relation to where she was heading, and how long it should take for her to get there, but now with each step she took uncertainty began to grow. When she felt his presence fall in step behind her, uncertainty turned to fear. When his shadow fell upon her fear turned to panic.  

Then, there was the glint of steel flashing in the dark and panic became absolute terror. At first no sound came out as she screamed. She was certain that this dark figure was death, come to claim her. 

And then he was gone.

Around her were three young men, asking her if she was alright, and assuring her that she was safe. These young men had heard her cries for help, and had driven her attacker away. He had fled into the shadows from where he had emerged.

In this day and age, we see more and more incidents of violence on Youtube and Facebook than ever before. Nearly everyone has a cell phone, but rather than using it to call for help, too often it is used to make videos of these acts. People being beaten or even killed is only a web search away if you need to see it. Many people will not call the police in these neighborhoods, because it "isn't their business."

A week after this incident took place, a St. Petersburg City Council member would say to these young men who had made this their business, that what they did was remarkable. He told them that "It wasn't your concern, but you made it your concern. You didn't have to act, but you chose to." 

Courage, it is said is finding it in yourself to do something, even when it terrifies you.

So... Why do I do what I do? Why do I choose to work with youth that other people would just as soon write off?

Because I have always been contradictory. I have always looked for the exception to the rule. In a society that calls our youth--especially our back youth "entitled," and "self-centered," I have living proof of the contrary. Our culture looks at young black men as "thug," "ghetto," "lazy," "street," and any number of unglamorous labels that only fuel the stereotypes that lead to disaster, these three young people acted in an extraordinarily courageous manner.

They did the right thing. Because it was the right thing to do.

Every day I am nauseated by the polarized view on race in this country. Too often these views are displayed in social media and on websites after something terrible has happened. Somewhere along the way, our country has to figure things out. Note the faces you see preventing looters during the Ferguson, Missouri riots. 
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/08/16/ferguson-protesters-guard-stores_n_5684042.html

On a side note, I would like to point out the faces you see in Kentucky, after their loss to Wisconsin.
http://nypost.com/2015/04/05/kentucky-fans-take-out-anger-by-rioting-after-loss-to-wisconsin/

Pay attention to the children whose actions saved a five-year-old from a kidnapper.
http://www.cnn.com/2013/07/15/justice/pennsylvania-teen-heroes/ 

Recognize the young man who saved the life of the police officer who was arresting him.
http://www.cbsnews.com/news/after-arrest-florida-teen-helps-save-officers-life/

Contemplate the actions of the teen who protected a Klan member from an angry mob in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/10/29/keshia-thomas-black-teen-white-man-kkk-rally_n_4175020.html

Respect City of St. Petersburg, Florida's "Sunshine Ambassador" award winners, Barrington Williams, Richard Canty, and Chauncey Swinton. Three young men who had the courage to do the right thing, in spite of what our mainstream media would have you believe. It is character not color that matters. Someday, I hope to blog about how one citizen helped another, rather than how a "black" or "white" citizen helped another. Until than, I will rave about the actions of the few, that benefit the many.

Top Row: Councilmembers Amy Foster, Karl Nurse, Charles Gedres, Steve Kornell, Darden Rice, Bill Dudley and Jim Kennedy. Bottom Row: Councilman Wengay Newton, Chauncey Swinton, Barrington Williams, Richard Canty, and Myself.

Ordinarily I am not allowed to post on the youth I work with. This, however is a matter of public record, and these fine young men stood before the Mayor of St. Petersburg, and the City Council of the beautiful City of St. Petersburg, Florida. 

In a society that calls our youth--especially our back youth "entitled," and "self-centered," "thug," "ghetto," "lazy," "street," I call them "upstanding," "citizens" and "protectors," and heroes.

I am exceptionally thankful for all those who shrug these stereotypes. I am especially grateful for our heroes. Our society needs them. 

After all...
We are still savages.