Let's Re-think Policing

I am certainly not a criminal justice expert. But it does not take an expert to realize that we need serious criminal justice reform in this country. My education in psychology and sociology provides me with some basic knowledge about human behavior that inform my opinions on this subject. I have also been in the business of managing people in various industries in which conflict and intense situations arise. I spent two years working in the mental health field and learned the importance of recognizing potentially explosive situations and received training in how to use de-escalation tactics to resolve dangerous situations. The organization I worked for did not allow the use of physical restraints nor did they have any security staff. Although my experience is certainly not equivalent to the hostile and volatile situations that police officers are likely to encounter, I do believe that much of the practices employed by uniformed police officers exacerbate the volatility of a situation and increase the probability of a violent encounter taking place. 

 When I worked in the mental health field, I was the Director of a program that primarily provided employment and vocational training to individuals who had barriers to finding employment in the community. The individuals we supported typically had a combination of issues they were dealing with. Most had a primary diagnosis of a developmental disability. It is common for people with developmental disabilities to have a co-morbid diagnosis of mental illness. This could be anything from anxiety to psychosis. On most days, these were some of the most deeply beautiful and loving people you could ever spend time with. However, it is imperative that the conditions under which this population works, and lives must be tailored to their general sensitivities to noise, disorder, confrontation, smells, as well as a multitude of specific and peculiar needs. If the staff neglected to maintain the appropriate conditions, it could have led to agitation, outbursts, or even imminent danger to the individual or those around them. I understand that we can not control the conditions of any given situation prior to police involvement. But I do believe that police can control the manner of their approach to a situation that would minimize their contribution to an already chaotic situation, or in many cases, not create a chaotic situation where none existed. 

 Ronnie, a participant in our program, was burdened with developmental deficits, as well as a propensity for psychotic episodes in which he heard the abusive voice of his deceased father. One day the voice told him to take a pair of scissors off a supervisor’s workstation and kill the people around him. Ronnie was clearly not in control of himself. He began waving the scissors around wildly in a threatening manner. He was screaming that he was going to stab and kill anyone that came near him. The Office Manager told all this too me in a hurried and worried manner. The workshop floor was about 25 yards from my office. The staff had already acted promptly and wisely by evacuating all the other participants to the safety of our on-site cafeteria. 

I made my way quickly to the workshop floor. Ronnie was still wildly waving the scissors and slashing them through the air. Our Production Manager and one of our Job Trainers were keeping a safe distance, but directly engaging with Ronnie. They were speaking lovingly and kindly to him. Please understand. They were not only speaking to him calmly, but with love and humanity. They were being empathic. I observed the situation and made a few quick decisions. Our Clinical Director was with me as we assessed the situation. Our Office Manager was standing nearby waiting for instructions. I turned to them both and said that we needed to call the police. The Clinical Director advised that the sight of police officers could drive Ronnie cover the edge and could make matters worse. I agreed but felt that we had to have back-up in case he spiraled further out of control despite our efforts to de-escalate. I asked the office manager to call the police, but to ask them not to turn on sirens, and to please stay nearby but out of Ronnie’s field of vision until we could determine if we needed them to intervene or not. 

I then joined the others in speaking to Ronnie in that same kind and understanding way. I told him that we needed for him to lay the scissors down. I did not yell out for him to drop the scissors. I did not draw a weapon. I did not threaten to taser him. I simply reminded him that everyone loved and cared about him and that we really needed him to put the scissors down. The police officers had arrived and, thankfully, they watched from the cafeteria doors out of Ronnie’s sight. I saw a change come across Ronnie’s face. It was like something had released him from its grip. All the tension left his face, and the tears and sobbing began. He gently laid the scissors down on a desk and the production manager moved with stealth to slip them into his pocket. Ronnie staggered to me with his arms outstretched seeking a much-needed hug. As I embraced Ronnie, he buried his face in my neck. His sobs were coming hard and fast now. There was no more danger. I caught the eye of one of the police officers and indicated with a wave that all was ok. I suggested to Ronnie that we should go out the back door and sit on the picnic tables. Some fresh air would help. 

He held tight to me as I opened the door to the open field and the blue sky that suddenly sucked any remaining tension up into its vastness. We sat down on the tabletop of the picnic table. As his sobbing subsided, Ronnie talked to me about how he missed his father. I mostly listened. 

What if we could stabilize the conditions that lead to disturbances that require police intervention? What if we established policies that eliminated poverty in the wealthiest nation on the planet? What if we provided adequate childcare and nutrition to all of our citizens? Wouldn’t this at least reduce the number of situations that police are called to? What if the police approached with less noise and sirens? What if they did not draw their weapons immediately? What if they stayed a safe distance or took cover while they assessed the situation? What if there could be a standard practice of training citizens to clear a scene so that the officers do not need to worry about the immediacy of acting? What if the police did not start yelling orders at the suspect? What if they ruled out using violence as a way to resolve a situation? What if they spoke with love and kindness to the troubled human that was lashing out, or maybe had not done anything wrong except being black in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if they said this? “You are loved by your family. We care about you. We need you to put down that knife.” 

 Of course, this will not work in every situation. But I know this. I have seen video after video of black people being killed by police officers in which this approach would have worked and someone’s child, husband, daughter, or father would still be alive.

Morning has Broken in America

It feels like Spring in America. It may be bone-chilling and snowing outside your door. Your driveway may be covered by a sheet of ice. And yet, I am overwhelmed by the feeling that Spring has arrived. The jonquils and tulips are pushing up with all their strength, causing cracks to spread through the icy layer like a spider’s web. I imagine that if I were to watch the frosty garden that I might witness the moment that the buds burst through and reveal themselves. I envision a miraculously spontaneous change of season. The gray skies turn blue and the leafless limbs turn green with new foliage just as the morning breaks. Yet nothing that I am conjuring in my mind need happen for Spring to arrive in America today. 

 “Morning has broken, like the first morning.” These words from a hymn first published in 1931, are most familiar to us from the beautiful arrangement by Cat Stevens. The hymn is a prayer of thankfulness for each ordinary day that recreates itself over and over for us. But it is also a song about redemption. A reminder that God gives us an endless supply of new opportunities to re-create ourselves by letting go of yesterday and claiming today. We can choose to open our eyes this morning as if everything that we see and hear and taste and smell in brand new to us. So, on this morning, as we let go of four years of yesterdays, we must claim our collective shot at redemption. We can be a new America that chooses love, compassion, and unity over jealousy, greed, and hate. 

It feels like Spring to me because Spring is the season of redemptive opportunity. This is a spiritual theme that is an integral part of many religious faiths. From ancient pagan practices to Judaism to Christianity, Spring is the time to begin again. America must redeem itself. Redemption has requirements. We must acknowledge our faults, actively work to heal those that we have hurt, and reconcile our spiritual accounts. We must live up to our ideals with honesty and integrity if we want the reward of a new season of hope and liberty. 

Each Spring, Jews are freed from the bondage of Pharaoh’s slavery as celebrated at Passover. Each Easter, Christians are born again and freed from the bondage of the tomb. Buddhists believe that we can have a new Spring in each moment by practicing seeing the world as if you are a newborn baby. They call this “seeing with new eyes.” It is time for our Country to see with new eyes. It is time to let go of the bondage of hate and white supremacy. Our country must be born again, while acknowledging the sins of our past, but recognizing the beauty of the idealistic words of our founding documents. Then we must make reparations. Reparations are essential to reconciliation. And without reconciliation, we can not enjoy the new life that abounds in Spring. 

 “Morning has broken like the first morning 

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird 

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning 

Praise for them springing fresh from the world”

The Sound of Silence

 

Silence:noun 

1. absence of any sound or noise; stillness. 

2. the state or fact of being silent; muteness. 

3. absence or omission of mention, comment, or expressed concern:the conspicuous silence of our newspapers on local graft. 

 “Silence” is a powerful word. The first definition that usually appears in dictionaries describes it as the absence of sound or noise. Despite its literal meaning, “silence” seems to be a favorite word among song writers. Music is our highest form of noise. Music is organized noise. Carefully chosen frequencies that form wordless poems. How ironic it is then that we actually sing the word frequently. It seems like a word that should be impossible to raise in song. Yet it is a common word in hymns and spirituals. Something about singing the word “silence” feels sacred. We can feel the power of the word, when each year at Christmas, choirs and congregations sing “Silent night. Holy night.” I imagine this type of silence as a beautiful act of reverence. Meditative. Silent like a Quaker or Buddhist. Prayerful. And yet in song, the word almost always appears in a context that conjures nighttime or darkness. Or the silence of a tomb. 

 In Simon and Garfunkel’s poetically oxymoronic “Sound of Silence”

the word is used as described in the dictionaries third meaning: absence or omission of mention, comment, or expressed concern. This is the silence of Elie Wiesel’s famous quote: “I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” In the popular song and in Wiesel’s powerful words, the concept of silence feels as sacred as it does in the Christmas hymn. And even though it is being used to mean something completely different, it is also still closely associated with darkness or night. There is a darkness that has settled upon the United States of America over the last several years. It is an ancient darkness. Familiar like an old friend as Paul Simon refers to it in his song written during another dark period in our country’s recent history. It is this type of darkness that is currently occupying my thoughts and its relationship with silence. 

 In the opening line of “Sound of Silence” Paul Simon greets the darkness fondly. The darkness has not come to him, he has sought it out. “I’ve come to talk with you again.” It makes me think about the comfort that we can find in the darkness of ignorance. Just getting through each day in this life can be difficult and it is tempting to retreat into the peacefulness of a kind of intellectual nighttime. We take refuge from worldly concerns in a tent and cover ourselves in a canvas of complacency. I think that most of us give in to the temptation of this type of retreat from truth at times. Although, many people take sanctuary in that silent place and pretend that there is no noise in the world. I’m afraid that too many of my fellow Americans have so effectively cocooned themselves away that they completely missed the alarm bells of tyranny that have been ringing out a warning ever since Donald Trump came riding down the escalator from his penthouse in Trump Tower. They told those of us who had seen the danger ahead and felt the need to broadcast our concerns that we were being too political. “Please”, they posted, “I just want to see kitty-cat videos.” They called our social media posts “rants.” They just wanted to go about their lives. They said they did not have time for politics. They could not break free from the comfort of silent complacency, so they told themselves that the dangerous rhetoric of our President was nothing to worry about. 

 I read post after post about how sick my Facebook friends were of politics. But I was not writing about politics. I was speaking truth in an effort to counter the culture of lies and alternative facts being fostered by an administration hellbent on attaining absolute power. We could not sit silently by and let the Trump family establish a new kind of tacky aristocracy. Donald Trump and his sons were preaching the gospel of vulgarity, hate, and divisiveness. They were taking counsel from dark and sinister characters like Stephen Miller, Steve Bannon, and Roger Stone. They successfully tapped into the worst fears and prejudices of most of white America. They were gaining acolytes that saw political advantage in aligning themselves with Trump and his lies. These apostles embraced the lies and began to evangelize as prophets of the false theology of white victimization and white grievance. And all the while, too many ignored it all. They begged us to remain silent. They just wanted the sound of silence. They wanted to talk without speaking. They wanted to listen without hearing. And they decided that truth just was not that important. And so, the silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence. Their foolish silence allowed hatred, fear, and meanness grow like unchecked cancer until it tore at the very tissue and vital organs of our democracy. 

 May our eyes all be stabbed by the flash of a neon light. And may the naked light lift away the veils that we have shrouded ourselves in. May it expose the fraudulence of the talk show radio hosts, the Fox News fearmongers, and the evilness of a sociopathic President. May it allow us to see the existential necessity of speaking truth to power. And may it render us incapable of remaining silent. Let us raise our voices in the truthful noise of songs of freedom and Justice and Peace and truth. I pray that the MAGA inspired militias stand down, that our tradition of peaceful transfer of power is not further interrupted, and that we begin the hard work of reconciliation. 

 “Hello darkness, my old friend 

I've come to talk with you again 

Because a vision softly creeping 

Left its seeds while I was sleeping 

And the vision that was planted in my brain 

Still remains 

Within the sound of silence 

In restless dreams I walked alone 

Narrow streets of cobblestone 

'Neath the halo of a streetlamp 

I turned my collar to the cold and damp 

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light 

That split the night 

And touched the sound of silence 

And in the naked light, I saw 

Ten thousand people, maybe more 

People talking without speaking 

People hearing without listening 

People writing songs that voices never share 

And no one dared 

Disturb the sound of silence 

"Fools", said I, "You do not know 

Silence like a cancer grows 

Hear my words that I might teach you 

Take my arms that I might reach you" 

But my words, like silent raindrops fell 

And echoed In the wells of silence 

And the people bowed and prayed 

To the neon god they made 

And the sign flashed out its warning 

In the words that it was forming 

And the sign said, 

"The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls 

And tenement halls" 

And whispered in the sound of silence” 

 Paul Simon, at age 21

The Boss Can Make All The Difference

The boss can make all the difference. A great boss can make a bad job better. A bad boss can make a great job suck. I have had several bosses in my life, and I have been a boss to many people. But I have never really been my own boss, until now. Sure, my wife and I briefly owned a toy store together. That was a partnership and we made all the decisions only after having thoughtful discussions with each other. And I have worked as an independent contractor as a Realtor, but that is not quite the same as being your own boss because you can only contract with one firm, which effectively makes the firm your boss. It is only now that I have started my own real estate firm that I can make truly executive decisions. And it scares the hell out of me.

 

Having never been the boss of myself, I don’t know if I am a good boss or bad boss. Will I make a potentially great job better? Or worse?  I know who my good and bad bosses have been. And I know that many people that have reported to me thought that I was a good boss. But I am aware that some did not think I was a good at all. What can I learn from my former bosses that will help me always fall in the good boss column?

 

My first lesson learned in the good boss/bad boss scenario may have been at my very first job. I worked at a family owned campground and marina on Lake Norman. I started at age twelve and left at age seventeen. I began with one boss and left with another. My first boss was Buck Teague. Buck was big in stature and good in nature. A man with a hearty laugh, a quick and short-lived temper, and two police trained German Shepherds in the back of his pick-up truck. He built the docks himself. He built the tiki themed restaurant and tiki themed bathhouses. He built the floating restaurant known as “The Outrigger” from an old barge and a giant pontoon which supported the large covered deck that spanned the length of the barge. I think the fact that he built the whole enterprise himself was at the heart of what made Buck Teague a good person to work for. He was proud of what he had built, and he took the time to teach me how make any task into something you could take pride in. He wanted the toilets in the bathhouses to be clean enough that he could eat soup from them. He personally demonstrated for me how to use Red Devil Lye to scour the showers at seasons end, until they shined like new. Most importantly, he trusted me to operate the work vehicles used on the property. The garbage Truck, the tidy wagon (mail truck), and an old Ford Tractor. My second summer there, he allowed me to be the youngest gas dock attendant they had ever hired. It was a coveted position, but also one that came with great responsibility. Handling gas hoses around boat motors and water. And the even more risky business of handling cash around water. Buck trusted me, and he also held me accountable. He was firm and fair. He was a good boss. 

 

Buck Teague died suddenly and unexpectedly when I was fifteen. His son, Earl, became my new boss. Earl worked in the office just to the side of “The Tiki Torch” gift shop. He had helped his Dad build the docks and buildings. But I don’t think Earl ever really felt like the business was his. He inherited it and that is all together different from taking something from your imagination and making it into something real. Earl grew up in the marina that his dad built. His work attire of shorts and docksiders were worn with an air of casual arrogance.  Where his father was gregarious, Earl was aloof, hiding behind his mirrored shades. He had a slow boiling temper that was not short-lived. He could be casually cool to me one day and mean as hell the next.

Most of the time, I felt like Earl was just annoyed that he had to deal with me at all. He was constantly trying to catch me making mistakes with the gas-dock cash box. He was certain that I was not counting change correctly because the meter readings and my daily cash audit were not ever an exact match. The numbers would be off by a dollar or two in either direction. He was certain it was me and not the meters on the ancient and weathered gas pumps. He told me that I would have to start paying him for all the money I was losing. I was certain that I knew how to make change.  So, I decided to add up all the overage and underage that was detailed in the thick spiral notebook I dutifully kept records in, as taught to me by Earl’s father. I brought him the final tally which indicated that, by his logic, he owed me fifteen dollars and some change. Earl turned red in the face and I swear I saw steam coming out of his ears. He put his wife in charge of me after that. And I grew more and more unhappy in what had been a real dream job for a kid like me. I quit when I found out that they had hired a friend of mine and started him at a higher wage than I earned. I had spent nearly five years of my life scrubbing toilets, cleaning out garbage cans full of maggots, and spending long days every weekend pumping gas for their customers.  Earl was a bad boss.

 

What can I learn from Buck and Earl Teague that will help me be a good boss to myself and any future staff and brokers I will manage? Hopefully, I will benefit from building a business myself like Buck did. I am creating the brand and what I believe is a unique concept in the field of residential real estate. 

 

I should take pride in not just my fiscal ownership of the business, but my creative ownership as well. I should trust myself and others to do a good job but hold myself and others accountable. Trusting yourself is harder than it sounds. I have a newfound respect for entrepreneurs. I should be firm, but fair. A simple concept that seems to be so difficult for too many bosses

 

Earl was never really emotionally invested in the business that may have been more of a burden than a blessing to him. I’m sure he would have done it all entirely different if he had the opportunity. I will try and remember to appreciate the opportunity of designing a business and not merely managing someone else’s creation.

 

Earl had no appreciation for the time and effort I devoted to his family’s business. He never noticed that I was excellent with customers. He never saw how they smiled happily at me as I helped gently guide their boats safely into the slips on the dock. He never noticed that I had learned to tie off a boat to a cleat in a clean and efficient single motion.  He never remarked that the toilets were clean enough for him to eat soup out of.

 

 I will do my best to give myself credit for a job well done and not just beat myself up for the mistakes I am bound to make. I will strive to always notice the best qualities that the people who work for me bring to the job and I will make sure that they know that I notice.

 

I am looking back now on all of my experiences of having a boss. I am reflecting on my past actions or inactions as a boss and how they factored into whether I was perceived to be a good boss or a bad one. I want to be a great boss.  And I think I may have just taken on the most challenging employee I have ever had to manage. Myself.

Jill, Genuinely Interested. My Rare Friend.

I have a rare kind of friend. Jill has been a part of my life since my first year of middle school. She was that girl on the bus that would make sure a new kid like me felt welcome. I was shy back then. She made me feel a little more at ease. We became friends. As we transitioned from middle school to high school, we had only grown closer. I could tell Jill anything. She would never betray my confidence. She never judged me in any way that I could tell. You see, a rare kind of friend.

Jill was one of those lucky kids that had a "children's phone line" in her house. It was upstairs where she and her sister slept. I never saw that upstairs, even though I spent countless hours at her house.  Late at night, after our parents had gone to bed, I would call Jill on the kid's line. She would scoop that phone up before one ring could finish, not wanting to wake her parents. And Jill and I would talk. For just a couple of kids, we talked about big things. We dared to ask questions about the nature of things and we could get pretty philosophical for two teenagers with very sheltered and limited experience. But we talked about the teen stuff too. You know, like who she liked, or who I liked. Or who I liked that didn't like me back. Jill would always console me when that happened. She'd say that the girl was the one who was missing out. I don't think I could do much wrong in Jill's eyes. She saw something in me that I'm not sure was ever really there. But that is what a rare friend is all about.

Jill and I shared a love for writing. She was and is the better writer. (She wrote such an amazing letter to Lee Smith that the author took her to lunch!)  She was diligent and studied hard. I was  disorganized and easily distracted.  But we shared what we wrote and respected each others abilities. So, on occasion, I send her something and she sends me something. Earlier today, I sent her a recording of a song I wrote. This is something that I took up late in life, but knew I could count on Jill to be not only supportive, but a cheerleader! Even though one of her other closest friends is a nationally known musician, it never occurred to me that she might judge my amateurish attempts at this new endeavor. And true to form, she replied enthusiastically!  "OMG that is so awesome! ... What inspired this song???" 

 Note the multiple question marks!  I do that too!! 

 "When can I see you play in a club???"

I decided to send Jill an email with a link to the whole song and write a little about my inspiration to answer her three-question-mark inquiry. And I found myself opening up about my feelings that had insisted I write something about them. Just like all those late nights on the kids phone line. I hope she does not mind, but I am sharing what I wrote here:

Here is the song link.

I hope this link will work for you.  

So here is the deal. It all has to do with vacation coinciding with tragedy.

But it starts with just a vacation. I had never been to the Outer Banks until several years ago. So, I decided one year that instead of our usual beach trip to SC or Ocean Isle, we would go to OBX.  I loved it down there. Watching the sunset from Jockey’s Ridge on Kill Devil Hills was amazing. A total calm washed over me, watching twirling kites silhouetted by the sun’s descent. Magic. 

I had brought books with me all about the Outer Banks. The legends, the myths, the ghost stories. The pirates, the Wright brothers. I fell in love with  the mythical, romantic idea of this harsh and yet, beautiful place. I became fascinated by the local obsession with Virginia Dare. Her claim to fame, as you well know, was simply being born. First white child born in the new world. And then of course, tragically lost forever along with the rest of the colony. The legend is that Virginia somehow was cursed and turned into a deer. A “white doe” that roams Kill Devil Hills and Kitty Hawk to this very day.

I don’t know, but I really got caught up in these stories. I think because they represent the mythological America. This harsh land, braved by those early settlers. We came and made it a beacon of freedom to the world. But that is not really the whole story, is it?  Maybe Virginia Dare represents innocence lost. Maybe she represents European civility delivered to the Indian savages. Maybe she represents the Eurocentric superiority complex that haunts our country still.

So a couple of years later, we were at Carolina Beach (your old stomping grounds) when we heard about the church shooting in Charleston. A young white supremacist prayed with parishioners before using a gun to kill them all. I was sickened. I had felt like that kind of hatred was losing its place in the United States.I thought that bigots were old and dying off. This horrific event flew in the face of my complacency.

A couple of summers later, back at Carolina Beach,  and Heather Heyer is killed by a white nationalist just for participating in a protest that simply said that black lives matter. 

I was distraught, so I went for a walk on the beach. I sat on the sand. Every beach trip since that Outer Banks trip, I had this feeling  like I was connected back to that place and to the mystical legend of Virginia Dare. I sat in the sand looking at the ocean. I thought about Jockey’s ridge in Kill Devil Hills. The words kill and devil rang in my ears. I remembered how it felt when the wind whipped stinging sand at my skin on that giant sand dune, Jockey’s Ridge. I thought about the sting of the whips that landed on the backs of slaves. That sting that has been a part of the American experience from the start. I envisioned the African slaves in chains, in the cargo hold of a ship crossing the Atlantic. I thought about the captains of those ships being enslaved to a way of life that was cruel and rotten at its core. I thought about all of America being held captive by a system dependent upon the most unholy of sins: denying other humans their very humanity.

And I thought , “What right do I have to stand on this beach and look at that ocean?” I thought about never having to know what it feels like to be treated like chattel. Or to have to fight for the right to vote. Or to have to teach my kids to fear the police. And I thought about how me and you and all the other white folks here have benefitted from the systemic suppression of black people. We could own land. They could not. We could use whatever toilet or water fountain we wanted. We were given the benefit of doubt by the police. So I thought, I am the devil’s beneficiary. Whether I like it or not he made a plan and named us the beneficiaries of his evil deeds. And we gladly accepted the privilege it afforded us. 

The song is simple. A love story. A man betrayed by self-deception as to the purity of the woman he so desired. Or a people betrayed by self-deception as to the purity of their own country. A people that one day will wake up and realize that they have been lied to. And they will understand that they overlooked the “white lies” Virginia had told them and that they did so because it was to their benefit.

I know that seems like I think this simple song is some huge revelatory work. But I am proud of this song. And all of this is the answer to your question about what my motivation was for writing it.  

Thanks for listening Jill. You have always been someone who gets me. I appreciate that. 

Love, Scott

White Privilege on a Dead End Street

We were several cars parked side by side on a newly built cul-de-sac. We had planned to meet here for a party. We were a group of thirty teenagers. We were all white. We had all parked our cars facing away from the dead end and back toward the tree lined road we had just entered from. Most of us were not eighteen yet, which was the legal drinking age at the time, but our cars were loaded with coolers of beer. The road that we were on was part of a new wave of development that had begun on the lake where we lived. Local developers had begun buying land on or near the lake and building small neighborhoods of a dozen or so houses. This one was a little larger with one road splitting into three cul-de-sacs and would probably end up with about 30 or more houses. The roads were complete and even had curbing in place, but not a single house was under construction yet. The closest homes were not visible from where we were parked, but we knew they were just around the corner. We knew lots of kids our age that lived in those houses, but no one had invited them to join us.

Like us, these kids lived on the lake. They rode the same school bus that we had ridden on before we got our driver’s licenses and our own cars. We knew them and they knew us. Many of them were probably friends with us, in that way that blacks and whites were in those days. Friends at school. We did not visit their homes and they did not visit ours. We might see each other after a football game at a pizza place, but they sat on one side and we say on the other. It is so strange looking back at that now. For the most part, there appeared to be no tension between our groups. We would joke with each other. We were definitely classmates, but there were unspoken rules and lines that were not to be crossed. And even though we were parked on a cul-de-sac in their neighborhood, it would have been very unusual to see any of them at a non-school sponsored gathering like this. 

So, here we were. A bunch of white kids, mostly guys, hanging out on a dead-end street after dark in a new development that was encroaching into an area that had previously only been for African Americans. Someone, with a major stereo system, had opened up their trunk and cranked up Back in Black. There was only one way to listen to the iconic AC/DC album and that was loud!  I guess it never occurred to us that we might be disturbing nearby residents. Being at the end of an unlighted and undeveloped street created an illusion of isolation. And even though we knew the nearby neighbors were there, it felt like no one lived close by.  Or was it that we somehow felt that it did not matter that people lived close by, because we were white, and they were not? This question has haunted me for a long time. It haunts me, because I don’t want to know the answer.

On that evening, I believe that my group of friends had broken one of those unspoken rules between us and our black friends from school. We were being loud and obnoxious on a street that was clearly a symbol of things to come. A symbol of white privilege eating its way into their lives and property from the edges. It was a sign of the unstoppable force of gentrification that would eventually force them out of their family homes. And here we were, oblivious in our own white privilege, using this street as if we owned it.

 

“Alll Aboarrrrd! Hahahaha” screamed Ozzy over the loudspeakers as we hooted and hollered and passed out beers. We owned the night. We owned this street. We owned this lake and we were living it up.

For a few minutes.

Our stomachs dropped as someone yelled “Cops!” I looked back toward the street entrance and saw six head lights and three spotlights side by side and heading toward us. There was no way out. We were caught. Our own hubris had not allowed us to see this predictable outcome.  We were not in a town, but in the county. As the headlights got closer, I could see it was the bright yellow cars driven by the county police. The spotlights were blinding and I could not quite make out just how many police had arrived and initially thought that all three cars were the regular patrol cruisers.

The cops parked the cars and blocked us in.  A few guys had hopped in their cars and started them as if they were going to make a get-away. Not a chance. We were fish is a barrel.  I had a twelve pack of beer in the floorboard of my car. There was no way to hide it or dispose of it without being seen. The officers got out and began shouting instructions at us. “Nobody move, stay where you are.” They were shining flashlights directly at us. Their guns remained in their holsters. One cop came over to my car and shined his flashlight into my car. He was trying to sound intimidating and said, “I see you have some fire-water in there.” I said nothing, but the use of that term for beer struck me as funny. Was he playing with us? 

As my eyes adjusted to the lights, I could now clearly see the police cars. One of them was the new Chevy Blazer that the cops known as The Lake Patrol used to tow their police boat in and out of the water.  I had worked at marinas on the lake for years. I had gotten to know some of the officers that drove the boat. I wanted that job one day. They wore shorts and just drove around in the boat all day. The lake was pretty quiet in those days. It seemed like a dream job.  I quickly scanned the area observing each officer desperately trying to find one that I recognized. And there he was. The boat Captain.

“Hey Harry!” I shouted. Harry looked up and at me. He immediately broke into a smile. I will never forget the words that followed, “Hey man! What are you doing down here?” His voice was cheerful. He was happy to see me. He came jaunting over to me with his hand out for a shake. I shook his hand. He then spoke in a soft voice to me and asked why we were there. I told him the truth. We were looking for a private place to have a party. He told me to hang tight a minute and walked over to another officer. They had a short discussion.

Harry came back to me and said, “We had some complaints about the noise from the neighbors. Y’all just need to find a different place to take this party.” And that was it. They all got back in their police cars and left. Suddenly, I was everyone’s hero. “Scott saved us.” They said. But  I did not feel  like a savior. I felt like we just got lucky. I felt like we unfairly got away with something because I knew the right people. I was white and blonde headed. I worked at a job that gave me access to the right people.

Today, as an adult, I know that things would have gone down much differently had I been a black teen, with my black friends, parked on a dead end adjacent to a white neighborhood. I would not have personally known the police captain. And even if I had, he would not have seen me as a non-threatening white kid with a bright future ahead of him.  I could be the same person in every way except skin color, but all he would have seen was a black kid breaking the law. I have no doubt that, at the very least, arrests would have been made. And I don’t want to even think about how it might have ended beyond that.

This story is only one tiny example of the white privilege that I have been the beneficiary of. As white people, we are all heirs to the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow. Let’s just admit it and let’s do everything we can to speak up and out for equal justice for all.

The Garbage Truck and The Tidy Wagon

Collecting garbage. Photo by Tom Franklin

I have never been unemployed since I started my first job at age thirteen.  The pandemic, a couple of underlying conditions, and a “Stay at Home” order changed that. On Friday I filed for unemployment.  Since I am self-employed as an independent contractor, I would not have qualified to receive unemployment under the old rules, but fortunately Congress added a provision that covers contractors and gig workers.  Filing for unemployment got me thinking about my past jobs. I am thankful for each one of them. Even the ones that weren’t the greatest because I learned something new with each one.

Way back in 1976, my family moved from Charlotte to Lake Norman. We had been camping there for years on a leased campsite in Outrigger Harbor. Outrigger was a combination marina and tiki themed family campground. 

There was a tiki themed restaurant called, wait for it…

Lake House 1976. Photo by Tom Franklin

“The Tiki Terrace!” The owner, Mr. Buck Teague, had also acquired an old barge and built a full kitchen and tiki themed dining hall on it. It had spiral stairs that lead to an upper deck pilot house. The captain would take groups on dinner cruises on a very different Lake Norman than the one you may know now. In the evenings the little outboard motor that powered the barge named “The Outrigger” would be the only noise, besides the ducks and geese, heard from the surrounding shores. I loved the place and knew that as soon as I was old enough, I would apply to work as the attendant on the gas dock.

Me and Mom at Outrigger Campsite. Photo by Tom Franklin

I was eager to start saving money so that I could buy a car as soon as I turned sixteen. My father talked to Mr. Teague and he explained that at age thirteen, I was too young to work on the gas dock yet. That job was currently filled by a high school-er named Sam Wallen. However, Sam needed help with some of his other duties and also needed to start training his replacement since he would be off to college the following year. Dad took me to the Social Security building in Charlotte where I applied for a work permit. I was allowed to work up to twelve hours per week. I was excited, even though the law also allowed my employer to pay me less than minimum wage because I was under sixteen.  I started at $1.85 per hour.

Photo by Tom Franklin

I was paired up with Sam for the entire summer. Summers, and especially weekends, were very busy at Outrigger. I learned pretty quickly that my job was to be a jack of all trades. If it needed to be done, then Sam and I did it. Sam ran the gas dock on the weekends, but his other duties were done before and after opening the docks, as well as throughout the week.  The two main parts of my job were cleaning the campground bathhouses and collecting the garbage from the campsites. I had barely been there a week when Sam told me it was time for me to learn to drive the garbage truck!  I thought he was joking. Sam was a very smart guy, so I was certain he knew that I was not old enough to drive!  But Sam was a young Libertarian and he explained that regular rules of the road did not apply, because the entire place was on private property. America the beautiful! 

The garbage truck had a manual transmission. Sam said the best way to learn to use the clutch was starting from a dead stop while on an incline. He had parked on a moderately steep hill and left the hand-pulled parking brake on. Sam sat in the passenger seat beside me. He gave very clear instructions: Step lightly on the gas. Slowly let the clutch out until you feel the point of friction.

Wait! I had no idea what that meant. Sam said that I will know it when I feel it. He was right.

Back to the lesson: Hold the gas and the clutch at the point of friction. Notice how it feels. While continuing to hold at the point of friction, release the parking brake. If the truck starts to roll backwards, then give it a bit more gas while holding position on the clutch until you find the point of balance.

Hold on again!  What does that mean? Sam said I would know when the truck stopped rolling backwards but did not move forward either. I was starting to get nervous. What if I just kept rolling backwards right into the lake, or one of the sailboat owners’ Jaguar or Mercedes?  Sam said not to worry. He would pull the parking brake if needed. It took several tries in which either Sam had to pull the brake, or I stalled out the engine. But when I got it, I had it. It was like magic. I had the power to make this giant garbage truck balance under my command! The rest came easy. Sam was the best driving instructor I ever had.

I spent that summer driving the garbage truck, while Sam rode on the sideboard. He would hop off when I stopped at groups of trash cans. He’d run and collect from one side, while I grabbed the bags out of the cans along the other side. The trash cans were 55-gallon drums with holes punched in the bottom so that water would not collect in them. They had metal lids that were heavy enough to stay in place most of the time. We would throw the smelly bags of garbage into the open sliding doors on the back of the truck.  Then we grabbed new bags and put them in the barrel. We secured them with a special way of looping the excess bag into a knot that cinched tightly on the drum.

Outrigger Harbor had another truck that we used every day. It was an old mail truck. A Jeep TP40. It had a roll-up door on the back. The back was filled with cleaning supplies, toilet paper, and plungers. They called it “The Tidy Wagon.”  And that is what we did. We drove the old mail truck to each of the four bathhouses and tidied them up. We actually did more than tidy up. We scrubbed them. We cleaned all the toilets twice a day. We scrubbed the showers. We detailed the sinks.  Mr. Teague said he wanted the toilets so clean that he could eat soup out of them! If anything was stopped up, we plunged it. Sam taught me how to adjust the jets on the tank-less toilets if the flush was too weak or too strong. Another lesson in balance.

There was always plenty of work to do. Cutting grass, washing windows at the Tiki Terrace, using a sling to clear the weeds from the shoreline. It was a great job. I loved most everything about it. I continued to work on the weekends once school started. Sam left for college the next year, so gas attendant was added to my responsibilities. I continued working there until my second year in high school. My friend Brian joined me the next summer. I taught him to drive a manual transmission just like Sam had taught me. The summer after that my older brother, Randy worked with me. I also taught him how to drive a stick drive using “The Sam Wallen Method.”

Dad shot this during Outrigger's annual regatta.

By the time I was sixteen, I had saved $2,250. I spent every last dime on the worst car ever made by Audi, a special edition 1978 Fox with gold pinstriping and the words “Blue Fox” written in gold script on each side! But that is another blog post.

  

  

Photo Dad took at Outrigger Harbor.

Those were magical days filled with honest work.  I learned something about the value of labor and just how much work it takes to save a little money.  And now I am stuck at home. 

For the first time since getting that work permit, 
I have no choice but to sit things out a bit.

I’ll be back in the game soon enough.