Category: Soapbox

Across America by Bicycle, Part 19: Rolling Down the Mighty Mississippi

Posted on by Pete Schloss

The Great River, Old Man River, The Mighty Mississippi… At 2,202 miles from its source at Lake Itasca, Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico, it is the second longest river in North America. The Missouri, deemed a “tributary” that discharges into the Mississippi at St. Louis, is the longest at 2,341 miles. The Missouri/Mississippi system ranks as the 4th longest river in the world after the Nile, Amazon, and Yangtze. While deemed “mighty” in its length and breadth, its average discharge is only one-twelfth that of the Amazon River in South America.

Cycling for Change had reached the Mississippi at St. Louis on July 25th. After a “rest day” we turned south and loosely followed the course of the middle and lower Mississippi to New Orleans.

With the St. Louis Arch looming over our shoulders we navigated our exit of the urban sprawl into the river lowlands and rich bottom lands of Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. I and segment rider Ben Harring made a brief afternoon foray into Arkansas on August 2nd which was otherwise a “rest day” in Memphis.

Six riding days to Memphis, 400 miles, an average of nearly 70 miles a day. The cool dry air of the western mountain states was a distant memory. The order of the days had become pre-dawn starts to beat the heat. Unfortunately, the morning air was dense with humidity that condensed like rain on our bikes, clothes, and goggles in those early hours. Humidity was the lesser of the two evils which by late morning gave way fully to the heat.

St. Louis to St. Genevieve, Missouri…

St. Genevieve to Cape Girardeau, Missouri where a bike mechanic at Cape Bicycle rescued me from the near disaster of a frayed cable that had tangled and wound within the precision mechanism of my shifter. He worked hours after closing time, refusing to give up on the bicycle disabling and potentially ride-ending mechanical failure. Eventually successful, he then declined payment for the hours of his labor.

Cape Girardeau, Missouri, through Illinois, a crossing of the Ohio River near Cairo, Illinois and on to Hickman, Kentucky…

Hickman, Kentucky to Dyersburg, Tennessee…

Dyersburg to Covington, Tennessee…

…and finally

Covington into Memphis, Tennessee where the early Sunday morning streets, including the iconic Beale Street of Blues music fame, were barely waking to the day.

Along the way we enjoyed brief moments of notoriety as a local radio station in Cape Girardeau began interrupting its broadcasts to report on our mile-by-mile progress through its listening area. One dedicated listener left her home and waited in a convenience store parking lot hoping to see us. She waved us down and was thrilled to join with us for a photo-op and autographs.

Breakfast diners in Hickman Kentucky similarly found fascination in our exploits.

Matt gave a television interview upon our arrival at Christian Brother’s University in Memphis…

…and even Memphis’ Mayor, the Honorable A.C. Wharton, Jr., headlined a “meet and greet” event in our honor.

The “rest day” in Memphis provided us with the opportunity to do a bit of individual sightseeing. For my part that included the National Civil Rights Museum, a complex of buildings that include the Lorraine Motel, site of the April 4, 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Young and Morrow Building where James Earl Ray had lain in wait to gun down the civil rights icon.

As sobering as it was to view the balcony where Dr. King was slain, it was all the more so to eye it from the room and window where Ray aimed and fired the fateful shot.

Outside of the Lorrain Motel I was drawn to the curious sight of a middle aged Black woman standing at a table. It was apparent that it was some kind of one woman protest.

Jacqueline Smith was the last resident of the Lorraine Motel. She had lived there since 1973 while working there as a housekeeper. When the motel closed in 1988 she and all of her belongings were evicted. From that day forward she mounted a single voice protest against the gentrification that had “stolen” her beloved neighborhood from those who Dr. King most loved. As of my visit in 2010 she had been a continuous presence at that corner for 22 years. Her protest continues to this day, more than 32 years after it began. Below is my 2010 reflection of meeting Ms. Smith.

Next: To New Orleans, “The Big Easy.”
Peace Everyone. Pete
August, 2, 2010.   Sometimes It Is Not So Simple

Today is the scheduled departure of Ben from our group. Ben joined us as a segment rider in Atchison, Kansas, and has ridden nearly 800 miles with us across Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and into Memphis, Tennessee. Ben is the youngest (23 years old) rider, and the thinness of his profile suggests that a strong wind would take him and his bicycle skyward. His steady temperament and strong legs quickly made him “one of us”.

Last night Ben asked if I would be willing to ride this morning across the Mississippi River to Arkansas. Even though this is a non-riding day, with a series of Cycling for Change events scheduled in the afternoon, it seemed a fitting way to enjoy one last ride with Ben. He and I were off at 6:30 am. The temperature was already in the mid 80’s, as was the humidity. We navigated a decidedly bicycle “unfriendly” route through industrial Memphis, crossing the Mississippi River on the abandoned (apparently) sidewalk of the I-55 bridge, which seemed paved with broken beer bottles. We ignored a few “keep out” signs on the west river levees, and after hazarding a gravel farm road arrived at a truckstop in West Memphis, Arkansas.

We enjoyed breakfast and the good humor of two waitresses, who knew how to make a couple of spandex clad cyclists blush: “You boys are REAL bikers… we know where your motors are!!”. With breakfast concluded we reversed course, returning to Tennessee. Ben asked if we could detour to see the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis. A quick check of the map confirmed that it would only take us a few miles off our route.

The National Civil Rights Museum is the restored Lorraine Motel, sight of the slaying of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., by James Earl Ray, on April 4, 1968. I have memories of the black and white television and newspaper images of black men standing over Dr. King on the motel balcony, pointing in the direction of the shot that had struck him down. As Ben and I turned onto Mulberry Street we saw the Lorraine. There was the balcony with a large white wreath marking the place of tragedy. What surprised me were the bright colors of the motel and marquis; aquamarine, red, yellow… cheerfully “retro” like a 1960’s hamburger stand. However, the Lorraine was merely being true to the day that Dr. King was assassinated.

We rode forward intending to take a few pictures, but on the opposite side of the street was an old table, a folded and faded beach umbrella, and amateur painted signs which proclaimed in large letters, “Boycott the $10 million dollar James Earl Ray Memorial”, and “22 years, 199 days”.

We adjusted our course to get closer to the site of the apparent protest. Jacqueline Smith, a slight built but attractive middle aged black woman was at the table unpacking some pictures and papers. Frankly, I had expected some kind of white supremacist to be the engine of protest, not this woman of color. She greeted us, cheerfully asking where we had bicycled from. We enjoyed a brief social exchange about riding and the weather while she organized pictures of Martin Luther King and an assortment of memorabilia. I pointed to her signs and asked the simple question, “Why”?…

Ms. Smith, in a manner that betrayed years of practiced delivery, explained that she was the last resident of the Lorraine Motel. Pointing across the street she said that it had been her home. She gestured around us and added that this had been her neighborhood. This was where her family and friends once lived. When the Lorraine was converted into a Memorial, she lost her home. When the surrounding streets became “gentrified” as the focal point of the Memorial she lost her friends and she lost her neighborhood. Jacqueline Smith lamented that the neighborhood was now populated by centers of entertainment, dining, and million dollar residences. It was no longer a place for her people or the people that Dr. King loved and worked to benefit. “Dr. King preached that he tried to be right, he tried to feed the hungry, he tried to cloth the naked, he tried to love and serve humanity”. “There is nothing in what they have done to the Lorraine and my neighborhood that is a tribute to what Dr. King stood for.” Jacqueline Smith has stood on that corner every day to deliver her message. She is the lone counterpoint of the National Civil Rights Museum and has been so for 22 years and 199 days.

Ms. Smith and I talked for about 20 minutes. I admitted that I planned on returning to tour the Museum later that day. I thanked her for giving me another perspective. I also promised her that I would share the experience of meeting her.

It seems so simple that the site of the slaying of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. should be dedicated to his memory and his work… until the simplicity is complicated by the reflection that the work of Dr. King was not the erection of monuments and memorials… his work was feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, housing the homeless, serving humanity. Sometimes it is just not as simple as it seems.

 If you would like to visit Ms. Smith’s website, it is www.fulfillthedream.net

Peter Schloss

Across America by Bicycle, Part 17: Kansas is not Flat

Posted on by Pete Schloss

…at least Kansas is not flat from the seat of a bicycle.

On July 11, 2010, we entered Kansas embarking on a transit of nearly 500 miles that in 7 days would see us arriving in Kansas City, Missouri. Our route was almost exclusively on old US Highway 36. US-36 opened in 1921 was one of the original pre-Interstate thoroughfares that opening large swaths of the United States to automotive travel. It is not a true cross-continent highway as it begins it’s journey in Ohio and reaches its western terminus 1,400 miles later in Colorado’s Rocky Mountain National Park.

I-80 to the north and I-70 to the south have rendered US-36 a lightly travelled two lane country road that connects a string of small communities. In the west where we entered Kansas from Colorado the elevation was just under 4,000 feet above sea-level. By the time that we reached Kansas City, Missouri we had descended 3,000 feet. In the meantime the topography undulated across the plains and prairie land.

We frequently rated the difficulty of a day’s ride by the amount of vertical climb accomplished. In Colorado, Wyoming and the other western states climbs came in one long and very large effort. We found that in Kansas the total of vertical climb made good was equivalent to our experience in the mountain states, just in hundreds of small segments… “kind of a death by many cuts.”

Before the ride began, I had “predicted” to the team that at some point this would become labor. That transition occurred over the course of the 7 days that we crossed Kansas. Joes, Colorado gave us torrential rains.

Norton and Atwood in Kansas repelled us with relentless head winds. Smith Center, Kansas “treated” us to a heat index of 114 degrees. However, we would not be deterred as Kansas City drew us like a magnet. For most of us it represented home and a few days pause with family and friends. For all of us it was the completion of 2,500 miles of our 5,000 mile journey, the halfway point.

The final day ride, 60 miles from Atchison Kansas to the campus of Rockhurst in Kansas City was also special. In Atchison and Leavenworth we were joined by over 100 cyclists. Among those riders was my nephew, Phil Schloss, and members of the “Gravy Train”, cyclists with whom I regularly rode then and still ride to this day.

Smith Center, Kansas had a Dollar Store that I visited for some now forgotten need. As I approached the cashier my eyes were drawn to the impulse purchase rack. For only a dollar I became the proud owner of a bag of 100 huge, life-like, rubber roaches. Think Florida Palmetto Bugs, as seen here in comparison to the last of the plastic imitations that I still possess.

The rubber roaches each came to be known as “Henry”. For the 2,500 mile remainder of the C4C ride they bemused, befuddled, and generally terrorized the riders and occasional non-rider victims. Henry would show up in water bottles, clothing, bags of potato chips… and any other place that I could creatively (and anonymously) deploy him.

Early on I was considered a suspect, but one of the Henrys was overlooked only to be found on a day that I could not have been the perpetrator. My role in these pranks thus remained unknown until I confessed my guilt in Key West, Florida.

One morning in Clewiston, Florida I found a real Palmetto resting on the seat of my bicycle. I took the opportunity to carefully photograph the Palmetto alongside a “Henry”. Removing the fake bug I left the real one in place. Soon one of the riders saw “Henry”. In disgust the rider grabbed him with a mind to show everyone that yet another “bug” had been found. Unfortunately, it was not “Henry” that was held closed in the palm of the rider’s hand, but the real Palmetto Bug. I wish that I could have recorded the yell that pierced the air as the huge insect struggled to escape the rider’s grasp.

At the end of this post is a reflection on a memorable personal experience that also occurred in Smith Center, Kansas.

Next: Missouri’s KATY Trail
Peace Everyone. Pete

 

July 13, 2010. The Nine Dollar Haircut

Today was hot. Not just hot, but HOT!

“How hot was it, Pete?”

So hot that the roll of my bicycle wheels gave the continuous sound of separating Velcro as the sun-beaten asphalt reluctantly released its grip, revolution after revolution.

So hot that colors appeared bleached into the dull grey of sepia photos by the arc-welder brightness of the midday sun.

So hot that…

Prudently, we awoke early and had the vans packed with our luggage by 6 a.m.. Arrangements had been made with a local diner in Norton, Kansas to accommodate the 17 of us for an early breakfast. The goal was to eat and then be on the road via US 36 to the town of Smith Center by 7 a.m.. 61 miles separated these towns and the prediction was for the temperature to break the century mark. Mercifully, the headwinds of the prior day had moderated into tolerable side winds that had the intermittent character of gusts from the mouth of a blast furnace.

We arrived in Smith Center shortly after noon. Our motel, The Buckshot Inn, was cast in the mold of countless motels that sprang up in the heyday of the old US Highway system. As with its more famous sibling, “Route 66”, US 36 was once a primary link for commerce and travel across the United States. These roads, wonders of the first half of the 20th Century, have long been eclipsed by President Eisenhower’s visionary network of Interstate Highways. US 36 is now mostly frequented by local travelers, huge lumbering farm combines, and today by our bicycles. Most of the motels are gone, but the ramshackle remains of some are still visible as ghostly reminders of an earlier era. The Buckshot Inn survives and thrives thanks to the attention, care, and maintenance of its owners. To our delight, the line of rooms faced a small yard and a blue turquoise concrete swimming pool. The crystal clear water invited us to make its depths our first non-cycling activity of the day.

Refreshed, our focus shifted to finding a late lunch. The urgency of the mornings ride had caused us to skip our usual meal break. Christine and I went into the old downtown area to seek a diner.

Downtown Smith Center is not dead, but like many historic central business districts it is not well. The two and three story brick and stone structures harken to a time when a building’s name and year of “birth” were prominently displayed at the top and on the cornerstone. One such building in Smith Center is the Shite Building, 1888. Another, The First National Bank building, displayed “Founded 1886, Erected 1930”. That was a tough year to build a bank, but clearly The First National Bank had successfully weathered the adversity of the Depression. Faded paint indicated the character of some of the long gone businesses. Much of the former commerce has been replaced by antique and secondhand stores. A modern addition to the bank facade informed us of the time, 2 p.m., and the temperature, 101.

We ate at the Second Cup Café, where $6 can still buy you a large tenderloin sandwich with all the trimmings, and a piece of homemade pie (Apple, with Maple flavored crust, fantastic!). A patron asked if we were with “the cycling group”. After a pleasant discussion with her and the café owner, she smiled and gave us a $5 donation and a “God Bless You”. We left the café and were again assaulted by the wall of heat. Across the street I saw a small, faded barber’s pole mounted next to the door of an old and timeworn storefront. “Paul’s Barbershop”. It had been over 6 weeks since my last haircut, and curiosity got the best of me. I crossed the street to peer into the window. Over the years the glass had lost its clarity, etched by countless dust storms. I shaded my eyes against the glass in order to better see within. I beheld not just a barbershop, but a living “barbershop museum” with one of our riders, Jeremy, in the barber’s chair.

We entered the shop. It was a “three chair” store, each of which was a creature of cast iron, nickel, porcelain and leather nearly 100 years old. Jeremy was in the center chair, but what immediately drew my eye was that the chair to the left was a fully functional chair in miniature… the perfect size for a 5 year old and elevated to the perfect height for Paul the Barber. This tonsorial “throne”, fit for any young prince, differed from its larger brothers only in the absence of the long leather razor strops which hung from the full size chairs.

“Atmosphere” was provided by a mahogany encased, single dial radio which still used vacuum tubes to amplify the broadcast signal. An older console version stood near the back of the store. The service counter displayed bottles of men’s grooming products such as Vitalis Hair Tonic, Krew-Kut, Hask Hair Tonic, and a few other brands that I had thought long extinct. Behind the counter was a very old ornate white and chrome cash register… the kind that shoots little metal “tombstones” up at the sound of a bell to announce the amount of the transaction. I would soon learn that the register remained in use. Then there was Paul, the shops sole proprietor.

I suspect that in Paul’s younger days he had been at least 6 feet tall, but 7 decades and bending over countless heads of hair had taken their toll. As he focused his attention on cutting Jeremy’s hair I noticed a tremor in Paul’s hand that seemed to stop just at the moment the clippers reached their destination. Barbers are observant of people and human nature, and Paul was no exception. He seemed to read my mind and commented in a matter of fact manner that he had suffered a stroke but was able to pursue his calling after only 6 months of recuperation. Paul was confident of his skills to the point that he made jokes, “If I make a mistake, the hair will just grow back”… “If you want something fixed, you can always ride your bikes back here”… Paul and I were amused. Jeremy’s half-smile gave just a hint of reserved nervousness. I sensed that my wife, Christine, preferred that I leave my hair to other hands.

Paul put the finishing touches on Jeremy’s hair-cut, and with practiced mastery removed the barber’s cape, shaking the clinging hair to the floor. “That will be nine dollars”, Paul announced. Jeremy and I both must have displayed a micro reaction, as Paul then followed up with, “I could do it cheaper, but only if you fellows pay my bills.” Now, it has probably been over 30 years since I had a $9.00 haircut, and here Paul had assumed we were suffering sticker shock.

I took my turn in the chair. Paul went to work as a craftsman should, with calm practiced confidence. We talked as he cut.

“So you fellows are Catholic. Well, I’m Lutheran, which is kind of watered down Catholic.” He stopped and chuckled.

“Was a time there weren’t many Catholics in this area, but there are sure a lot of them now”. He was making a matter of fact observation. There was no animus in the statement.

I asked Paul for a recommendation for a dinner restaurant. “Well, I prefer to eat with Mom (his wife) at home, but I suppose if I had to eat somewhere else it would be Putches or Duffy’s downtown here.” We ate at Duffy’s, and Paul’s recommendation was spot on.

I learned that Paul and his wife had celebrated 50 years of marriage in June. They had two daughters, a son, and one grandson. This was Paul’s second barber shop and he had been cutting hair in his “new” shop since 1962. He confirmed that the chairs, register, and fixtures predated his arrival. It was at this point that Paul became serious. “There have been many people over the years who have offered to buy my chairs, cash register, and other items.” He and “Mom” had talked about it, but it just didn’t seem right. The shop was his business and his life. He just couldn’t see parting with it piecemeal. With sadness he remarked that in front of the shop there once stood a tall barber’s pole that was as old as the shop itself. About 8 years ago some fellows passing through town wanted to buy it. Paul politely declined to sell. “I was in the shop Saturday, and by Monday the pole was gone. Someone stole my barber pole”. Paul declined to blame “those fellows”, or anyone else. He just remarked, with a hint of sadness that maybe someone needed it more than he did.

“What do you think?” asked Paul. “About the barber pole?” I replied. “No, the haircut! Is it ok?” I smiled and looked in the cracked and time worn wall mirror at the white skinned border that now separated my bicycle tan from my shortened hairline. “Paul, it looks great!” Paul beamed and said, “That will be nine dollars.” I gave him a ten… “Please keep the change”. His smile broadened, broken only by the word, “Thanks!”

As I left the shop I considered that my ten dollars had purchased a haircut and a moment in the life of a good and extraordinary man. Smith Center had the fortune of Paul’s good will for over 50 years. “Mom” had enjoyed his love and company for over 50 years. How rich the community and how rich his family. My 15 minutes in his chair were priceless. I wish I could take my grandchildren there just once. You know that tonsorial “throne”, fit for any young prince (or princess). I wonder if children’s haircuts are also nine dollars. Let’s see, that would be $90.00 plus the tip… What a bargain.

-Pete Schloss

A sad update to my reflections on Paul…

Across America by Bicycle, Part 15: Wild Wonderful Wyoming

Posted on by Pete Schloss

As we rode south from Grand Teton National Park the vastness of Wyoming opened to us. In total, our passage through the state covered over 450 miles.

From elevations so high that ice still covered the lakes…

To near endless rolling steppes where the summer grasses bent to the winds in wave upon wave.

One afternoon we did battle with a thunderstorm that hammered us with lightning and gusting side-winds exceeding 50 mph. Sorry, no pictures as it was everything I could do just to keep my bicycle vertical and on the road.

We prided ourselves on riding our bikes every single mile, however there was one location of mountain road construction where non-motorized traffic was prohibited. Kindly, the construction crew accommodated us.

The variety of geology that surrounded us was an ever changing treat.

One morning we encountered a group of young cyclists on the road. They were “Push America”, another charity ride crossing the United States, west to east. Strong riders every one of them. Having “eaten her Wheaties” that morning our petite Lissa, aged well into her 50’s, decided to join their pace line. For miles she rode with them achieving for the day her fastest average speed of the entire Summer, nearly 20 mph.

We crossed through the Wind River Indian Reservation where we were hosted at Mass at St. Stephens Mission Church. It was striking to see how familiar Christian images of worship had been ethnocentrically translated.

Upon reflection that is precisely what our European ancestors had done for millennia in creating images of a central European Christ, and blue eyed Mother Mary, and a Latin liturgy.

On July 1st (2010) we were hosted for Mass and dinner by St. Joseph  parish in Rawlins, Wyoming. Near the church we had encountered another cross-country cyclist who we called “Milwaukee Tom”.

Tom (of course from Milwaukee) had recently completed his service commitment in the US Navy. He had mustered out in San Diego California. Tom decided that he was not yet ready to return to the conventions and restraints of civilian life, so he took his discharge pay and bought a bicycle. Tom outfitted his bike for long distance touring and embarked upon a journey of no particular duration to no particular destination. At our invitation Tom enthusiastically joined us at St. Joseph parish for companionship and dinner.

On the evening of July 1st we were joined by a new segment rider, Tom Dillon from Kansas City. Tom’s first riding day with us was on the 2nd, a tough 66 miles to Riverside Wyoming (pop. 52), on the banks of the Encampment River. Our accommodations in Riverside were rustic log cottages that dated to the early 20th Century. The cabins bore such names as, “Sodbuster”, “Wildcatter”, “Mountainman”, and “Muleskinner”.

A welcome sight was the Bear Trap Saloon, situated across the street.

Needless to say…

Next: Into Colorado High Country.
Peace Everyone. Pete

PS: It occurred to me how difficult it must have been for Tom Dillon to join our group of cross-country cyclists, having long solidified into a “family”. Tom’s answer to this challenge was masterfully presented on the morning of July 3rd:

“The Coffee Pot”

I have pondered the inevitable times that we would be called upon to bring “others” into our fold. The “segment riders”… people who wholeheartedly embrace our undertaking, but because of work, family, or other considerations, are unable to assume the obligations of our entire coast to coast journey. What a challenge to suddenly appear, bags and bicycle in hand, among 16 people who have evolved their common experiences into understandings that need no words. We read the shrug of a shoulder, the furl of a brow, the shuffle of a step, as a melody in another member’s day. Sometimes our emotions sing the same song, sometimes another… but almost always with harmony… we are a chorus. Enter the “stranger”, the unknown voice.

Tom Dillon had not bicycled with any of us. He is from Kansas City, but he is a member of another parish. Tom faced the challenge I had pondered… how a “stranger” best enters the ecology of our emotional and physical environment.

Tom arrived in time to join us for the long and challenging ride from Rawlins to Riverside, Wyoming. That day’s ride on July 2nd had seen us persevere over rough narrow roads, through thunderstorms and hail, with headwinds and crosswinds gusting to over 50 miles per hours. There was no time for small talk, and no polite social graces were exchanged. At the end of the day no one was in the mood to “welcome” anyone or anything other than a cold beer, a hot shower, and a warm bed.

At 5:30 a.m. on July 3rd I reluctantly stuck my head out the warped doorway of my cabin and looked through the open and shredded screen. Like “Punxsutawney Phil” of Groundhog Day fame, I was looking to see if there were signs of another day of hell-weather. The sky was ambiguous but the scent was not. My nostrils were assailed by the rich pungent aroma of fresh roasted coffee. There was real caffeine in the air. Not the thin hint of the tepid dark imitation that is served up by most drip machines, but coffee with the raven darkness of abused motor oil. Tom, like the Pied Piper, was calling all of us coffee loving “rats” out of our lairs with the melody of his brew. He stood upon the dew sodden grass, illuminated by the early hint of dawn, with a large old style pewter espresso coffee pot in hand. I and the other “customers” lined up at his bidding, cups in hand. The tribulations of the prior day were forgotten and Tom was instantly “one of us”.

The next few days gave me pause to consider the genius of Tom’s foresight. It occurred to me that anyone entering into an established social order has a limited number of options. One may ignore the group and remain a non-person. One may choose to identify oneself to the group by emphasizing one’s distinctions and differences. And then there is the “coffee pot”. The foresight to think of the others, to strive to embrace what we have in common, what we share, what we understand.

In our cycling group, we are not lawyers, clergy, doctors, social workers, retirees… we are people and we are family. We strive to be “we”, “us”, “our” and never “them” or “they”. As it should be with the human family. It makes it so much easier to help and be helped, to accept and be accepted.

-Pete Schloss, July 7, 2010.

When Racism Ended in America

Posted on by Pete Schloss

In the wake of the George Floyd tragedy there have been voices persistent in the assertion that systemic racism no longer exists in America. Interview clips from a few high profile African Americans are featured in videos in order to give credence to the claim.

I have engaged in discussion with a few acquaintances who maintain that claims of systemic racism in America are a fiction fostered by the media of the liberal left.

I am left to wonder and ask myself the question, “When did systemic racism end in America?”

Certainly, racism was pervasive and well established in 1619 when the America Colonies first began participation in the international slave trade. How else could the Colonials justify buying and selling innocent human beings?

Racism remained in evidence during the drafting of the United States Constitution when in 1787 Article 1, Section 2, specified that enslaved persons would count as 3/5 of a free person in determining the number of Congressional Representatives that a state would be entitled to.

Perhaps one might point to America’s 1807 withdrawal from international slave trade as an end to racism except that slavery continued to flourish within many U.S. states. It remained accepted as manifest destiny that White Americans could buy and sell Black men, women, and children… permanently severing child from mother, and husband from wife.

The Civil War of 1860-65 which was “a House Divided” over the question of slavery, resulted in the deaths of 750,000 Union and Confederate combatants. That bloodbath and the defeat of the Southern insurrection must have fully and finally resolved racism, even if the liberation of the slaves under the 1863 passage of the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution did not. It seems like such a long time ago, but then it was the time of my great-grandfather, only 3 generations removed from mine.

If the Civil War had eliminated racism then how was it that African American (men) were only extended the right to vote in the passage of the 1870 15th Amendment to the Constitution?

How then was it that the infamous “Jim Crow” (fn1) laws of the 19th and 20th Centuries could institutionalize racial segregation in such fundamental aspects of society as property ownership, education, freedom of association, suffrage… just to name a few. These were prominent in the time of my Grandfather, remained prevalent in my Father’s time, and enforced by various state and local governments until at least 1965.

In 1913 President Woodrow Wilson initiated segregation in the federal workforce. The U.S. military, already segregated, was not desegregated until 1948. Yet in the last week controversy reigns over whether U.S. military bases should retain the names of military leaders who led troops against the United States in the name of the preservation of slavery. (fn2)

Perhaps racial lynching was a matter extinguished in the era of the Civil War or at least by the 20th Century.

Unfortunately, that is not the case. Between 1882 and 1968 approximately 3,500 African Americans were murdered by extrajudicial “lynching”. Some authorities believe the number much larger as some events and the fates of those victims remain hidden.

Noteworthy was a 1909 public lynching of a Black man in Cairo Illinois which was attended by thousands. Still a historical artifact? As recently as 1998 James Byrd, Jr., a Black man, was murdered by three White men who “hanged” him by dragging him by the neck behind a pickup truck. Using the Tuskegee Institutes definition of “lynching” as a racially perpetrated murder in which three or more persons participated, the number of victims is certainly greater and includes the 2011 murder of James C. Anderson by a group of Whites.

Not systemic? In 1947 President Harry Truman was unsuccessful in his effort to enact a Federal Anti-Lynching law… an effort repeated unsuccessfully in the US Senate in 2005, and again just last week.

But the laws that abolished slavery must have also abolished racism, right?

In 1892 Homer Plessy, a man who was one-eighth Black, was prosecuted and convicted in Louisiana for riding in a “Whites only” train car. The US Supreme Court took the matter up in 1896 ruling against Homer in a 7-1 decision that declared that although the 14th Amendment granted legal equality to the races, it could not overcome or eliminate all social distinctions based on color. Thus, “separate but equal” was a sufficient protection of rights. That decision has never been expressly overturned…

…Yet in the 1954 decision of Brown v. Board of Education the US Supreme Court did declare that in the matter of education, separate is not equal. The law of the land? Not to then Governor George Wallace who in 1963 tried to block the integration of Alabama schools declaring, “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever!”

Clay County Missouri, where I worked in the late 1970’s as a State Parole and Probation Officer and later as a practicing attorney maintained a “Whites only” drinking fountain in its Courthouse at least into the late 1950’s. In the 1970’s Clay County Prosecuting Attorney, William S. Brandom commonly referred to “NNR” (N—- North of the River) as sufficient probable cause for law enforcement to stop an African American in the county.

In matters of housing: I live in an area of Kansas City developed in the early 1900’s. Indelibly recorded into the chain of title of homes in this area are covenants that these properties cannot be owned by persons of the Negro race. It was not until 1968 that the federal Fair Housing Act declared such restrictions illegal. Many neighborhoods, mine included, remain de facto segregated as the result of the inertia of history, and resistance of certain sellers, realtors, and lenders (“red-lining”) to change.

In matters of marriage: It was not until 1967 that the US Supreme Court (Loving v Virginia) struck down state anti-miscegenation laws that made “race mixing” criminally punishable. It remained unusual to see mixed race relationships in public and in the media well into the 21st century. I have been told by couples in mixed relationships that it remains “uncomfortable” in certain areas and among certain groups. (fn3)

Sports? Jackie Robinson broke the “color barrier” in 1947. What is less well known is that collegiate sports remained segregated in the South into the 1970’s. In the 1950’s and early 1960’s Louisiana and Mississippi each enacted laws that prohibited integrated sports competitions. It was not until 1971-72 that all SEC conference teams became integrated. It was not until 4 decades later that the SEC saw its first Black head coach and Black athletic director. Today, African American coaches, referees, and athletic administrators remain an underrepresented curiosity in the United States, especially in light of the proportion of Black to White athletes.

Health Care: I intended to skip this topic because it could justify a stand-alone post. However, today (June 12, 2020) State Senator from Ohio and ER physician, Steve Huffman, implied by question in a senate hearing that the higher rates of COVID-19 infections in the “…colored population” are because they “…do not wash their hands as well as other groups…” He has since been fired from his position as an ER doctor.

Voting: One need only look to the history of “poll taxes”, “literacy tests”, and other “legal” impediments designed to disenfranchise Black voters to understand the purpose of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. Portions of that Act authorizing federal oversight of election procedures in certain states were struck down in 2013 by the US Supreme Court in Shelby County v Holder. The results and controversies remain a matter of current events, just one example being the disparity in the number of polling places to registered voters in predominantly White and Black race Georgia precincts this last week.

Our History: In the absence of systemic racism then surely two very similar massacres would have been equally reported in the annals of history and given equal voice in our schools’ American History textbooks.

In 1867 General George A. Custer and 267 of his officers and enlisted men were massacred at the hands of thousands of “savages” at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, more commonly known as “Custer’s Last Stand”. Who has not heard of the “valor, daring, and sacrifice” of the noble Custer and his men as mythically portrayed in books, movies, and television.

Yet, between May 31 and June 1, 1921, a mob of Tulsa Oklahoma’s White residents looted and burned Black owned homes and businesses. Over 35 square blocks in the Black citizen owned Greenwood District were virtually leveled. Over 800 Black residents were injured, and approximately 300 were murdered. The precise numbers will never be known as Oklahoma did not conduct an investigation into the events until 75 years later. Non-invasive archaeological research disclosed probable mass gravesites. The Greenwood District, then the most prosperous Black community in the nation ceased to exist and over 10,000 residents were rendered homeless. The 100 year silence that has surrounded the 1921 “Tulsa Massacre” is deafening.

Perhaps systemic racism is under attack and continues to erode. Ended?… I think not. As for those who believe otherwise, I will loosely borrow with apologies from Friedrich Nietzsche: “Perhaps those who were seen dancing were thought insane by those who refused to hear the music.”

Peace Everyone. Pete

Footnotes:

fn1: The phrase “Jim Crow Law” was coined by the New York Times in an 1892 article about Louisiana’s passage of a law criminalizing the mixing of races in rail car accommodations. “Jump Jim Crow” was an 1830’s song and dance caricature of Negros performed by Thomas Rice in blackface which became synonymous with the negative depiction of the Black race.

fn2: For example, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, is named in the honor of General Braxton Bragg (1817-1876) who lead Confederate troops against the Union Army in at least 8 engagements. He was successful in only one and was relieved of command by CSA President Davis. Bragg is considered by historians to be one of the most inept commanders in the Civil War.

CSA General Braxton Bragg

fn3: Today, June 12, 2020, is “Loving Day”, the day that it became universally legal in the United States for members of one race to marry members of another race.

Across America by Bicycle, Part 9: Portland Oregon and the Columbia River.

Posted on by Pete Schloss

June 4th presented us with a challenging 70 mile day that would eventually see us arriving in Portland Oregon where we would be guests of the University of Portland.

Portland Oregon

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However, before reaching Portland we were scheduled for lunch in Woodland Washington and a tour of La Casa de San Juan Diego, a Catholic Charities’ farm worker housing complex.

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Later that afternoon in Portland we attended 5 p.m. Mass at St. Ignatius Parish, followed by a “Blessing of the Bicycles”, and a Tamale Dinner catered by an immigrant women’s group. Father Matt addressed the gathering on the topic of our mission and Social Justice.

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I had begun to favor college dorms over other forms of housing. The dorm/college atmosphere seemed to encourage a greater sense of community within our group.

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C4C gathers in the dorm hallway.

College towns also have pubs that are upbeat and celebratory. For our mascot, Curtis, perhaps a bit too celebratory.

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With over 360 miles behind us we enjoyed our first rest day on June 5th. On June 6th there would again be rain as we entered the Columbia River Valley where we  beheld some of the most spectacular scenery of the entire Summer.

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Cape Horn, overlooking the Columbia River

The ride south into Portland on the 4th gave me pause to consider the contrast in the roads that we navigated,…

(June 7, 2010) The Roads Now Less Traveled.

A few days ago as we proceeded on our bicycles from Castle Rock Washington to Portland Oregon, our course paralleled that of Interstate 5. Our route passed through the towns of Kelso, Carrolls, Kalama, and Woodland (where we ate lunch), crossing near, under, and over the superhighway, but never upon it. For the most part I ignored the Interstate and it ignored me. Once as I peddled an overpass I could see the next town that we were to enter in the distance. With some envy I eyed the onramp and the two messages that the Interstate posted for me: “Kalama 2 miles”, and “Non-Motorized Vehicles and Pedestrians Prohibited”. One message was a temptation and the other a firm rejection. As cyclists on human powered vehicles we were orphaned by the well-traveled Interstates. I might argue that my bike was “fossil fueled” and that I was the 58 year old fossil that fueled it. However, I knew that such a petition would fall on deaf ears if I were stopped by one of the highway’s police guardians. Continuing across the overpass another sign appeared, “South Old Pacific Coast Highway”. This was the path that we were obliged to follow, a road now less traveled.

Turning my back on the Interstate I saw the contrast with the road that lay before me. The Interstate, a beast of concrete and steel, was a creature of post-World War 2 prosperity and expansion in America. It is a monument to the ability of mankind to wrestle nature’s boundaries and obstructions into submission. It stood as a byway without passion or soul, a road known only by a number and a direction. The Interstate is blunt force that catapults the traveler from one place to another as a bow shoots and arrow.

The Old Pacific Coast Highway, lying in the shadow of South I-5, is a highway in name only. This road now less traveled was born in the distant past. Some of her course was determined by nature, some portions by pre-Columbian peoples, and other sections by early European explorers. Her path made compromises with the lay of the land. There are only gentle modifications to grade and course. Unlike the Interstate which blasts through a hill in order to maintain direction and grade, The Old Pacific Coast Highway meanders on and around the rise and fall of the land, like a ribbon uncoiling from its spool.

This living road has a personality. It has a soul. I was captive to her course and her emotions. As I peddled, the road would smile seductively with her long slow descending curves. At times I was embraced by the safety of a wide flat shoulder. With caprice her mood would change. The shoulder would become a sliver of pavement forcing me uncomfortably close to the onslaught of thundering lumber trucks. Her gentle slope would suddenly turn skyward to challenge my legs and my lungs. She could be calm with the smoothness of new laid asphalt, or she would thunder anger through my thin tires, shaking me bodily as I rolled over rough and damaged pavement. A change in the wind’s speed, direction, or temperature would either brush my cheek like a gentle kiss or smack me in the face with force.

The Interstate is a wasteland. In some parts of the country, a place which is available to serve travelers with food and fuel is appropriately called an Oasis. People are only permitted within an Interstate’s boundaries if encased in a motor vehicle. It separates us from the natural environment and creates its own. There are no sounds, no smells. Sights are relegated to the distance in favor of declarations of speed, distance, and destination.

On the Pacific Coast Highway there were dogs to chase us and children to cheer us. Schools, churches, and stores extended their parking lots to us. Cemeteries presented the memories of those who passed before us. The roadside was picketed as far as the eye could see with the mailboxes of the homes which bordered her lanes. I could not only read the names of the residents but actually exchange greetings with them. A man weeding his garden, a boy seated on his swing set. A woman in a wheelchair called “hello” to me. Perhaps she considered our wheeled conveyances were a connection that erased the differences that otherwise separated us. Bridges nearly touched the water. I could peer over the low railings to see the wildlife that the river sustained. A silver metal silo reflecting the sun by day would do the same for the lights of cars at night. I counted the rivets in one of its seams as I passed. This road served up sights, smells, and sounds as a banquet for the senses.

For 75 miles I had a relationship with this road. With sadness I knew there would be a parting with her at Portland. As I neared the Columbia River a huge bridge loomed in the distance. This would be my crossing and on the other side I would leave The Old Pacific Coast Highway. Riding toward the north end of the bridge I saw where the road channeled bicycles across. I also saw with some concern the shape of a white rectangular sign, the kind that stood to prohibit my entry to the Interstate Highway. But this time the sign was at the start of a narrow lane leading up and over the bridge. This sign declared: “Motorized Traffic Prohibited”. I smiled as I knew I was not an orphan of this road. I had been adopted and was now one of her children.

Peace Everyone. Pete

Next: The Columbia River Valley