maureenmc1

[maureenmc1]

The Only Father's Day Story I Have

My mother was a monster and my father was a ghost, so holidays are not happy days for me. Both of my parents were drunks and both had explosive tempers when they drank. As a child, I thought that I had to give my parents on their "special day." Since my mother favored store-bought gifts over handmade ones and my father simply did not care, my childish efforts at gift-giving tended to be met with open derision or stony silence.

My father in particular was a paradox. He had wanted to be a doctor but his mother forced him to go to Georgia Tech and become a mechanical engineer. Over the years he became more and more unhappy with his occupation and finally gave it up to enter into his true vocation: owning a liquor store in a rundown area close to downtown Atlanta.

As time went on, my father's political beliefs began to change. He went from being a run-of-the-mill Republican to becoming a member of the John Birch Society. He didn't speak much at home, but when he did, it was to rail against the Catholics and the Jews, and of course, people of color. He used the N-word prolifically. He also introduced me to a wide range of racial and ethnic slurs that hurtfully rang in my tiny ears.

The year I turned seventeen, I graduated from high school and enrolled at the University of Georgia. I made good my escape although it pained me to leave my siblings in the clutches of my mother. Shortly after I graduated, my father well and truly ghosted his family. He moved to Florida where he could not be dunned for child support. My mother had not worked since she was a Rosie the Riveter in Warner Robins, Georgia, building aircraft for the U.S. armed forces during World War II. Before he left, my father cleaned out the family bank account. This left my mother with no money, no job, a mortgage to pay and four children in elementary and high school.

I cut ties with my mother after I came home for Christmas during my junior year at UGA. Pretty much since I could remember, her holiday routine had consisted of everyone opening the presents under the tree and a big family breakfast, followed by her beating the shit out of me. She used to avoid bruising any area that would show in public. This year, though, she didn't give a damn about what the people in Athens thought, so she sent me back to school with a split lip and cuts and bruises all over my body.

From that point on, I lived in Athens full-time. Life was good. I had a wonderful group of friends. Most of them did not know about my home life, but they graciously took me to theirs to meet their parents. University courses were the sustenance I had been craving, so along with my major political science courses, I branched out into journalism, pottery, and many philosophy classes. My battered heart began to heal. Every day was one of exploration and wonderment.

Life was not easy, but I had the energy and enthusiasm to meet the challenges that inevitably came to a poor college student. For employment the summer after my junior year, I applied to work for the Urban Corps in Atlanta. This was a program where college students interned for nonprofits. In my case, I applied to work in the Wheat Street Garden Apartments, which was owned by Wheat Street Baptist Church.

For those unfamiliar with Atlanta geography, Wheat Street is next door to Ebeneezer Baptist, the church where Daddy King and Martin Luther King, Jr. preached. While in high school, I taught the two oldest King, Jr. children how to swim at the first integrated day camp in Atlanta. Coretta came to pick the children most days, always asking me to report on their deportment. A year later, she asked me to work for a few days at the SCLC office because the files were a mess and needed to reorganized.

I did not have a car so I either took the bus or walked everywhere. The SCLC office was located in the same block ad the Royal Peacock club and a Black radio station. I would walk down there from Peachtree Street, about a mile away. There is something very special about Sweet Auburn Avenue and the best way to experience it is on foot.

Reverend John Howard and another person from the church interviewed people seeking the Urban Corps position at Wheat Street. Their first question to me was, "How did you get here today?" I told them about my very pleasant walk. Before I left the interview, they told me I was hired. I am convinced that walking down Sweet Auburn got me the job.

I was hired as one of a team of seven people who would be working in the housing project. My title was Social Work Assistant. My job encompassed helping people get assistance from the proper governmental agencies, as well checking on the residents and settling any disputes among them. I also got to work with the kids and the local gang.

A few weeks into the summer, Reverend Howard asked to speak to me privately. Our headquarters for the summer was a nearly empty apartment. We sat on the floor for our team meetings, but one room had two chairs in it. This is where Reverend Howard would hold one-on-one counselling sessions with anyone who needed advice about their job.

After everyone else left, we went into the room with the chairs and sat down. I will never forget what he said next. "Maureen, Bettye and I have been talking. We would like to adopt you. We can't legally do it, of course, but we want you to become a part of our family. You can spend all your holidays with us, and when you need help, we will be here for you, just as if we were your real parents. You've never really had a father, and I want to be that for you, if you will let me."

I sat there as tears began running down my cheeks. After a few moments, I said, "Yes. I would like that very much." "Good," he replied, "Now you'd better get to work. The lady in 307 thinks her neighbor is trying to put a voodoo hex on her. I told her you will be up to see her this morning."

Nothing else was said. Nothing else needed to be said. For the next few weeks, I was thrilled. I had a father. And a mother. There were people in this world who loved and wanted me! Just for myself! The world was expanding into vast new possibilities. I felt incredibly blessed.

A few weeks later, it was the first of the month. Reverend Howard went to the rent office so that people could drop off their rent. A gunman entered, took the rent money, and shot Reverend Howard dead.

It was a Saturday and I went to Athens to look for housing for the coming year. When the team was finally able to get in touch with me, I sped back to Atlanta, straight to the projects. Ben and Dennis, two of my team members, and I spent the night walking through Wheat Street Gardens, consoling and commiserating with some people, and talking down others who swaggered around with their guns in plain sight, making vague threats.

It was a tense night, and an even more tense day the next day. Bettye decided to bury John in a private service, with just their son Ben and her attending. Within a few weeks, Bettye would also die. I have always believed she died of a broken heart.

I only had a father for a few weeks, but within time I got a tiny glimmer of what it looks like to have a father's love. It wasn't much, but it was enough. On this Father's Day, i would like to say, "God bless you, John Rogers Howard and Bettye Howard. May you and all beings be well and happy upon whatever plane you may dwell."

[maureenmc1]

Vote for Your Life

I remember when La Cage Aux Folles came to the Beechwood Cinema back in the seventies, mainly because I saw it three times in one week.  Three of my closest friends, two of whom I was living with at the time, took the opportunity of inviting me to join them to see the movie.  Afterwards, they each came out to me.I already knew they were gay, but it meant so much that they made the extra effort to "break the news" to me in such an understanding way.  I assured them all that I supported them in voicing who they are, and since that time, I have widened that acceptance to include all LBGTQ+ people.  

I have never understood why some people make it their business to pass judgment on their fellow humans because of how they choose to identify themselves, whom they choose to love, or a panoply of other individual characteristics.  Maybe because I am a Libra and fairness and justice are so important to me, or maybe just because I am a rational person, I have always believed that people should be free to live their lives as see they fit.  

Because I have chosen that stance, I have been belittled in a variety of ways.  Luckily, from childhood I got a head start on most people in developing a thick skin because of my views on the civil rights movement, I have not had a damn to give about any detractors.  When it comes to being an ally to my incredibly diverse group of friends, I have done my best to walk the walk.  

At one point not that many years ago, that meant breaking with the church which I had been affiliated with all of my life.  When the church celebrated the 100th anniversary of its founding, I wrote a book on the history of the church.  While going through piles and piles of documents, I learned that at one point the Methodist Episcopal Church divided into two parts over the issue of slavery.  The church which I attended became a part of the pro-slavery wing, the Methodist Episcopal Church South.   It wasn't until the 1950's (I think) that the two factions joined back together.I used to teach Sunday School in the church.  Once a month, I stood in front of a group of people who were older than me and considerably more well-schooled in the Bible than me and delivered a lesson based on scripture.  One of the last lessons I delivered was based on Psalm 19:14, "Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer."  Being me, of course, I had to play The Melodians version of Rivers of Babylon.  After blowing their minds with the first ska most of the class had ever heard, I went on the excoriate the United Methodist on its stand against homosexuality.  I told them about the racist history of our own church and then said, "The church was wrong about civil rights and it is wrong about gay people. The Methodist Church is standing on the wrong side of history."  That was my swan song to organized religion.  

When Occupy started, I thought about whether I wanted to be a part of it, and what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.  I decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my days serving the future, the world that my grandkids Felix and Evelyn are going to inherit.  Part of serving the future is working to make the world a more accepting place, where all kids can embrace whatever identity they wish without fear of judgment or reprisal.  I got to witness that freedom in my own two daughters, both of whom stood with gay classmates who were being bullied in high school.  

I watched the senators' opening statements today in the Senate Judiciary Committee for the nomination of Amy Coney Barrett to the US Supreme Court.  I had to stop listening because the Republicans were making me so upset.  Setting up a straw man that has to do with Barrett's religious beliefs, even though not one word has been uttered by a Democrat about religion.  Democrats are bringing up example after example of how overturning Affordable Care Act would negatively affect all Americans.  I understand why they are taking this tack, but at the same time, it would also be nice to hear about how overturning Roe v. Wade or Obergefell v. Hodge, which affirmed gay marriage, would affect people's lives. I

 remember the days before Roe v. Wade.  I went to New York City to get an abortion when I was 22 because the option was not available in Georgia.  I also remember the days before Obergefell v. Hodge, when partners who could not legally marry could not join their beloved in a hospital room because they were not considered family.  I think about all the same sex families I know and how much they contribute to this society.  They are artisans and musicians, nurses and doctors, police officers and social workers.  These are people who make a difference in the world every day and they should not have their rights abridged and their families put at risk.

I fear that if the Supreme Court has a six-three conservative/liberal split that sanctimonious decisions directly affecting people's lives are going to start coming thick and fast.  I don't know what to say to all of you whom I stand with - you know who you are - except that I love you and somehow we will find our way through this hateful miasma together.  We will win back our rights through more legislation once the kleptocrats are all voted out of office.  We will make sure that all of our children are aware that they have dominion over their bodies and that they should respect the same right in other people.  We will generate a spirit of joyful celebration that we are all so different and yet the same.  

At this point, all of our lives are on the line.  Four more years of 45 would bring us closer to and closer to a form of totalitarianism that is antithetical to the the principles upon which this this country was founded.  As Kamala Harris said, "They are coming for you."  

They are coming for me.  They are coming for all of us.  

Vote for your life.

[maureenmc1]

Beloved Community

Back in the days of the civil rights demonstrations, before and after the passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act and the 1965 Voting Rights Act, much of the discussion among activists centered around building the beloved community. At that time, the ways this was done centered around action: marches, boycotts, and various other kinds of protests. Every time someone put their feet in the street, designed and handed out a flyer, or spoke out against segregation, that person was in the presence of others who supported their cause. Even if they were by themselves, they were never alone. Going to register to vote, a person carried the weight of responsibility and the great joy of knowing that he or she was acting on behalf of others, building the beloved community.

The unique building block of the civil rights movement in the United States was nonviolent civil disobedience. Today, people act like non-violence is an "optional" part of protesting, like it doesn't really matter. But it does. Non-violent civil disobedience Is a symbol of love. It says, "I am willing to put my body on the line to fight for your rights and freedoms." Not just that, but when the police show up at a peaceful demonstration and you turn to the person next to you and say, "I'm scared" and they look back at you and say, "Me too," y'all are building the beloved community one interaction at a time.

I don't think that the movement was able to adequately transmit this notion of the beloved community to the greater population in part because our people kept getting killed. Martin King is the most obvious example. Had he lived, he would have brought the tremendous energy of his movement into protesting against the Vietnam war. That would have been something to see. Movement folks would have introduced the hippies to the lyrics of Ain't I Got A Right To The Tree of Life, while the hippies would have introduced the movement folks to Jimi Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner.

Even more momentous than that, though, would have been the Poor People's March on Washington, where Martin King sought to bring together working class people of all races. Attacking the class base of this country would have really shook things up. King could see the bigger picture, that economic injustice was keeping the working class people down, and that these folks needed to be lifted up to be respected for their vital role in society. The voices of hate stole that opportunity from us, but we just kept on keepin' on.

I am glad that John Lewis and Rev. C.T. Vivan lived long enough to see the emergence of the Black Lives Matter movement, where people of every class, color and creed are gathering to denounce racism. For me, the most significant sign in the protest is the one that read, All Mothers Were Summoned when George Floyd Cried Out for his Mama. Yes, woman holding the sign, you understand that your children are my children and my children are your children. Even though I don't know you, we are together in the beloved community.

Now we have the Wall of Moms in Portland, a bunch of badass women, many of whom have never been to a protest in their lives, who stand between the protesters and the police. Police spray them full in the face with teargas, but they won't back down. As they link arms standing together, the statement they make is: "Get away from my children, Machinery of the State. These people belong to me and you motherfuckers can't have them.

Yay moms.

Even in the midst of a pandemic, there are still many ways other than protesting that people are building the beloved community. The artist Panhandle Slim in Savannah, Georgia paints portraits of people along with inspiring quotes from them. Along with James Baldwin, Flannery O’Conner and Prince, he has painted the faces and quotes of police officers, the mayor, and people who have done good in his hometown. He is building the beloved community.

Some people are streaming events like reading books from their favorite authors or performing music to raise people's spirits. DJs have online dance parties. Others turn to a little light social activism, like Steve Schmidt's daughters who danced around the living room with handfuls of tickets to Trump's Tulsa rally. Teens looking for a new hobby have taken over 45's hateful Twitter hashtags so that when you click on them, you get KPop music videos. They made a million reservations in Tulsa, too.

The beloved community is growing. Every time you reach out to someone with a positive comment or maybe a sassy new mask, you are making a worthy contribution to the world. Maybe you can't march on Washington, but you can shop at a local business. You can adopt a pet from the pound. You can call attention to the seriousness of the pandemic by relating a story about what happened to your sick friend. You can call BS when someone seeks to instill hate and fear.

Even if it's scary, you can do it. Lots of us are standing with you and we will tell you we are scared too.

This is how we overcome the partisan divide, working together in this time and in this place. Whether we are talking about babies on the border, LGBTQ+ rights, or running the current administration out of the White House, our bigger task is always building the beloved community.

We can do this. Now GO.

July 20,2020

[maureenmc1]

How We Shut Down UGA after Kent State and Jackson State, 1970

After the Kent State and Jackson State shootings, the National Guardsmen who had been in those locations were sent to Athens, GA, where a small group of students organized demonstrations on North Campus of the University of Georgia that eventually led to the shut down of the campus.  

I was one of the organizers.  I was also friends with Terry Adamson, a reporter for the Atlanta Constitution.  Terry came to UGA on behalf of the papers and asked me to accompany him around town.  We went out to the Athens Fairgrounds where the Guard was encamped.  The man in charge (I don't remember his rank) said that his men were tired and upset.  It was hot in the dusty camp.  The men were sleeping in tents.  There were guns and more guns everywhere.  It was a very scary place.

Later that afternoon, I saw two National Guard snipers climb on to the roof of a car dealership on Broad Street with two long guns apiece and a case of beer.That night, students met at the Administration Building on North Campus before marching  from the Arch to the UGA President's home on Prince Avenue.  That was the night I talked to two FBI agents who called me by my name.  They said they had a file on me.  I think they meant to be intimidating, but it didn't work.  Dean Tate was there wearing his love beads.  His was a reassuring presence.  Phi Kappa Literary Society opened its hall doors for people who needed to get out of the heat.  People continuously poured into the space under the trees and onto the sidewalks beyond.  

The student organizers were the first people to put their feet in the street.  Of all the demonstrations in which I have participated over the years, this one was where I most feared for my life.  At the same time, I felt a sense of awe to be a part of such an immensely significant undertaking.  At the top of the hill where Broad meets Milledge Avenue, I looked back and saw that there were at least a thousand marchers covering every inch of ground from the Arch to Milledge.The march continued to the President's mansion where no one was home.  After several speeches in front of the house, the marchers reversed course to go back to North Campus.  A sit down demonstration in front of the Varsity resulted in several hundred arrests.  I stepped out of the line because Mike Willoughby asked me and one other person to go with him to meet President Davison in his office in Old College.  

The people who were arrested were taken to the stockade, a chain link fence compound located at the Athens Fairground, within spitting distance of the Guardsmen's tents.  It had no bathroom facilities and no roof.  It's original purpose was to retain civil rights demonstrators in the 1950s.

When we got to Fred's office, he asked what  it would take to bring the night to a peaceful conclusion.  We had four basic requests.  First: to immediately shut down the University for the balance of the current quarter.  Second: that the people who had been arrested would be released on their own recognizance and any charges against them would be dropped.  Third: that the University would fully fund and support Communiversity, an organization that encouraged students to volunteer in Athens and arranged volunteer opportunities for them.  The fourth request was the biggie: we wanted a University bus system to be operational by the following fall.  Fred Davison agreed to all requests after some hemming and hawing. I had gotten to know President through being in student government.  He was a man of his word.

The upshot of this story:  to this day, I am convinced that Dean Tate defused what could have been another campus massacre.  Because of his love for all of us, students went home early from the UGA campus, free of arrest charges.  Because the rest of the administration listened, Communiversity is still going strong and University buses provide free transportation for everyone who sets foot campus.We all have a part to play keeping alive the memory of the horrific shootings at Kent State and Jackson State.  This is how a thousand people in Athens, Georgia began what has become for many a yearly time of reflection and remembrance.

[maureenmc1]

Little Richard: Can I Get a “Shut Up”?

When I was young - around ten, I think -I was given a turquoise transistor radio.  During the day, I listened to WQXI, Atlanta's rock and roll station. At night, though, I went to bed with my radio tuned to WIGO: The Black Spot On Your Dial.  Many nights after performing at The Royal Peacock on Auburn Avenue, music stars would make their way over to the WIGO studio where the DJ would turn over the microphone to them.  They could play anything and say anything. 

Of all the guests on WIGO, Little Richard was my favorite.  He was a force to be reckoned with.  A tornadic barrage of sexual innuendo and praises to God would issue forth and onto the airwaves in a riotous, transcendent stream.  I could hear people in the studio alternately gasping and laughing the deep belly laughs that only occur when tears are streaming down their faces. I buried my face in my pillow so my parents wouldn't hear my laughter.  And the music?  He tended to play songs that he could sing along with - including from his own records.

Little Richard shared both his joy and his pain on those broadcasts, always fiercely and flamboyantly himself.  He was one of my earliest role models and my great secret joy.

All these years later, I still love and revere Richard Penniman.  Godspeed and God bless. May a jitterbugging celestial choir speed thee to thy rest. 

[maureenmc1]

Some Soldiers Have Four Feet

This Memorial Day, I am remembering the animals who also served, especially Lieutenant Bobby, the first dog to become a commissioned officer in the U.S. Armed Forces.  Lt. Bobby attended basic training and was attached to Company C of the 121st Infantry Division of the National Guard, stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia.  He received his commission and rank from President Calvin Coolidge for years of faithful service.

Lieutenant Bobby is buried in Rose Hill Cemetary in Macon, Georgia, beside his fellow officer and long-term companion, Captain D.C. Harris.

[maureenmc1]

Blackface and Me

Growing up in Atlanta in the nineteen fifties, I attended Spring Street Elementary School. Among other things, Spring Street had an auditorium, where classes put on plays three or four times a year. When I was in Ms. Eleyea's room in the second grade we put on a play that included a part for an African child. I was picked to play this role and was told that I would have to appear in blackface with a hambone in my hair. I begged not to do it. I cried, I screamed, and ultimately I played the part. Something inside me knew deep down that doing this was wrong. I couldn't put it into words, but I knew I shouldn't do it. When I appeared onstage during the play, everyone laughed at me. 

I was ashamed, embarrassed, and humiliated.  And angry.

Later on Ms. Eleyea apologized to me.and ended up giving me the lead role in the Thanksgiving pageant in atonement. At the time she probably thought that blackface was no big deal. After all, a few blocks from the school, African-American children stood on tabletops dressed as pickaninnies and sang the menu to white guests at Aunt Fanny's Cabin, a popular local restaurant. 

My point here is this: if, as a seven year-old child, I had enough of a m;oral compass to know that it was wrong to wear blackface, why in the hell did a grown ass man like Ralph Northam not know that? He has only exacerbated the situation by stating that he didn't understand it was wrong until his wife explained it to him a "few years ago." Northam does not deserve to be governor of Virginia one minute longer. My outrage at his trying to backpedal from his previous apology knows no bounds. I am getting too fucking old for this shit.

[maureenmc1]

A Story About Bears and a Dying Friend

August 28, 2017

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I want to tell you a story.   This past week, Wednesday through Sunday, I went camping at Fort Mountain State Park near Chatsworth Georgia.  The description of the park included that it has an 800 feet “mysterious stone wall” constructed by Native Americans probably during the Woodland Period, a Civilian Conservation Corps stone fire tower that was erected during the New Deal, a lake with a beach, scenic overlooks, and hiking trails.   Since I have been on a kick to expand my camping experience, I decided to opt for platform camping.  Of course, I have never platform camped in my life.  It seemed like a fun thing, so I signed up for four nights of sleeping on a platform.   My first clue about platform camping probably should have been that the platforms - unlike every other thing you can imagine - did not show up on the park map.  When I arrived at the park office to check in, the first thing a ranger told me was, “We have a very active bear population.  You can have absolutely NO SCENTS at your camp.  This includes shampoo, bug spray and sunscreen.  No coolers.  No food, except what you cook and eat right away.  We do have bear safes, where you can store part of your gear, but don’t put food or anything with a scent in there either.” Um.  OK.  Like a fool, I signed the form entitled “BEAR RELEASE FORM” that said I would not sue Georgia State Parks if a bear killed me.  The Ranger whisked that form away as soon as I signed it, and told me that I would have to hike half a mile to get to the platforms.  She gave me the REAL map of the park, which included the platforms.  I already knew from checking the reservations page on the Internet that for Wednesday and Thursday nights, I would be the only person in the platform camping area.  Since I had already signed the release, I decided to go and find the platform area, conveniently located about three miles away from the office.  (“So they won’t hear my screams,” I thought at the time). Since I have absolutely no sense of direction, it took me a few times of looping around the Lakeside campground to find the Squirrel’s Nest, a cutesy but entirely apt name for my new home.  I put on my backpack, loaded myself down with gear, and went to find my perfect campsite.  After stumbling down the trail, I arrived at the platforms and opted for Platform Two.   It had the best feng shui of all the sites.  Built into the side of the hill, the platform faces out into the forest about two thirds of the way up in the trees.  I could see all the way down to the lake, where the water shimmered and I could faintly hear the sounds of children playing.  There were also two trees on the far side of the fire ring that were a perfect distance apart for hanging my hammock.  There is nothing like lying back in a hammock and watching the trees sway above you.  Nap time inevitably ensues. It took me two more trips to get the rest of my gear to the camp.  By that time, I was tired and got in the hammock for a while.  It did not disappoint.  I strategized about how I was going to manage with the hot meals I had been planning on cooking, because no way in hell was I going to sleep in a place infused with the delectable odor of campfire cooking.  Easy peasy: I would go to a picnic area and cook the hot meal that would have been dinner for lunch, and make the lunch sandwiches be dinner.  That first night, I ate baked beans out of the can along with half a pimento cheese sandwich and felt well pleased with myself. After dinner I went to the bathhouse.  On the bulletin board just outside, I saw a happy little poster entitled, “Fun Facts about Bears.” The fun facts included: some bears can run 30 M.P.H. (translation: run and the bear will eat you); bears can climb trees and swim (translation: you idiot – try to climb or swim and the bear will eat you); and my very, very favorite: the bear’s sense of smell is 2,100 more powerful than a human’s!!! (Exclamation points theirs, not mine.) Then and there, I knew I was done for.  If I spilled food on my shirt, bears would smell it.  If I ate some grapes and threw the stems into the woods, bears would smell them.  My sense of paranoia was 2,100 times greater than before I arrived at Fort Mountain. Generally when camping, I get up and go to bed with the sun.  Wednesday night, when daylight started to turn to dusk, light disappeared under the tree canopy before it did in the sky above.  I got into my sleeping bag and watched the dark approach, unsure of what my night alone in the woods was going to be like.  At first I was scared.  I was afraid that bears were going to converge on me, especially since the platform was open on two sides, and easily accessible to big bear paws.  Then I started thinking about the two bear friends I have had in my life.  Then I thought of Francis Allen, who is preparing to transition off the earthly plane.  I decided that if I asked for protection from the spirits of the Black Bear and Brown Bear and wrote this account for Francis, then I just might make it out alive. Our story of the bear friends begins with me in the third grade.  My father’s job transferred him to Athens for a year.  We rented out our house in Atlanta and my parents found a house to let in Athens on Milledge Circle, which filled the bill.  It was in easy walking distance of the grocery and drug store at Five Points, and also of Memorial Park, which has a duck pond, zoo, swimming pool, and other amenities. For me, the move was miserable.  I was used to my librarian, Miss Edith Wyatt of the Peachtree Branch of the Atlanta Public Library, who encouraged me to become a voracious reader and led me to types of books that I might never have found on my own.   The Athens library was in a tiny building down from the post office and was staffed by a librarian who refused to let me check out books above my grade level: that meant a year of reading nothing but Beverly Cleary.   At Barrow Elementary, things weren’t much better.  My sister and I transferred in after school started and I did not make a single friend in the third grade class. My solace became visiting the zoo at Memorial Park after school.  They had a black bear cub there who was chained to a tree by a manacle on one of his hind legs.  I named him Sammy and he became my one and only confidant.  Most days, I could be found between 3:45 and 5:00 at the zoo with Sammy.  He was very affectionate and always greeted me with “Aahoooha.”  I scratched him behind his ears, and told him my girlish troubles with the uncaring kids and the mean librarian.  Sammy loved when I talked to him and also enjoyed my singing Girl Scout songs to him. As the months went on, Sammy and I grew at approximately the same rate.  He was shorter than me, but we probably weighed about the same.  One day after a visit with my bear friend, I stood up to leave and Sammy stood up, too.  He put his arms around me and hugged me.  I had hugged him many times, but this was the first time he had reciprocated.  We lost our balance and fell down, with Sammy on top of me.  Some stupid woman started screaming that I was being attacked by a bear.  A zookeeper came up, and I tried to explain what happened.  He had no interest in what I had to say and upset Sammy terribly.  Sammy started crying and I started crying.  The adults told me to go home, so I did. The next day when I went to see Sammy, he was in a concrete cage with iron bars.  I could talk to him, but we weren’t allowed to touch and both our hearts were broken.  I did not see Sammy again until I was a freshman at UGA.  One of my first days back in Athens, I went to the zoo on the off chance that Sammy might still be around.  In his cage, I found an enormous bear.  When he saw me, he said, “Aahoooha,” and I knew it was Sammy.  He remembered me.  I talked to him and sang to him, oblivious to the stares of the other zoo visitors. I only went to see Sammy that one time.  I got busy with school, and like most seventeen year olds was more wrapped up in myself than anything else.  Not too long after that, I read in the Banner-Herald that he died.  I wasn’t entirely sorry to hear it, because he was miserable in that cage and knowing that he had to spend his life there made me very sad. Between the time Sammy was first caged and I when saw him for the very last visit, I met another bear.  After that wretched year in Athens my family moved back to Atlanta.  I finished elementary school at Spring Street and went to Grady High.  The year I turned sixteen, my friends and I spent one summer hanging out at the Grant Park Zoo.  It was a much fancier affair than the zoo in Athens.   Atlanta had many bears, segregated by type, and each group had its own enclosure.  In the brown bear section, there was a cub that I named Sugarbear.  Every time I went to the zoo, I went to see him.  After some time, he began coming when I called him.  We became a sort of ad hoc attraction.  I would sing out, “Sugarbear!” and he would come running.   He would stand on the side of the moat that separated us, and when I said, “Clap,” he would clap his paws together.  We would play clapping games, and a crowd would gather.  After a few minutes, I would say, “Everybody clap for Sugarbear.”  The crowd would clap, thrilling Sugarbear to no end.  I called him Sugarbear, because he was a glorious caramel color that made me think of brown sugar.  Although I only knew him for that one summer in 1966, the political environment in Atlanta and the situation within my own family were so dark, for a brief time Sugarbear was the light of my life. So… back at Fort Mountain, I was freaking out, trying to calm myself down by remembering Sammy and Sugarbear. Then I would remember that I was lying in a sleeping bag on a platform in the middle of the woods with “a very active bear population” and freak out all over again.  At that point, I decided to ask for the protection of the spirits of the Black Bear and the Brown Bear.  I left my stinky walking shoes and sweaty clothes in a camping chair at the entrance to the platform.  If any bears should happen to come by, I thought, they would smell my clothes and know that I was the girl who sang to the bears.  I didn’t hear any bears the first night, but around 3:00 a.m. the next two nights, I heard a bear cub making a familiar sound over and over: he was trumpeting, “Aahoooha, aahoooha.”   The spirits of the bears sang to me, and I was afraid no more.

I pray that as Francis transitions from this world to the next, he will achieve great peace, surrounded by the people who love him.  One day soon, perhaps he will encounter a black bear who gives great hugs, or a brown bear who likes to clap.  I like to think that could happen.  May all beings be well and happy, upon whatever plane they may dwell.

[maureenmc1]

[maureenmc1]

Swamp Dog, the Klan, and a Panama Hat

I told this story at Rabbit Box storyteling collective on May 10, 2017. 

I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia in the fifties and sixties, right in the middle of both the civil rights and antiwar movements.  A couple of years after college, I went to work for the National Jury Project, and learned how to help lawyers pick juries.  The NJP was started by social scientists who wanted to assist at the Wounded Knee trials in South Dakota.  After working for the Jury Project for a few years, they kicked me out because I wanted to go to work on the Howard Hughes Mormon Will trial cases. The Jury Project thought I was “selling out to the man”, but I saw a much bigger opportunity.  While working for Hughes, I developed tools and skills that have stood me in good stead lo, these many years.  Among other things, I wrote the second jury questionnaire used in U.S. courts.  This provided a precedent that Millard Farmer and other attorneys fighting the death penalty immediately started using to get jury questionnaires in all of their trials.

After working on a case that affected the Gross National Product, I needed a new challenge.  The “Queen of Death Row,” Patsy Morris at the Georgia ACLU, contacted me and asked if I would go to Thomaston, Georgia to pick a jury in a death penalty trial there.   I went, and before that trial was finished, Patsy called again, sending me to Beaufort, SC to work on another death case.  After that, I never looked back.  I had found the work that God put me on the earth to do.

On July 23, 1978, a day that was hotter than hell at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville, the inmates rioted.    Conditions at the prison were brutal and inhumane at the best of times.  Locked in a room the size of a basketball court with no air circulation of any sort, the hundred men of cell block B-1 lost their minds. When guard Preston Foske unlocked the door to escort the men to lunch, a group of inmates grabbed and stabbed him. Officer Dan Harrison tried to intervene. Officer Foske was pulled to safety, but Dan Harrison lost his life: he was stabbed sixty-one times.  I know this, because I saw the autopsy photos.  Dan lives in my heart, along with my hundred or so clients and many other victims.

The GBI held an investigation into Officer Harrison’s death, and six inmates were charged with his murder.  The State decided –of course - to ask for the death penalty in all six cases.  I became a part of the defense team for the Reidsville Six, working with the brightest stars in the Atlanta criminal defense bar, along with a superlative group of paralegals, trial consultants, and support staff.  Political persuasions among the defense team ran the gamut from liberal Democrat to radical to revolutionary. No one in the State of Georgia was more qualified or motivated to handle these cases than these people.

The first trial was held at the Tattnall County Courthouse, about six miles away from the prison. The county split along racial lines, and tensions and emotions ran very high. The first defendant up was Swamp Dog. His attorneys, Jim Jenkins and John Ellis, were partners in their own law firm.  Our defense team was fired up and ready to go.

Picking the jury took a total of five days, and the defense fought over every single one of the seventy-eight potential jurors.  Courtroom proceedings were more bitter and rancorous than anything I had ever experienced up until then.  Because of the racial split, half the town was on our side.  Unfortunately, none of that half had guns or badges.  It was very scary.

Friday afternoon, the judge released the jurors for the weekend. He told them that on Monday morning, the attorneys would finally strike the jury and trial would begin.  After court, the defense team received a message from Atlanta that we needed NOT to be in town on Saturday.  That was fine with us: we went to Darien, spent the day sailing, had the most delicious shrimp dinner in the history of shrimp dinners, and returned to Reidsville refreshed, sunburned, and drunk.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch in Reidsville, Hosea Williams and Dick Gregory marched into town with the local chapter of the NAACP.  They were met at the city limits by a burning cross.   They continued into downtown Reidsville, followed by the Ku Klux Klan in pickups. The sheriff and his deputies arrested about 100 people, and spent Saturday night processing them at the jail. Sunday morning, the judge and prosecutors had to arraign everyone, and listen 100 stories about why these people deserved bail.

Monday morning, oh….. Monday morning was fun.  While the prosecutors were looking dog-tired, the defense team breezed into the courtroom ready to ROCK.  Just to add insult to injury, our man John Ellis showed up wearing a seersucker suit, red bow tie, dirty bucks, and a Panama hat.  The jurors stood up as one and applauded.

Then the judge came in.  His eyes were red, and his shoulders sagged.  He looked at Jim and John and said, “Before we begin, is there anything we need to discuss?”  Jim said, “Why yes, your honor, there is.  One of our potential jurors was observed on Saturday afternoon riding in the back of a pickup truck full of Klansmen, brandishing an axe handle.”  I was afraid for a moment there Jim had killed the judge, because he went as white as Klansman’s hood.  The judge recovered, excused the juror for cause after a thunderous tongue-lashing, and Swamp Dog finally got his jury.

In the end, nobody got the death penalty and change came to Reidsville: Swamp got convicted of murder, but the jury gave him a life sentence.  Four months later at the second trial, James Collins was found Not Guilty.   After that, the other cases quietly went away.  A federal Monitor was called in and took over the GSP for a spell.  The first thing he did was fire the warden.  Reidsville will always be hell on earth, but at least it’s not as hot in the summer inside B-1 as it used to be.  Dan Harrison did not die in vain.

Today, alongside many people working in criminal justice, environmental protection, education and other fields, I am watching my life’s work crumble into dust.  It’s time to do something, y’all.  As for me, I will be helping to pick another jury in another death penalty case in six weeks.  Wish me luck.

[maureenmc1]

This Is What an Execution Looks Like

On September 21, 2011, the State of Georgia executed an innocent man, Troy Davis. Drawing upon my experiences as a trial consultant exclusively working for the defense in death penalty cases, I wrote a series of Facebook posts that followed the protocols Georgia uses when putting a person to death. Here are those posts. ---------Posted at 11:10 a.m. Troy Davis: At 9 a.m., the people on his visiting list were let into the GDCC. This is how they got in: days previously, their names were added to Troy's list. A criminal background check was performed on each person. When they reached the prison, they drove down a long driveway, which ends in the bottom parking lot. Just inside the entrance on the right, they passed a grassy area where people protesting the execution will gather later in the day. When they arrive in the parking lot, Everything must be left inside the car except car keys and ID. After securing their vehicles, visitors walk up a hill past a guard tower to the visitor's entrance. As they pass the tower, a guard will call down from the top of the tower, asking for their names. Once their names have been found on the list, the door to the visitor's entrance will buzz open. Stepping inside a glassed-in area, they will be asked to hand over their keys and identification. Then they must take off their shoes and walk through a metal detector. The area where the metal detector is located is so small, they have to walk back through it to retrieve their items. A set of heavy metal doors, standard prison issue, stand to the right. After being buzzed through first one door and then the other, they stand at one end of a very long, very narrow concrete block hall, painted grade school cafeteria green. To add to the Kafka-esque quality, motivational posters from the 1980's are placed along the walls every ten feet or so on both sides of the corridor. They are in plastic frames covered with plexiglass and screwed to the walls. These are those black posters with the colorful pictures of lighthouses or sunsets, and one word like, "Teamwork," or "Cooperation." An inane comment like, "Do your best to be your best," is under the caption. Once the corridor has been traversed, visitors must climb a flight of stairs to the second floor. Standing at the top of the stairs, the Warden's secretary's office is to the left, and a glassed-in security booth lies directly ahead. The guard in the booth checks IDs against the list once again, and keeps the ID and car keys of each visitor. The visitors are given plastic claim chips that they will exchange for their items on the way out. This time, the visitors will be buzzed through a double set of heavy iron prison bars, sliding on a track at the touch of the guard's buzzer. On the other side of the "gates" is the death row visiting room and waiting area. The area is large, with gleaming linoleum floors and plastic chairs. On a table to the left, there is a telephone that may be used to communicate with attorneys and others in the outside world. Since visitors are not allowed to bring anything in with them except change for the vending machines, some visitors plan ahead and write phone numbers they may need during the day inside their clothing. On one side of the waiting area are carrells with glass in the doors. On normal visiting days, this is where attorneys may meet with their clients. What is more usual, though, is that meetings are held in the long skinny room to the right of the exit on to the cell block. The room on the left is for regular visitors, while the one on the right is for visits from legal and other professionals. In this room on the right, the long wall is two-thirds, looking directly on to the cell block. Of course there are more gates to go through, so one cannot see directly on to the row, but the daily hustle and bustle of prison life can easily be seen. Troy will be sitting in this room, on one of the plastic stools which is secured to the ground. He will be informed of visitor arrivals, and he will ask for people to come in and visit him. Two of the special guards are stationed at the door, and at times one is also inside the room. For this one day, children are allowed, so even the youngest family members will be allowed an opportunity to say goodbye. --------posted at 12:39 p.m. Troy Davis: Lunch was probably served around 11:00-11:30 a.m. Since Troy declined to have a last meal tonight, this will be it. Lunch at the prison is usually some kind of soup or stew, and the ever-present bologna sandwich. White bread, no condiments. Troy's visitors will also be offered lunch. This is the final act of hospitality they will receive at GDCC. This afternoon, Rev. Murphy Davis and her husband, Rev. Ed Loring will probably offer communion to any present who wish to partake. --------posted at 3:01 p.m. Troy Davis: There is one person among Troy's visitors today who is a person of note. His name is Randy Loney. Randy is a minister, and for the past twenty years or so, he has been present in the visitor's room at Jackson the day of every execution in Georgia. Randy is a minister, and a remarkably calm individual. There are many times when Randy is the condemned man's only visitor other than the death row chaplain, Murphy Davis. Randy is there to listen, and to provide comfort. I know he comforted me the day one of my clients was killed. There are many people who labor long in the vineyard in the fight against the death penalty. Randy Loney is certainly one of those. His book, "Dreams of a Tattered Man," is worth looking at if you are interested in learning more about what he does. If you are friends with MCP, go look at her updates re: from a friend who is outside the prison. Protesters are in a fenced-in area away from the press. To my knowledge, that area has never been fenced before. People usually don't start arriving in that area until 5 p.m. She has a picture taken at 2:30 that already shows a big crowd. --------posted at 5:07 p.m. Troy Davis. Execution protests. Normally, the people who want to stand in solidarity with the person being executed arrive at Jackson at 5 p.m. Today, it looks like they started getting there closer to noon. Today, prison officials tried to put the protesters in a fenced off pen, but there must have been too many of them. At this moment, the protesters are all around, as are the media. Anyone whom the condemned has asked to be present at his execution usually also waits in this area, outside under the trees. I don't know where the state execution witnesses wait, but it is somewhere within the walls of the prison. If they follow the normal schedule, at 6 p.m. Troy's family and visitors will be escorted from the visiting area. They will most likely join the protesters in vigil in the grassy area. --------posted at 6:23 p.m. Troy Davis. My final post on the protocols. After his visitors leave, Troy is moved to the death house, a free-standing building on the prison property. He is taken there in the "bus," which is basically a beefed-up station wagon. Inside the death house, there is a small holding cell directly across from the execution chamber, so that from the cell there is nowhere to look but into the chamber. The gurney onto which he will be placed is roughly in the shape of a cross, with arms extended from the table at about a 60 degree angle. He will sit in the cell until shortly before the execution. In the meantime, after delivering Troy, the bus will go to the protester area and pick up his execution witnesses. They will be transported to the death house, as will the witnesses for the State. The witnesses sit in a room which looks pretty much like every TV show you have ever seen, with a curtain over a glass window. Shortly before 7 p.m., the medical people will come in to make sure everything is ready. Troy will be strapped to the gurney; lines will be attached. At 7, the curtain will be drawn in the witness room, revealing Troy, the warden, and a med tech. The warden will ask if he has any last words. If he does, they will be taken down by the reporters among the witnesses. Then the lethal dosage will be administered. After the execution, State witnesses are usually invited to a buffet dinner hosted by the prison. Troy's people will convene across the street at the truck stop, where the owner is very kind and supportive. Many cups of coffee will be drunk, tears will be shed, and somebody will want to offer a prayer for the Davis and McPhail families. --------posted at 11:04 p.m. (Written around 6:45 p.m. Executions take place at 7:00 p.m.) Troy Davis will be executed any minute now. I went downtown to, as Millard Farmer says, "Put my feet in the street.". Being there brought me some solace, which I sorely am in need of. I am tired. After 30+ years of work in the criminal justice system, I used to believe that I could work myself out of a job. And, to Tom C: yes, I do feel like smashing something against a wall. I am furious and heartbroken at the same time. Now that you know a little something of what I have been doing at work all this time, maybe my near-fanatical devotion to music- especially Athens music- makes more sense. Music replenishes what the work takes away. Troy being executed and R.E.M. retiring happening on the equinox and Leonard Cohen's birthday is completely blowing my mind. Thanks to all of you for allowing me to share this with you. Now pray that the protesters are allowed to safely return to their homes. If you have any questions, I can answer them tomorrow.

[maureenmc1]

A Story for Maurice White

On July 23, 1978, a brutally hot day, there was a riot at Georgia State Prison in Reidsville, Georgia. Guard Dan Harrison was killed. After a brief investigation, six inmates were charged with his murder. I became a part of the defense team for the Reidsville Six, as they came to be called, working with the brightest stars in the Atlanta criminal defense bar, along with a superlative group of paralegals, trial consultants, and support staff. The first trial was held at the Tattnall County Courthouse, about six miles away from the prison where Harrison had been brutally murdered. The county split along racial lines, and tensions and emotions ran very high. On the Saturday following the first week of jury selection, Hosea Williams and Dick Gregory came town and marched through downtown Reidsville with the local chapter of the NAACP. The Ku Klux Klan organized a counter-demonstration, where a member of our jury panel rode in the back of a Klan pickup truck, brandishing an axe handle. We finished the jury selection the following Monday, and after a very contentious trial, Forrest Andrew Jordan was found guilty of lesser charges. Next up was James Collins, a shy, bookish guy who most of the people I talked to believed had nothing to do with Harrison's murder. He lived on the cell block where Harrison was killed, and although many witnesses agreed that he was on the block at the time, no one could testify that he even had a weapon in his hand. Collins was represented by Tony Axam. who asked for and was granted a change of venue. The second trial took place in Pembroke, Georgia, a small town near Savannah. The mood in the courtroom in Pembroke was a far cry from that of the highly-charged, contentious debacle in Reidsville. It was downright cordial. I don't mind suiting up and entering the field of combat spoiling for a fight, but after Reidsville, it was refreshing to be able to work in a collegial atmosphere where all parties conducted themselves as hard-working professionals and everyone was at the top of their game. At the end of the trial, the jury deliberated for about an hour and came back with a verdict of Not Guilty. Those of us on the defense team were in shock, as was every other person in the courtroom. James was taken back to the jail to retrieve his possessions and to be processed out of the system. The six members of his defense team crammed into a sedan and went over to the jail to retrieve him. Tony entered the jail and came out with our client. They got in the car, and as we pulled out of the parking lot, Earth, Wind & Fire's song "That's The Way Of The World" came on the radio. "Turn it up," someone said, and as we headed for Atlanta, all seven of us started singing along with Maurice White, "That's the way of the world, plant a flower and you grow a pearl..." Tears were running down our faces as we sang. Tears of gratitude. Tears of relief. James Collins went on to live a quiet life. Tony Axam continued to build a reputation as one of the finest criminal attorneys in America, and eventually became a judge. A federal monitor was appointed to oversee Reidsville State Prison. It is still a hellish place, but never again will temperatures on the cell block rise to over one hundred and twenty degrees on a summer's day. I like to think that Dan Harrison's death was not in vain. His demise led to a series of reforms in the Georgia prison system that were long overdue. R.I.P. Maurice White. You enriched my life immeasurably, and brought a positive message of peace, love and justice to a world that is aching to be healed. May we all strive to attain a similar epitaph.

[maureenmc1]

Enough Is Enough: Donald Trump and the Klu Klux Klan

I have been keeping my mouth shut about politics on social media, while doing my bit to make a difference in my local community.  I think that is a better use of my energy.  HOWEVER, Trump's waffling on the KKK is simply more than I can bear.  The world has turned upside down and we now live in a time when anyone can say any damn thing they choose, with no consequences whatsoever.  The time has come when we need to CALL people - especially people who want to be our elected officials - OUT on their racist, homophobic, and other discriminatory attitudes.  This is not  about being politically correct:  this is an urgent matter of drawing a line that says 'this far and no further."  We must all do this if we want to return to any level of civilized discourse in this country.  I am not saying that we can't hold contradictory opinions.   What I am saying, though, is that in the public arena, there have got to be limits on what society as a whole deems to be acceptable and unacceptable.  I am asking for a level of respect among all of us that enables us to air our differences and find points of agreement from which we can reach some kind of consensus on important questions about the world today.

I don't care who you are, if you wish to remain a sentient human being, you cannot waffle when it comes to the Klu Klux Klan.  I have spent MY LIFE fighting virulent racists in the South, and they don't come any worse than the KKK.  The Klan presented me with my first death threat when I was sixteen years old.   Since then, it has been Game On with the Klan and me. The Klan spews a filthy, hateful message against pretty much everyone who does not look and think exactly like them.  In my time-tested opinion, either you stand with the Klan and their despicable kind, or you stand against them.  There is no middle ground.

Trump is trying to take a mystically muddy "Plan C" position, saying first that he didn't know who David Duke is (which was a lie), and that he did not have not have enough information about the Klu Klux Klan to make a statement about them (another lie).  Now he is saying that he had a defective earpiece, (even though it worked well enough to respond in context to the questions when asked).  Donald Trump is a liar of the first magnitude and a proponent of magical thinking.  At this point, I believe that pretty much the entire Republican Party has drunk this fantastical Kool-Aid, and has gone over to living in a world of unicorns and glitter and non-gay rainbows. 

This all began when Frank Luntz taught Republicans about buzzwords and framing.  As an adviser to George W. Bush, Luntz schooled the Republican Party on choosing  three words a day to repeat over and over in their message, which led to Republican interviewees giving so-called answers to questions which, in fact, had nothing to do with the questions.  The Republicans sought to "frame" the issues using carefully chosen slogans and buzzwords like "death taxes" to describe estate taxes, and "No Child Left Behind" to describe a program which left the majority of American schools without necessary funds.   Republicans began to believe, just like Jiminey Cricket, that "wishing makes it so."  When wishing it turns to thinking it, and thinking it turns to saying it thirty to fifty times a day, people begin to believe whatever "it" is, even when "it" flies in the  face of common sense, reality, and basic humanity.

Donald Trump seems to think that he can say whatever pops into his head, regardless of whether he has stated a contradictory opinion before, if the statement he is making is true, or if what he contends makes any sense whatsoever.  His ability to absolutely believe in what he says in the moment speaks highly of his narcissistic personality.  His pathetic attempts to muddy the waters where the Klan and David Duke are concerned are not fooling anyone, except perhaps his supporters.  

Let me lay it out for y'all as plainly as I can.  After today, if you lie down with the rabid dog Donald Trump, know that  you are going to get up with the fleas of racism, misogyny, homophobia, and G*d knows what else crawling all over your broke-down, scab-covered body.  If you want to be a racist, a woman-hater, and an opposer of the LGBTQ community, you can do that.   This is still America, at least for a little while, and I respect your right to hold your own opinion.  I also respect your right to vote your convictions.  If your convictions are aligned with Donald Trump's, though, then you and I can no longer be friends.  I drew my line a long time ago.  It stops at racism, bigotry, and hatred.  If you do not stand with me, then i wish you well, and goodbye.

Godspeed and love, Maureen

[maureenmc1]

My Letter to Legislators about the Georgia “First Amendment Defense Act” (HB 757)

Background:  Most of y’all probably don’t know that the state of Georgia Georgia is regularly being used as the test case state for much of the extreme right-wing legislation that the Koch brothers and their ilk continue to inflict upon the American people.  For example, the legislation that began the economic collapse of the early 2000′s began with Koch-written subprime mortgage default legislation that easily passed in the Georgia Statehouse.  This led to thousands of Georgians losing their homes.   Other states used the Georgia law as precedent, and went on to enact similar laws that, in a very real sense ultimately,brought the American economy to its knees.

Now in 2016, Georgia is once again charging backwards into its regressive past.  Although Georgia is not the first state to propose the so-called “First Amendment Defense Act,” (FADA) if this bill becomes law in Georgia, it will be cited as a precedent in other states and in the U.S. courts.  That is why I am posting this on Tumblr, and hope you will share imy thoughts with your followers.  This legislation is narrow-minded and bigoted in the extreme and it erodes the basic human rights accorded every American citizen. 

Nationally, this type of bill is referred to as RFDA: the Religious Freedom Restoration Act and has been on the books in other states since the 1990′s. Laws similar to the one being proposed in Georgia have  been passed in Alabama, Arizona, Connecticut, Florida, Idaho, Illinois, New Mexico, Rhode Island, South Carolina, and Texas.  The bill in Georgia has passed the state Senate, and is going to be voted on in the House next week.  HB757 would allow any individual or business to refuse service to anyone they choose for “religious reasons”, and targets  gay and transgender Georgians, same-sex couples and their families. It further states that taxpayer-funded groups and organizations could deny service to those in need without legal repercussion.  This means that homeless shelters, food banks, and even orphanages can turn away  LGBTQ people,poor people, women, children or anyone else they choose without fear of losing state and federal tax dollars.

The group Georgia Unites Against Discrimination is asking people to write letters to their state representative, the Speaker of the House, and the Governor. 

Here is what I wrote:

Dear Governor Deal, Speaker Ralston, and Representative Williams:

I am writing to urge you to vote NO on the so-called "First Amendment Defense Act" (FADA) (HB 757) and all other religious exemptions legislation designed to permit discrimination in the name of religion. This legislation is downright unAmerican.  The reason we have a Constitution and Bill of Rights in the first place is because the Founding Fathers wanted to establish a free society, unshackled from the tyrannical demands of King George III and the British Parliament.  Central to the ideals of this fledgling nation was the notion that a government should operate for the good of her people. This legislation excludes the LGBTQ community - which may be as much as twenty percent of the population - from the protection of basic human rights.  Why should a certain group of people be singled out and punished simply for being who they are?  We have already gone through dealing with this kind of discrimination in Georgia in the same statehouse where you conduct the people's business.  From the 1890's onward, anti-miscegenation laws and other Jim Crow legislation specifically designed to work against the interests of African-Americans were drafted and passed with impunity.  Georgia eventually became the laughingstock of the nation. FADA has already smeared Georgia's reputation once again, confirming this land we love so dearly to be a place or intolerance and bigotry.     I worry that this legislation may be just the "thin edge of the wedge", and that in principle even more groups will be affected by this law.  Under the First Amendment Defense Act, individuals or businesses – including non-profits like adoption agencies, domestic violence centers, homeless shelters, etc. – could claim an exemption from having to provide services to Georgians in need. If tax-payer funded organizations are allowed to deny food, shelter, and other support, to individuals in the most peril, many lives will be a risk. How can this be allowed?  As our beloved former Secretary of State Ben Fortson used to sometimes say to me, "That ain't right." Not only is that not right, it also stands against our most fundamental religious beliefs.  As a person who grew up in the Methodist Church and is still a person of faith, let me tell you: Jesus did not walk the earth with the shopkeepers by his side.  He trod his path with the last, the least, and the lost and set a shining example for the rest of us to follow.   Allowing ANY group in Georgia to be legally discriminated against is, in my view, unChristian.   There is one more issue I want to mention before I let you go. This legislation would have devastating impact on Georgia's economy. Here in Athens, we have a modest yet thriving film community.  Statewide, the film and entertainment industries are warning they will leave the state if FADA becomes law – costing Georgia upwards of $10 billion annually. Two reports have projected $2 billion in losses to the tourism and conventions industries that rely on Georgia's brand as a welcoming and inclusive state. Why should we all have to suffer for this narrow-minded piece of legislation? I know that y'all are not going to pay attention to this letter.  I am just one little person whose opinion doesn't count for much, especially in this political climate.  All I can do is reiterate the underlying sentiment in the above paragraphs: FADA is a mean-spirited, illegal piece of legislation.  It is designed to divide Georgians that favors the preferences of the few over the needs of the many.  Georgia requires leaders who are looking to the future, not the past as FADA does.  We need to eradicate Georgia's history of intolerance and discrimination, and work on building a better world for ALL Georgians.  As a life-long resident of this state, that is my dream, and I hope you will stand with me in opposing this legislation.        

Sincerely,

Maureen Mclaughlin

[maureenmc1]

I thought this was a tarot card.

“Wheeler & Wilson’s High-Arm New Number Nine is the only perfect sewing machine for family use"—what that has to do with a tightrope-walking frog juggling swords and balls is beyond me.  Late 19th century (via)

[maureenmc1]

Art by brianbrianbrianbrianbrianbrian

[maureenmc1]

Tardy Letter

Whirl, whirl, whirl, his life was in a whirl of parties, meetings, studios and executives. He had no time for himself, except at breakfast in a neighborhood cafe. That was where he met her. All they did was eat and talk, eat and talk. They talked about lipstick and wiretaps and music theory. They talked about his old band and her new one. They talked about social responsibility. When they were finished, they would talk some more and eat some more. If the topic turned to family, he talked almost exclusively about his mother. The only thing she learnt about his father was that he would shut himself up in the attic and write children's books. Mostly, he preferred to talk about his table companion and to question her incessantly, "And you? What about you? May I read your palm? Can I take you out? Why are you afraid of Christmas? Don't you like my music?" His life whirled along, but things were becoming more complicated on every side. Business affairs were in a snarl; his music floundered upon the legal seas. They met whenever she came to town. He needed to talk to her, to have breakfast with her. Time progressed. Meals progressed. He nourished her in every way he could. "What about lunch? Can you meet me for tea? Let me take you to dinner. You need something to eat - you've had to much to drink." Questions came along with the meals: "Tell me about your mother. Your father. Your brother. Your sister. Do you know anybody famous? Tell me about your job. What is your greatest fault? Do you think that man over there is attractive?" He wanted a little time with her. He wanted her to show her interest in him. He wanted to give her long, deep kisses, but only if she asked for them. "Perhaps it's better if we act like we're having a high school romance," he said. He wanted a little more time with her. He asked her over to his apartment to get her Christmas present. Inside the front door, they started kissing. "Why don't you ever go further than this?" she asked. "High school romance," said the thirty-two year old man. "Let's go to bed now," she said. And they did. Half an hour later, the phone rang. He answered it, lying amongst the rumpled bedclothes. She got up and got dressed. She had to catch a plane. He, obviously, was a very busy man. His life continued in a whirl. Her life continued in a whirl. The fabric of their relationship stretched. He called her on Valentine's Day. She told him she had lost her job. He called three more times to say what a coincidence it was that he had called her on Valentine's Day. She understood his trepidation, but the fabric stretched thinner until the tear began. She found out that she was pregnant, and had a miscarriage. She didn't tell him: he was such a busy man. She carried the knowledge with her, and the fabric continued to tear. His life whirled up. Her life whirled down. He wrote to her about having too much of everything. It made him depressed. She wrote him an angry letter in reply. Along with the rest of her troubles, she told him the secret she had kept hidden away so long. He came to help her. The tearing stopped. Their fabric held together by threads no longer than the width of an envelope. And the healing was begun.