My Visit to Parksley Virginia

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My Visit to Parksley, Virginia

After the strange, albeit enchanting evening gathering at the Anna State Hospital Cemetery I went back to my hotel in downtown Anna, Illinois to rest up for my trip to my Dad’s house in Virginia. When I told Nurse Penny at the closing of the ceremony that I was headed to the Eastern Shore of Virginia, she retorted with a chuckle, “I didn’t know it had a Western Shore?”, with a bit of geographic arrogance. 

I had to explain to her about both shores, Penny is not alone, most don’t realize that Virginia has two, one west of the Chesapeake Bay called the Western Shore, and the oft forgotten / forsaken Eastern Shore which is a peninsula bounded by the Atlantic on the east and the Bay on the west. The Virginia portion of this peninsula consists of two counties, the more sparsely populated Northhampton county (12,000/212 sq miles) on the southern half, and the denser (33,000/450 sq miles) Accomack County on the northern half. These two counties are stressed economically with the annual per capita income around $22,500, and there are no major cities or towns, no Target, no Starbucks, no Dunkin, no LensCrafters, no Dick’s, or any of the other places that we assume to be reachable within a seventy mile radius. The largest town is Chincoteage at 4,500 isolated souls, and is semi-famous for being the location of the book Misty of Chincoteague and the pony penning activity that happens every July, which hardly anybody west of Ohio knows about, which is most of the country. 

This is my destination as I head out across southern Illinois to Mount Vernon where I pick up I-64 and start the drive east through the lush hilly summer countryside of Southern Illinois, Southern Indiana, Kentucky, West Virginia and Regular Virginia and finally reach Norfolk. Norfolk is at the end of the peninsula formed by the James and York Rivers,  that storied Peninsula that hosts Williamsburg, Yorktown, and City Point, the latter of which was Grant’s headquarters during the siege of Richmond and Petersburg.  After entering Norfolk I hang a left on Highway 13 to enter the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, the 23 mile bridge/tunnel complex that connects Norfolk to the Eastern Shore of Virginia, with spectacular views of the Atlantic on my right and the Chesapeake on my left, gulls swooping in off the water like kamikaze pilots that never really hit. Once the bridge is exhausted, the journey continues on US Highway 13, fifty five miles up the peninsula to the town of Parksley, a town of approximately 800 people, about three miles west of the main highway.  The scenery on Highway 13 is less than spectacular, mostly just a sandy stretch of land with a few motels, chicken houses, and some small towns where you have to slow down to 45mph. There are also a few major chicken processing plants like Tyson and Perdue, which are the primary employers in the region of about 45,000 people, stretched over the 70 miles piece of land, so it’s pretty sparsely populated. On the surface there doesn't seem to be much here, but once you start to scratch a little that impression quickly fades. 

After driving north for about an hour I reach the turnoff to Parksley on Hwy 176 where I make a left,  over the railroad tracks, through the Colored houses, past the wealthy Negro’s house big yellow house, around the bend by Adam’s Methodist Black Church, the Enclave of Lee Mont, the Hurley Brothers Fish Operations, and finally into my Dad’s driveway near Hunting Creek.  I walk in, not sure if my Dad is still up, and there he is, half asleep in his armchair by the TV with the Weather Channel blaring at the highest volume, but to him it’s low volume since I can see his hearing aids on the dining room table. He senses my presence, wakes up saying, “Is that you Billy?” He rises slowly and painfully and after about seven attempts is able to finally stand upright. He greets me with a hug, asks if I want anything to eat, I reply “maybe” and he says “help yourself.” It’s always the same routine, and I quickly find the macaroni salad as we make small talk about the trip and I finish the macaroni before I head upstairs to the bedroom for the night. My dad doesn’t eat macaroni salad so it was probably pretty old, and I’m not even sure why it was in there. It's best to not check the expiration date. 

In the morning, after a breakfast of Pork Roll and Cheese, we head out to the nearby creek where the 17 foot motor boat is docked and venture out into the Chesapeake to see if we can catch some rock fish, or striped bass as they are called in most other places. It doesn’t take long until we’ve landed a couple of them, and since we don’t really have a pail in the boat we just let them flop around on the floor or hull.  

                      

“Your brother Jim would club that thing to death right now,” the ninety year old shouts as our boat cruises towards Charlie’s Point in Bagwell Creek, a tributary off the Chesapeake. 

“What?” I yell, but then I see him pointing to the bass by my bare foot, which is flapping in desperation, suffering in the one inch of water in the bottom of the boat. 

“Yeah, he thinks it’s cruel to let them suffer like that without water, so he clubs them to death right away.”

“Really?”  I respond, but since my Dad is almost stone deaf he doesn’t respond. My first thought is that it doesn’t sound much like brother Jim, since I’ve fished with him countless times in our youth and never once remember him clubbing a fish to death. On the other hand I haven’t fished with him since 1971 so it could be that he’s changed, and has more compassion now that he’s a physician, or maybe the whole doctor thing has nothing to do with it. It could be that he’s just more compassionate than I am. Yes, that’s it. Now I remember back in 1969 when some guy in high school was disrespecting me so I challenged him to a fight after school. We met at The Baseball Park in Spring Lake Heights, just to the east of the Tennis Courts. As the crowd gathered round to watch the fight, my opponent, Eddie Rizzo, decided to remove his polo shirt over his head, momentarily blocking his view of me. Seizing the opportunity, as soon as the shirt cleared his eyes I succor punched him with all my might in the face, while his arms were still entangled in the shirt. Somewhere along the line I had learned to make sure that I landed the first punch once the fight had started, and in this case I wanted to dictate the start time. Somehow the Spring Lake Heights Department of Police had gotten wind of the fight and after just a short flurry of punches we all had to flee, which saved either me or Eddie, since I’m not sure that my cheater punch had done the job. My brother Jim and I fled to the safety of Masella’s Luncheonette on the corner of Wall and Old Mill Roads, where we recounted the short fight sequence over milkshakes. Jim, 14 years old at the time, commented on how the punch was cruel, and wondered how I could just punch someone in the face like that, not out of self-defense, but out of a mean spirit, especially with his arms entangled in his polo shirt. He made the point that he could never just slam someone in the face like that. 

Different temperament, a kinder one, but I have excuses for my behavior, as do all individuals. . Previously in that same park on multiple occasions I had been in a number of fights, maybe four, and fights of the pre-arranged type. Pre-arranged fights are way worse than spur of the moment, ad hoc fights, although spur fights could turn into pre-arranged. In a spur of the moment fight, one party strikes the other in a fit of anger, AT THE TIME of the fit of anger. The fight ensues, and is usually broken up by the teacher, the coach, or other responsible adults that are nearby. Sometimes it ends there, but sometimes resumption needs to be scheduled at a place where the fight can proceed uninterrupted by responsible adults or the authorities. The Park on Allaire Road was a popular place for this due to the lack of this type of supervision.

As luck would have it, ALL of my fights were of the prearranged variety, which is much more traumatic than the spur type. As alluded to earlier there is no planning with a spur fight, no forethought, no arrangements, no hype, and a much smaller crowd. The only time you have to think about the fight is during the fight itself, which is usually just a few seconds. With a pre-arranged fight you have to think about the fight from the time it is scheduled until the time the fight is over, which can be all day long or even a couple of days depending on scheduling conflicts. This interim period between the challenge and the fight itself was tormenting in that I could think of nothing else, such as school work, lunch, conversations with others, etc. I was totally consumed with how I was going to perform, and the fear of embarrassment in front of the abnormally large and bloodthirsty crowd that was sure to be at whatever venue was chosen. 

Yes, the crowd was always large. Once a fight was scheduled it became a major event, and the word would spread throughout the thousands of high school students regarding the start time and location so that within two hours every kid would clear his or her calendar to make sure they didn’t miss the free entertainment. Social media was not necessary. The pre-fight hype may have created anxiety for the combatants, but it was a great deal of fun for the non-combatants. I LOVED watching others perform, and I remember people betting on the outcome, the endless dialogue as to why Alex would beat Dicky, or vice versa. The conversation consumed the halls of the school, and gave us something to look forward to, and if it were two girls that were fighting even better, because the girls have no rules, spoken or unspoken, and fight in a super nasty, filthy dirty fashion. Think about it. All boys get in fights, it’s what they do, but what kind of girl gets into a PRE-ARRANGED fight? Yep, that’s right, the nasty ones, and the nastiest of the nasty, and the fighting white girls were just as mean as the fighting black ones.  The boys had unspoken rules of engagement, none of which applied to the girls, making their fights a more sought after event.  They would kick, pull hair, bite, gouge, use their high heels, and scratch. They would punch too, but I swear the scratching and biting were worse than the punches and actually drew more blood which enhances the entertainment quotient. A punch might make you bleed, but usually it would just create a contusion. The scratches would ALWAYS draw blood, so once one girl gained advantage by being on top, she could rake the other’s face without mercy, and the dark red would stream slowly down onto the stressed brown New Jersey playground grass mingling with the white limestone chalk on the first base line. Only when we thought that Patti’s life might be in danger would we intervene, but frankly I was usually too afraid to even go near the ruckus, for fear of another Joyce Quimby incident. We should have found a way to charge admission. Most people just love to watch a fight, even some of the pacific persuasion. 

The striped bass is still alive yet moving slower as it proceeds toward death, and as I make another cast toward Charlies Point, my mind wanders to my father, the great captain of this boat, even without his eyesight, which is an amazing story in itself.  By definition of the fact that he is ninety years of age he is dying, yes active, but slowly dying. I guess we all are, but then I realize that I am right behind him. While I may feel young and have the heart and mind of a seventeen year old, it is not the heart and mind that determines one’s distance from the ultimate transition, but the body and brain, assuming the brain is not equivalent to the mind, which I DO assume, since the brain is just matter, but the mind is that consciousness that is truly you, living forever according to Jesus. The brain ages, gets cancer, and has seizures, but the mind does not age, it may gain wisdom, but it doesn’t really age since age is construct of time, and the mind is timeless.  In this way my Dad and I are about the same age regarding heart and mind in that we are both eighteen, with his earth suit a bit more fragile than mine. This fact was brought home when I suggested that he had to quit driving the truck, and replace it with the golf cart, due to his failing eyes. To this he replied, “Billy, how in the world am I supposed to pick up a date in a Golf Cart?” 

I had no answer, yet this statement provided an answer for which I had no rejoinder. He thinks he’s still in the game, as IF he’s seventeen instead of ninety! He also thinks that someone who is seventy five or even 70 is possibly within striking range, and he’s probably correct. It’s hard to get my mind around this, but then I think that I’d better get my head around it since in the flash of an eye I could be in the same boat, which is now driven home by the fact that I AM in the same boat. 

After catching a few more stripers my Dad navigates the vessel back to the dock, we pack up the day’s catch, and head back to the house with our semi-legal bounty. At least I think it’s semi-legal since I don’t really know how long the fish are, and my Dad can’t even see the fish NOR the ruler, and certainly not the ruler in relation to the fish, so we both just make the assumption that the fish ARE indeed legal which helps soothe my Christian conscience, when in fact the larger issue is the degree of their suffering, not their length. In any case the fish is toast, damaged beyond repair, even if thrown back.  Next time I bring a club for the mercy killings. 

Back at the house in Parksley we prepare for happy hour which occurs at 4:00 pm every day. The prep period is not that onerous since we already have the Cheetos, beer, and Scotch, so the prep consists of pouring the Cheetos into a serving dish and getting out a few shot glasses. We drink the beer out of the can so nothing to do there. At five the happy hour neighborhood guests arrive, and except for Mimi, I’m the youngest of the group at 64.  Most of them drink Keystone beer, made by Coors, but the fact that it’s made by Coors does not increase its cachet in my eyes, it still tastes like piss beer, regardless of the manufacturer, and if I were Mr. Coors, I would be embarrassed to have my name attached to anything so vile. Regardless, Mimi and Sharon like the stuff, so as my Dad says, Say Two Vwaa, but we all know that he really means C’est la vie or ‘such is life’ , and we let it go. Say Two Vwaa.  He kind of knows that he slaughtered it as well, but he loves to use erroneous French expressions. It’s the little things that make him who he is, and we wouldn’t want it any other way.

The group is intelligent, kind, and since they take great care of my Dad I am grateful for all of them, Plus I love our conversations since you don't have to worry about being politically correct since nobody else is. The topics discussed at this time run the  gamut from who's catching what fish and where, to the opening of the new library, when the Lunch Box will open, how Parksley lost it's only grocery store, the Chicken Salad at Royal Farms, who's dated whom, the problems at Arcadia High,  the make-out places like Ayers Circle, and so on.  There are times however that due to the fact that most of us are over 60 it helps if you are also versed on Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, Arthritis, Knee and Hip replacements, bypass surgery, and death. Yes, death. See, when you’re over 60, death is no longer an aberration but a normal and frequent event. In other words if you’re under 60 and you die, that is considered tragic and untimely. Not true if you’re over 60, unless of course if you are the one dying. In other words every day that you have when you’re over 60 is considered a bonus day, and the greater the distance between 60 and your actual age, the bigger the bonus. In any case it seems like most of the individuals on this street are familiar with the conversational constructs of old age and I guess I am as well, at the tender age of 64. The topic on hand is surrounding the optimal age at which one should collect social security benefits, for which I have not yet needed to apply. The consensus is that one should apply as early as possible, for a couple of reasons. The chief reason is that due to the bonus day concept of those over 60, there is a good chance of death at any point, so you should get it while you can. Numerous examples are discussed surrounding those who died after only collecting it for a year or two before there death. Of course another reason is that Social Security is a very sick entity itself due to the fund has been the object of theft, AND the fact that due to the baby boomer phenomenon, the ratio of payers (young workers) to receivers (boomers)  is extremely low, to the point where it is clearly not sustainable.  Couple this with the fact that receivers live longer than yesterday’s receivers, the whole plan will be crushed under its own weight, with the economic underpinnings no longer underpinning anything.  

While the conversations sometime concern sickness, death, and social security you would think that there would be more discussion regarding the final transition, yet even when it is staring you in the face the topic is somehow avoided, the old Elephant in the Room effect. In the year 2026, just ten years from now, about half of this group will be gone, having passed to the other side. I can kind of guess which ones, but you never know. Many go in their 60’s, some in their nineties, but they all go. And we all talk like we know what’s going to happen over there but nobody really knows since nobody has really been there and back to tell about it except Jesus, which I was why I place all bets on his story, and even my commitment can easily be called into question, since I don’t sell EVERYTHING I have and give to the poor, and join a commune or monastery, devoting my ENTIRE life to God. 

That’s what the people in The Salvation Army do, not the bell ringers or store workers, but the ones who actually sign up for the whole program. They basically sign away the remainder of their life, paying off all of their debts and giving all their remaining possessions to the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army then provides food, shelter, medical care, and a ministry (job) in which they can work in service to Jesus Christ, their Master. They could be assigned an office job in Atlanta, or an outreach job in the Ukraine, depending on their gifts, or in regular lingo their skill set. If you spend any time in their administrative offices like I did in 2015, you will see that these folks are not just nominal Christians but real ones, striving to love each other, praying before each meeting for guidance, and are not ashamed in the least of their Christianity as so many others are today. To me it is this group that are one of the few groups that really get it, so why don’t I sign up? I guess I’m afraid of the job that they’ll give me and have to go back to dressing up each day, wear that silly little Army suit and tie that they make you wear, and work in Human Resources or something since that is all I really know. I have considered joining and their main finance person in Texas, Laura Burn, originally from England, almost talked me into joining. Laura is young, bright, wise beyond her years, and besides a deep understanding of finance she also works like a fiend in disaster relief efforts.  I would like to be like Laura but I’m just not. 

You can’t argue against what the Salvation Army does, since even if you are not a Christian, their impact on the poor is apparent to all, and since they really don’t pay a salary to their managers, their overhead is as low as it can get, with most funds going to those for whom they are intended. You can however argue with their beliefs since in order to join up you have to sign a statement of faith, stating that you believe in Jesus and the Trinity, as well as eschewing various evils, one of which is homosexuality. No, they don’t care about your age, nor your race, but you can’t be a practicing gay, lesbian, or zooite. Just can’t. I’m not sure how they feel about trannies.

In the Huffington Post, the lesbian writer Zinnia Jones states that “The Salvation Army will not repudiate any of its explicitly anti-gay beliefs.” The word repudiate is interesting since it holds the connotation that there is a belief that should be renounced due to error, whereas in the eyes of the Salvation Army it is the LGBTQZ lifestyle that should be repudiated. In other words, no one should be holding their breath and acting surprised. It's like blaming your cat for killing a bird, since that is it's essence.  If indeed the Salvation Army did repudiate its belief here then it would be repudiating the scriptures upon which the entire organization is built, and while it may not crumble (it probably would), it would no longer be the Salvation Army. Might as well sell the whole thing to the Red Cross or to Goodwill Industries, two charities with extremely high overhead. Remember, the officers of the Salvation Army, those who give their lives for nominal pay for this service, DO repudiate the LGBTZ lifestyle and without these officers there is no Salvation Army. 

While both the Salvation Army and the LGBTZ movement seem ubiquitous in America, there is trace of neither here in Parksley, nor the entire Eastern Shore of Virginia for that matter. That’s the thing about this place, at first you don’t notice much going on that is different from other places but after a while you notice things that are very different. As mentioned earlier there are no famous chain coffee shops like Dunkin or Starbuck or (ugh) Caribou. There IS however a pretty decent coffee shop down in the town of Onley (pronounced Only, which used to be its actual name), called Crossroads Coffee Shop. In fact this could be classified as the only true Coffee Shop on the entire Virginia portion of the peninsula, with actual espresso drinks, a full breakfast and lunch menu, friendly young baristas, great seating, and good WiFi. The Wifi is important since my Dad’s house is out of reach for the carriers, and even the cell service is rough. 

Every other morning I head over to the Crossroads to use the internet, and finding a decent seat is pretty easy since it has three large rooms from which to pick, the main one by the cash registers, the first floor side room, which is by the rest rooms, and the upstairs area, all of which are about the same size and all are roomy. I like the side room best due to the numerous outlets and proximity to the rest rooms. The upstairs is my second favorite spot since it is like a loft where you can look down onto the first floor, but it also has an area that used to be a bank vault, with thick concrete walls and a heavy steel vault door that you can shut with wheel that you might see on submarine doors, or like you would see on bank vault doors. This room is filled with books on bookshelves, giving the impression that you are in a library that used to be a bank vault. The only problem is that it deteriorates both the WiFi and the cell service, so you can’t really shut the door with the submarine wheel, which hardly anybody wants to do anyway. If you do see two individuals go in there, depending on the gender mix and orientation, you can pretty much assume the obvious if they use the wheel to secure the door. Kind of like the mile high club with slightly lower elevation so while I love the room I usually refrain from working in it due to the passive distraction. 

On this particular morning my favorite seat in the side room is available but has a single glass of water in a plastic cup on the coffee table next to the seat. The glass is full, and the ice is not yet melted, and I wonder if the solitary drink is meant to hold the seat for someone else who is either at the register OR in the restroom. This seems to be a lame way to hold a seat in that if you really want to hold a seat at a coffee shop you should leave an item ON the chair itself, like a mitten, or book, scarf, jacket, something to indicate that the seat itself is taken. A glass of water on an adjacent coffee table could be interpreted as the patron had just abandoned their drink, and failed to discard it. Whenever I enter a crowded coffee shop I immediately mark my territory (chair) with a personal item that I am prepared to lose, like something besides my laptop, phone, or my keys. Once the chair is reserved only then do I wait in the line, which I know may aggravate some, but nobody has ever confronted me about it since there is really no rule, explicit or implicit, against doing this. In fact there are very few explicit rules in coffee shops, but there are some implicit ones. One such rule is that if you ARE going to plant yourself in a seat for a couple of hours your price of admission or rent should be at least a cup of coffee. This is just common courtesy, and in larger cities even the homeless abide by this rule. They panhandle a couple bucks to get the cheapest item, and use that item to remain in that seat, by the warm fireplace, to sit all day long. Some coffee shops allow this, and Starbucks is very gracious in allowing them to sit there even WITHOUT purchasing product, which is commendable. The only issue can be that the person emits a continual foul order, which can affect a one hundred foot square area (10X10), or about 8 other individuals, causing them to either leave, or confront the homeless person which nobody ever does. If you were to do this how would it be done. Would you simply approach the individual and tell them that their smell is offensive and thereby degrading the taste of your Caramel Macchiato ? Would you inform the manager, who may not have the desire to confront the offender? In addition it take a certain amount of boldness to confront a stranger on their odor, more boldness than most people have. Not only would you be informing them of their odor, but you would be asking or telling them to leave based on that odor, to which they could just say no or worse they could report YOU to the management who may ask YOU to leave due to your unruly AND unkind behavior. 

As I consider the hypothetical options, a Negro man of about sixty years of age walks in from outside, approaches me, takes the full glass of water on my service table, and moves over to the seat at the next table. The isolated glass was indeed used to save the chair in which I was now seated! Of course I apologized saying that I thought the glass was simply abandoned due to the length of idle time as well as the fact that nobody was in the restroom or at the counter. He then explained that he’d merely gone out for a quick smoke, and thought that a full glass of water WITH Straw AND fresh ice should have given me pause when I decided to take his seat. 

“Would you like this seat?” I asked.

As he turned to answer I could see that there was something odd about his right eye, like it wouldn’t move at all, as if it were a glass eye or something, and tried my best not to stare. 

“Nah, this one’s just as good, no worries,” he responded, “but thank you.” 

He then reached into his backpack and pulled out a thick worn book, went to the espresso stand to fetch his coffee, and sat down without making additional eye contact. While there are a large number of blacks on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, about 30% of the population, they generally don’t frequent the coffee shops here like they do in the north. As many times as I have been here at Crossroads this is the first time I’ve seen a person of color in here, and it struck me as odd since the entire region has always struck me as extremely segregated, with blacks frequenting black establishments and whites to their respective places. On the rare occasions where they do happen to go to the same store, like the Red Lion grocery store, they are certainly cordial, but rarely exceedingly friendly to each other. It’s important to understand that while this place is only about thirty miles from the Maryland line, it is very much culturally the deep south, complete with confederate flags and a liberal use of the word nigger among much of the white population, as well as the Negroes. 

As I glance over at the gentleman he is just staring straight ahead, not drinking his coffee nor looking at his book, as if they are just props, the coffee which serves as the ticket to his seat and the book which lends the impression that he has something to do besides just sit there and drink coffee. Every few minutes he may take a sip, but he never looks at the book. Eventually he gets up to go to the bathroom, and while he’s urinating I peer over and the title reads, “The History of White People” by Nell Painter. The title strikes me as funny since I, a white man, am currently reading the Mis-Education of the Negro by Carter Woodson. I almost laugh out loud at the irony, if it is irony, the white man trying to understand the coloreds, and inversely, the black man trying to understand the white man. 

When he returns to his seat, I say “excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice what you were reading,” and then I showed him my book.

He grinned, started a little bit of a laugh, and said, “humph, now that doesn’t happen everyday, especially on the Eastern Shore. Why would a white man want to read a Negro book, plus it’s kind of outdated.” 

“Yes, I replied, it may be a bit dated, but I think it’s important to see how we got here, and in order to do so I think it’s important to read as much as possible, going back to 17^th century Africa, Slaveholding America, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, 60’s, black power, right up to Black Lives Matter. In any case, why are you reading about the history of the white man, since just about all written history is white history anyway.” I made this last statement just to get a rise out of him.

“Apparently you haven’t learned that much from your reading,” he responded.

“Oh no, it’s not that, I’ve learned a great deal about what relatively little written African history exists, it’s just that I’m somewhat a racist. Anyway, don’t take offence, Africans, for some reason, just chose to communicate their history and culture in an oral fashion, whereas the whites chose to actually write it down.” 

“Hmmm, I’ve never heard a white man admit that they are racist, so at least you’re honest. Regarding the written history, who is to say that written history is more important than oral. They are both legitimate historical forms in the opinion of many.” 

“Could be, but certainly not in my opinion, and my opinion is based on common sense. Think about it. If a particular event is passed down orally over the years, it morphs as the storytellers alter the story each time they tell it, making it less credible than written history. So while African History may be just as rich as White History, the full body of work, both oral and written, seems less credible due to the oral to written ratio.” 

“I see your point, but any point from a self-avowed racist is not exactly credible either,” the black man responded.

“Hey look,” I said, “think about it, we’re pretty much all racists in this country, it’s only a matter of degree. In addition there are many kinds of racists, and since you are colored I suppose that you assume that I’m racist toward blacks, when in fact I may be racist toward Asians, Jews, or Arabs?”

“Yes, what else would one expect since our context is that of a white man telling a black man that he’s racist, give me a break and try to be honest with you own self.” 

“Fair point,” I said, and in truth I’m racist toward almost all races, but not necessarily in a negative way, although not always in a positive way either. I just believe that there are obvious genetic differences between the races, some of those differences are endearing and others not as much. For instance the actual tone of the skin is the most obvious, along with the shape of the eyes, nose, buttocks and other body parts. These are clear physical genetic differences, and depending on the eye of the beholder they may be considered either less or more attractive. Would you at least give me that?”

“Ok, I hear you, go on but I think I know what you’re about to say.” 

“Maybe, but humor me for a moment”, I said and then continued. “Let me give you an example that most would consider racist. Let’s say there are ten boys of similar height and age standing around on an outdoor basketball court, five are pasty white and five are black. Then I come along and say to you ‘how about you pick five of those individuals for one basketball team and have them play the other five, and then bet me 5,000 dollars on which team would win.’ What would you do?”

“I would put the five blacks on one team, and bet the five large on them. Ok, I understand your point, but I still don’t think it’s valid since the basketball prowess of the black man could be more a function of culture than genetics or race. And I do know some truly poor black basketball players, although I happen to be pretty decent myself. And what about Larry Bird, John Stockton, Bill Cunningham, Dirk Nowitzki, Bill Bradley, and Steve Nash?” 

“Yes, I see you pulled out some ancient exceptions,  but my point is this, the fact that you actually bet on the black teenagers would presuppose a racist attitude, but in a positive fashion towards the blacks, but in a negative way towards the whites, assuming that for whatever reason that black teenagers are better at basketball than whites, just as you would assume that Mexicans are better soccer players than blacks, or that Asians are better ping pong players than Arabs, and that whites are better tennis players than blacks.  Even within a sport, say football, look at the skill positions, most of the receivers and backs are black, with the line being mixed, with quarterbacks mostly white, like 85% in the NFL. 

The man thought for a moments, sipped his coffee and said, “Yes, again though, this is mostly just a cultural thing, for instance soccer is just more popular in Mexico than here in Virginia, and likewise, basketball is more popular among inner city blacks than it is for suburban whites, probably it is more convenient to play it in the inner city than in the suburb, among other reasons.”

“You mean other reasons like slow twitch muscles versus fast twitch muscles?”

“Hmmm…, yes, I’m familiar with the various muscle fiber types between our respective races, and the reason why white men can’t jump. You really are a racist aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I responded, “I led with the racist admission partly just to diffuse the issue immediately since it’s harder to accuse someone of an attribute that they readily admit, but in a way you are racist as well by virtue of the jumping statement.  You see my point though, that the genetic racial differences are not just with respect to color but also extend to other physical characteristics, such as the ones mentioned earlier in addition to the fast versus slow twitch muscles. I doubt few would disagree there, and really, these physical differences are not really problematic. What IS problematic is when we start saying that there are genetic racial differences with respect to the physical organ called the brain, and all that is generated from said organ, such as wealth, crime, poverty, intelligence, and so on. If one race believes that the other is predisposed to negative cultural, intellectual, or civil traits, then they will deploy the type of negative racism that is harmful to the other. This will and IS manifested today with respect to jobs opportunities, housing, and tennis, although Serena and Venus have seriously put a dent in the last one but don’t even claim Arthur Ashe.”

“And why can’t I claim Arthur Ashe?” he asked.

“Just look at him, yes, dark skin, but the facial features of totally white, kind of like the jet black people of southern India, a lot blacker than you but with Caucasian faces.”

“That shows what YOU know, even your own white geneticists admit the Arthur was black. Have you ever read Genetic Twist of Fate by Fields and Johnston? Don’t even answer that since this conversation is getting dumber by the second. What I would like you to answer is this. Do you always lead with an admission of racism when talking to black strangers?”

“My name is Bill, what is yours?” I asked extending my hand and ignoring the disparaging question.

“Coleman”, he replied, leaving my hand orphaned in mid-air for a moment, and then reluctantly clasping it for one fourth of a second, “Leroy Coleman. Now answer my question, do you always admit your racism when meeting us Negros for the first time?”

“No, not really, just those that I see reading a book called “The History of White People”.

“Hmph”, he said with a slight hint of aggravation and took another sip, looking straight ahead through the window, toward the Lighthouse Thrift Store on the other side of the street.  

At this point I got the impression that Leroy was no longer enjoying my company, and that any further overtures toward dialogue would not be welcome. I felt badly. Did I really do or say anything really wrong? Am I truly a racist, even though certainly not a white supremacist since I don’t believe that whites are the supreme race, and actually think Asians and Jews are more intelligent, but in thinking this does it make me a racist by the mere ranking of the races across a number of different variables. I don’t think so since racism is defined as thinking one’s OWN race is superior to another, but in my case I don't believe my own race is superior in every area, and actually inferior in some and also to some.  Subtle difference but important, yet can be a slippery slope I suppose.  Should we even study or discuss the topic? Would I pursue this line of questioning if I were an American Black?  Is it this type of genetic questioning that created white supremacists? Should the concept of race just be expunged through a collective cleansing of the human psyche? Is truth meaningful if not actionable, or if that truth causes negative consequences. Can that really happen? Should we sacrifice love for truth? I think the answer is yes, but human curiosity compels pursuit of truth, and without the truth can racial problems really be solved or merely painted over with the colors of platitude and pretense? Or should we paint over them with kindness? Maybe it really is better to just let dead dogs lie, but it could be that that the dog might still be alive.