Free coffee and its price

I like to think I am wiser than I used to be, mostly because I am older. Old people seem to have the enviable trait of ridding themselves of foolishness they once thought was cool. A wise move. Or maybe it is because they finally have the time to learn the stuff that qualifies as wisdom. Most gray-heads wasted too much of their youth chasing waterless clouds in their quest for a refreshing sip of water. No matter what the explanation, I like thinking I am finally wise. And just when I am pleased with myself, I discover that some younger persons have been longtime custodians of what I now call wisdom.

A few days ago, Butch and I visited the Washington Street Mission. Between 9:00 and 11:00 each weekday morning, the mission invites the citizens of the state capital to come in and have a free cup of hot coffee and a left over doughnut that no one was willing to pay for yesterday. Thinking if the doughnuts can’t be fresh they at least ought to be warm, the staff nukes the doughnuts and serves them to anyone who comes in off the street.

Some days 100 people enter the smoke-free, alcohol-free building for a cup of coffee in a real cup or mug. Many of them are street people. That’s a nice way to describe citizens who have no home, no job, and not much of anything else unless it fits in a black, plastic garbage bag. Many of the regular clients of the downtown mission sit at the bottom of society’s ladder, often because of drugs, alcohol, or mental illness.

Even at the bottom of the ladder, folks gather wisdom like interest on inherited money. Just as everyone has firm opinions about the adequacy of an inheritance, so most of us have strong feelings about the wisdom we have accumulated. I saw that truth in Mike as we drank the mission’s coffee.

Mike and Phil were discussing their living situations and my partner and I kept our mouths shut. What would a homeowner have to offer in a debate about the merits of public housing versus a motel room?

Phil was encouraging Mike to move out of his little motel room and into one of the apartments in a city-owned high-rise. Mike wanted nothing to do with that kind of living arrangement. As Phil pressed his pitch, Mike became agitated, and with something akin to a glare in his eyes, said, “I like living alone. I don’t want to be around people. No way!”

Phil got up and went outside to smoke a cigarette. We were left alone with Mike and were a little skittish about the direction the conversation had gone. So we tried to change the direction a bit.

“So, you like being alone?” I asked.

“Right. For me it’s better. That’s all there is to it.”

For a guy who thrives on the attention of others, I just had to speculate, “I bet you have some friends.”

“Nope.”

“Not even one? You don’t have a best friend?

“Not anymore. My best friend died last year.”

Feeling like I had found the drop-off point in a big lake, I started swimming for shore. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “How did he die?”

“He shot himself. He shot himself, but the police are the ones who killed him.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, hoping he would tell me more, maybe to help him resolve some of his grief or just to entertain me with an interesting story.

“Joe was driving when the police stopped him. He didn’t have a driver’s license and he was drunk, but the police didn’t arrest him and take him to jail. Instead, they took him home and he shot himself in the head.”

After a pause, when no one said a word, he continued.

“I know Joe is the one who pulled the trigger, but the police are the ones who killed him. If they had taken him to jail, like they should have, he would still be alive. He had several DUI’s and that is why he didn’t have a driver’s license. The police should have taken him to jail!”

After Mike had told the story a couple more times, the conversation drifted to other subjects and then my friend and I left. Michael counted it wisdom to live life alone. His wisdom was formed by his experiences and perhaps nurtured by his mental illness. Were my friend and I wise enough to learn something from Michael?

Now, two days later, I have been mulling over some questions. I must be a long way from wisdom.

Since every friend eventually will disappoint us, severely or mildly, how much energy is a new friend worth? For Michael? For me?

What are the consequences of losing a friend?

A friend cures or treats or intensifies what kind of ills? Michael’s mental illness? My approaching frailty?

Vacation to the Present Past

We met James Armstrong, 83, in Birmingham. Although later in the week, we would visit Mobile, New Orleans, and Little Rock, a chance meeting of Armstrong is the part of the trip I will relive again and again. The beautiful azaleas of Bellingrath Gardens, the devastation of New Orleans, the optimism of its residents, and the story told by the Clinton Presidential Center did not penetrate my mind and soul as much as Mister Armstrong.

He volunteers every Sunday afternoon at the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute located across the street from the historic Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. Of course you remember the significance of Birmingham's Sixteenth Street Baptist Church - the church that was bombed on a Sunday morning in 1963 killing four little black girls, Sunday School classmates of the now radical Angela Davis.

Across the street now, the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute tells the story of the injustices African-Americans lived and suffered under during those days when the meanness of white people ordained black heroes like Martin Luther King, Jr. Among the displays in the Institute is the jail cell door behind which Dr. King wrote his public Letter from a Birmingham Jail to the clergy of Alabama; pictures of water cannons and dogs being used against citizens who merely wanted a cup of coffee at a lunch counter, access to public schools, to vote in a democracy, and to enjoy the blessings of freedom.

Armstrong pointed to a picture with a father holding the hands of two sons as they tried unsuccessfully to enroll at an all-white school in their neighborhood. Without any prompting, he said, "That's me and my two sons." My wife and I were spellbound by his recounting of that day and by his present lack of bitterness. I asked myself how a man, a father, go through the difficult times when his children were rejected and belittled without bitterness. His answer to that silent question was, "That was a long time ago. People change."

A few days later, we visited Little Rock Central High School where the governor in 1957 ordered the Arkansas National Guard to stop black students from entering the school building. As the newspaper clippings and photos in the National Historic Site across the street showed the ugliness of white students and parents screaming at black children, I tried to remember what I was doing in September 1957.

While thinking of my life in those turbulent times, I thanked God I wasn't one of those bigots who bombed churches and killed little girls or called young people derogatory names because they wanted what every child in America deserves. I was glad my picture wasn't displayed as one of the opponents to fairness, equality, and decency.

I thought about Governor Faubus using the National Guard, not to guard but to harass citizens, I wondered about his life after the 101st Airborne Division allowed the doors of Little Rock Central High School to open for nine black children. I asked the Park Service Guide about his funeral and how big it was. The guide didn't know the number of people who expressed their respect by attending his funeral, so I let my imagination suggest an answer.

I imagine Gov. Faubus and "Bull" Connor of Birmingham were church members, and held a high position in the minds of most of their constituents. And I guess their funerals were attended by lots of people, some of them who had attended lynchings earlier in their lives.

More questions popped into my mind. Did anyone have a change of heart and later regret their convictions in 1957 or 1963?

This time, the Park Service Guide could answer my question. She said, "The screaming woman in the picture apologized to the black girl she had harassed and I think the press made a big deal of her public apology."

"When was that?" I asked.

"1997."

"It only took forty years, huh?"

As I turned to look at an African American standing near me, I sarcastically said it again, "Only forty years." The black skinned man said nothing, but just turned his head and looked at the floor.

I gained a lot from my short trek through the South. Knowledge, sympathy, regret, and respect and admiration for those who suffered indignities and real hurt because of the meanness of my race.

I also lost something. I now repent of my conviction that morality and goodness cannot be legislated. No longer am I committed to the false idea that a change of heart is necessarily followed by changed behavior. Sometimes legislated morality precedes the change of heart.

So it seems to me.

How does it seem to you?