It’s All Over Now

Uncle Bubba and I were chatting after dinner one evening when he casually asked, “Have you noticed that everything has changed since they took down the rebel flag from public places?”
I shook my head “No” before realizing that he was being facetiously sarcastic when as he continued.
“Yessir, racism is over.”

Did you know that the flag that everyone has equated to hate is not the confederate flag? Of course not, not if you only listened to “the news”. Hold onto your hat but all of the flap over the rebel flag was wildly inaccurate. The rebel flag here:

is actually a version of the Virginia battle flag. It was used by Robert E. Lee when he realized that the first version of the Confederate flag

was too similar to the American flag and too difficult to discern in the chaos of battle. So he used a square battle flag while fighting the North on the battle fields. A square flag: symbolically, shape is a critical component. What else is there for a flag as a symbol but shape and color?

This is why the rectangular rebel flag is not the Virginia battle flag, though many people equate the rebel flag as representative of the south. At the same time that the battle flag was being utilized, a second Confederate flag was designed.

However this design had a major flaw. When it was hanging limp it often looked like a white flag of surrender. So a vertical red stripe was added to the end of the flag.

But now that the Confederate flag was established, it was futile because the war was coming to an end and as we all know, the Confederacy was defeated by the Union. To the victors go the spoils and the Union’s next actions fated America’s divisiveness. Isn’t that odd being that they were calling themselves the Union? In short, they divided the confiscated properties of the South and in time, fashioned history to reflect greatly on the North.

As Uncle Bubba points out, more rebel flags have been seen since this controversy began, and probably more sold. They are flying on poles in the back of pickup trucks, and hanging off of house and in the front yards of Americans, once free to express whatever they want. In Bubbie’s view, ignorance has been to often confused with racism.

Hill or E-mail

There are approximately 2 million federal employees. Two million people that know that using federal email for personal correspondence is not allowed as well as using personal email accounts for federal operations. Each employee is also notified in writing that any official email written from a personal account that is the property of the federal government and they are not allowed to delete without permission. They also received an official email reminder of email communication policies shortly after the story broke about Hillary Clinton using her personal email for official communications.

It’s been well documented that Hillary Clinton has not complied with the Federal Records Act (not to mention the Standards of Ethical Conduct for Employees of the Executive Branch and Homeland Security’s laws on cyber security), however, little has been mentioned that she could not break the rules without others being complicit in it. Have any other these people been penalized or disciplined? Being that they are public servants we have the right to know. The only defense for Hillary Clinton and the people around her that enabled her to break the rules is that they are stupid, too ignorant to know the rules, or liars.

As Mrs. Clinton aims to climb to the top of the Hill and buy a presidential election, she is obviously a person whose actions indicate that she believes that there are those to whom the rules don’t apply and she is one of those special people. That makes her dangerous because a president should be self assured, forceful, but respectful. What government do we have when the highest office doesn’t respect the the rules, the Constitution?

This also doesn’t say much for Mrs. Clinton’s democratic opponent Bernie Sanders. In his debate comment about moving past Clinton’s email issue to talk about the important things shows his ignorance of the importance of staying within the rules and his lack of respect for Constitutional authority.

In Bubbie’s view, Hillary Clinton knowingly broke the rules by using her personal email for official use and in doing so, broke the law. Any of the 2 million federal employees could be fired, fined, and sent to jail for doing as much.

An Act Of War

I was sitting with Uncle Bubba at the coffee shop this afternoon when the press conference regarding the attack on the Chattanooga recruitment center came on the TV in the corner. The chairman from the Homeland Security Committee was offering observations and fielding questions from McDill AFB in Tampa. However the observations and questions avoided or evaded what Bubbie thought were the most plain observations and the simplest solutions. There was talk of the possibility of terrorist connections and the difficulty of filtering, tracking, and heading off the communications of ISIS to the terrorists in hiding here in the United States. But as Uncle Bubba pointed out, there was no mention of how and why we have allowed these terrorists to exist and thrive in our country.
“We would not have to labor against the untenable task of stopping communications if there were no one here to communicate with!” exclaimed Bubbie. “We have mixed up the ideals of tolerance in the wake of gay marriage and the argument over who is, or who may not be a racist with the rightful, honorable defense of this country. We need to be able to take a stand in our defense of our homeland and identify the enemies without worrying about offending the progressive fringes of our society. My God, we are giving an award of courage to transgender, self-centered, greedy fool while our soldiers and our sons and daughters are giving their lives for the freedom to do so. We are fighting over the display of the confederate flag when in this country one has the right of free speech and the right to express it, no matter how offensive. And if others don’t like it, too bad because that’s freedom. If I’m offensive then I have to suffer the consequences but do not censor me! And how can we all be walking around with guns in our pockets and our service personnel are allowed to be carrying? Does that make any sense to you?”

I nodded knowingly as Bubbie fought to restrain his voice. I could see in his eyes that the pained passion of his heart was bubbling over and he couldn’t contain himself. Shortly there after there was another press conference in Chattanooga given buy the police and the FBI. They stated that they were investigating the killing of 4 Marines on US soil as possibly being an act of terror.
“Really?” asked Bubbie facetiously. “Did they really say that this may be an act of terror and are trying to determine that? That’s the problem with this entire situation, no one has enough balls to tell the truth. This is an act of war! Our military personnel were killed on our own soil. But they can’t say that because then they would have to back it up. They would have to act and act fast and they aren’t prepared; its obvious.” Bubbie slid down in his chair a bit and his voice quieted. He looked into the black surface of his coffee cup. “No sir, it’s better to avoid that. They’ll never get reelected if they take a hard stand on anything.” The sarcasm dripped from his lips, “Heaven forbid they offend someone.” In Bubbie’s view,  if we don’t stand up for our country then our government won’t stand up for us. We should let our outrage be heard in mass because the only way to make change happen is through a long and sustained noise.

Your Mother’s a Horse

The Duke stopped by Uncle Bubba’s and invited him to ride with him to the ranch in the morning. He was in possession of a mare that was ready to be bred and was going to take her to the stud ranch. It’s been a long time since the two had spent some time together so Bubbie gladly accepted the invite. The next morning he beat the cock to the crow and downed a couple cups of hot coffee before filling a travel mug and heading out the door. He was standing roadside when The Duke pulled up and Bubbie piled into the cab. It was still dark as they rode the hour trip up to the ranch and along the way we passed an old white car that had a decal on the back window. As they got close and made out the writing it hilariously said, “White Cracker”.

“White Cracker! The Duke laughed.
“Is there any other kind?” laughed Bubbie.
They could see by his license plate that he was from Dixie County. They were both amazed that someone from there had strayed so far away.
“Dixie County, that explains a lot.” chided The Duke, “I guarantee that he only has one tooth in his head.”



On they rode to the ranch as the sky began to lighten as somewhere in the east beyond the endless thick stanchion of trees, the sun was considering to peer over the horizon. By the time they reached the gate at The Duke’s ranch it was light enough to see some hazy detail in the leafy trees through the mist upon the pasture. Through the truck window, Uncle Bubba watched a wild turkey strut and duck into the shadows of a hedge row, hoping to be unnoticed. They drove through the gate to the barn to hitch the livestock trailer to The Duke’s pickup truck. With a couple dull clanks of metal on metal it was quickly attached and they hopped back into the truck and drove up the lane to the pasture, stopping to load the mare into the livestock trailer. The Duke’s dogs ran from the porch of the ranch house to excitedly greet their master and his friend. They barked and jumped but the men acted as if they hardly noticed; The Duke was on a mission. He made a beeline for the pasture and walked the mare out while Uncle Bubba opened the trailer gate and she walked peacefully up into the trailer. The Duke wrapped her harness around a side rail for her safety. Now it was time to get her to the stud farm. The metal trailer clanged as they drove back out the dirt lane and the mare whinnied.

“She doesn’t sound happy back there.” Bubbie mentioned.
“She's in heat.” replied The Duke, “She’s crazy in the head."

They only had to ride for maybe 10 minutes before arriving at the stud ranch. The automated ranch gate was open as they arrived, they were expecting The Duke. They drove through the open gates flanked by white brick pillars as the gate closed behind them. The property is cross fenced, cordoned off into green corrals and pastures with majestic oak trees dotting the landscape. They passed a corral that restrained a little high strung stallion.

“That’s the teaser.” The Duke said, “You know he’s got to be one mean dude because he never gets any. His job is to tease the mares to get them ready for the real deal.”

The little stallion was trotting excitedly along the fence line as the trailer rattled past. He'd stop abruptly and he shook his mane before darting off on another lap around the corral. The Duke pulled up in front of the small, white painted cinder block breeding barn and they off loaded the chestnut colored mare. As the slight hispanic ranch-hand took the harness in hand, The Duke asked if she needed to be walked by the teaser to get her ready.

“No need for that, she’s ready.” the smiling ranch-hand quipped as the mare leaned forward to jettison a powerful stream of urine on the dew covered grass.

She was hotter than a firecracker and was also staring at the large black stallion standing majestically across the small barn, who was watching her intently.

They led her into the barn and stood her behind a short, dark green stanchion to prep her. They washed her and wrapped her tail as the stallion handler said, “The safest place to stand is behind this wall over here.” pointing to a similar stanchion on the opposite side of the barn. Uncle Bubba and The Duke walked behind the short wall as they led the mare out into the center of the barn. The stallion “checked” the mare from across the barn by lifting its nose into the air and curling his upper lip. He was becoming excitedly impatient. One ranch-hand placed a ring attached to a stick in the mare’s nose while another tied a rope around one of her front legs. The stallion handler allowed him to approached as they pulled her leg up to raise her hoof off of the soft barn floor. This prevented her from kicking him off as he mounted her, which they quickly dropped once he was astride her back. He bit her on the back of her neck as the business end prodded her.

Uncle Bubba laughed as he missed and the handler literally handled him, quickly grabbing his long black stallion-hood to point him in the right erection direction for mare injection. The two muscled animals awkwardly danced as the mare quickly tired of her predicament. They circled and approached the stanchion where Uncle Bubba and The Duke had taken cover. That short wall suddenly felt a little too short to Bubbie as the huge haunches of the black stallion backed up towards them.

The Duke bellowed, “That’s the same way I do it!”
The stallion handler shot back, “And you’re done just about as fast.”
Laughter broke the tension and just that quick the stallion dismounted.

Moments later ranch-hands had the mare’s tail unwrapped and she was walked back out of the barn and led back into the livestock trailer. The Duke followed the stallion handler out the back of the barn towards the corrals as they led the stallion back to his stable. Inside he was unharnessed and his black mane flew in the wind as he galloped with pride and victory around his corral. The Duke and the handler spoke of the odds of success and such. Then it was time to get the mare back to his ranch. The dogs barked excitedly and circled the truck as they pulled in. The mare was walked back to her corral and just like that it was all over; all but the waiting to see if the breeding was successful. She may be a mama soon.

In Bubbie’s view this horse racing business is risky. The handlers risk injury during the breeding. The owners risk money in attempting to breed a winner. The trainers and jockeys risk injury as well. And the gamblers risk losing greenback dollars. But the chance of winning is dang sure exciting!

Selma

Uncle Bubba told me his thoughts on race with the lingering aura of MLK Day and February being African American history month. He mentioned that he’d been to Selma, AL many years ago and found it to be the saddest town he may have ever seen, or maybe more accurately, felt. He remembered driving west across U.S. Route 80 from Montgomery. He pulled into a gas station on the righthand shoulder of the access road at the approach to the Edmund Pettus Bridge that traverses the Alabama River. It was just to rest and get his bearings. There were some old brick establishments and storefronts that lined both sides of the highway, most of them vacant, and some less than reputable looking folks hanging around the area. In taking in his assessment of his surroundings he was suddenly surprised to see three placard monuments almost hidden behind the listing brick pillars of a large “Welcome to Historic Selma” sign at the edge of the road. Their black and golden bronze busts staring lifelessly back at him appeared oddly out of place against the weedy sandlot where they stood.

He pondered walking over to them from where he had parked his car, but had second thoughts in separating himself so far from it, not knowing the area. So he drove the 150 feet over to the monuments and looked out at them through his window. They commemorate the leaders of the 1965 Selma-Montgomery march and recalls in particular the reference to Bloody Sunday. It struck him again how odd that these formal looking monuments were in such an inconspicuous and informal place. 


Uncle Bubba pulled back up onto U.S. Route 80 and drove over the bridge into downtown Selma. He drove slowly along the first 5 or 6 blocks of two and three story gothic brick buildings, it’s not unlike any other old Alabama town. Bubbie is accustomed to being in areas of the deep South where he is in the minority as a white man among African Americans, so his drive through the area didn’t phase him in that regard. But the condition of so many of the old brick buildings with modern facades were seeming to crumble under their own weight, the dried mortar pinched out and missing; he wondered what held the bricks in place. Years of patchwork and paint could not disguise its age. He reiterated that it had been many years ago since he had been there and things may be very different today; especially with the influx of interest due to the movie "Selma”. It is not without understanding that the 20,000 people that call Selma their home take pride in it as any community in America and do their best to take good care and make improvements.

Like any old community there are grand examples of the area’s affluence in architecture; grand victorian homes and manicured lawns. There are also rows of small, plain, brick apartments that are most likely for the poverty level residents. As he drove past ancient churches and homes the buildings grew more industrious and even more unkempt. 

In Bubbie’s view, so much of Selma’s color palette, the prominent red of dirt and brick against the green grass and trees mask the underlying tones of history. He expressed how he perceived that Southerns were violent in their zealous objections to their treatment after the Civil War. Their possessions were burned and destroyed, their land was divided up and given to others; 40 acres and a mule. They and generations after extracted the ugliness of their rage on Blacks and they have been vilified for it. Uncle Bubba spoke of, now in Ferguson, Missouri and elsewhere across the country, how, in his opinion, African Americans are behaving in much the same way. They react to their perceived injustice with violence; so much like the white man they so despise. 

Uncle Bubba sees differences in people. He honors other cultures in accepting their legitimacy to exist. Some he understands, some he doesn’t. Some he condones, some he doesn’t. He reckons that he’s pretty much like most people. In Bubbie’s view, the things that separate us, the cultural divides, the moral convictions, the expositions and actions are the things that prevent us from peaceful coexistence; everyone is right, or at least they think so. Pressure for peace is still pressure. It compresses energy that builds and builds until a volatile reaction happens. Peace only comes from release. Coexistence only comes from respectful acceptance from all parties. As I left Uncle Bubba told me that, in his opinion, no one truly wants equality because it’s human nature to compete, to strive for dominance; what people want is equal opportunity, and to be left alone.

Gas Station Guru

The Bull lumbered through Uncle Bubba’s door, his head low and his shoulders hunched over; he might not have been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders but he had some big chunks of Texas and Oklahoma precariously balanced up there. He lamented how somethings that he though might be a good experience had turned into a stressful deal, not overwhelmingly, but enough to bring him down. Uncle Bubba suggested that they fire up the Harleys and go for a ride. There’s nothing like getting a few miles under your seat to clear the mind. Minutes later they rumbled up the road and disappeared beyond the tree lined curves in the road. They rode out beyond the edge of town and glided along the rolling countryside. They eventually made a stop at a gas station located at a cross road between nothing and nowhere. There’s only a blinking light to slow traffic but only because the intersection is located on a slight rise that limits a driver’s view passing the little store front and gas pumps at 60 mph.

As the Bull and Bubbie entered the store they were routinely greeted by a balding man of east Asian or middle eastern decent. The Bull had stopped in there to specifically ask if he, or anyone else knew of property for sale in the area. At first the store owner was a little busy but the Bull is a very engaging and gregarious man, he waited for the store owner to finish his task before convivially addressing him, warming him up and leading him to his ultimate question. The store owner initially dismissed the Bull by pointing him to some real estate catalogs in a rack by the register. But he quickly redressed his response when he perceived the Bull’s ernest interest. He joked that his little business was located in “Downtown Redneck” and expounded on how redneck his neighbors are. “If you want to be around rednecks, this is the place to be.” Uncle Bubba looked at the Bull and thought it funny; should they be honored or insulted to not look like rednecks? After the pregnant pause the store owner regathered his thoughts and came forth with his projections of some major developments around the intersection that he predicted would start sooner than later. He offered advice to the Bull, to get on the bus early and stay on the bus for the entire trip: in other words, buy land now and wait for the property values to increase once the proposed developments takes place. The Bull thanked him for his advice and they turned to leave but the store owner felt compelled to add some words of wisdom before they departed. He said, “Whatever you do, do what you think you should and never listen to anyone else. I was a stockbroker in New York and I used to teach economics and I always told my customers and students this. God is with you so you’ll be OK.” The Bull and Uncle Bubba shook his hand and thanked him again for his time. They walked out to their bikes and stood there for a few reflective moments looking over the beautiful green and brown countryside residing peacefully under the blue winter sky. They fired up the hawgs and rolled out of the gas station, paused at the curb to check for oncoming traffic and then leaned the bikes to the west and opened up the throttle. They ran through the gears but the gas station guru’s words still rattled around in Uncle Bubba’s head. In Bubbie’s view, that ol’ boy’s wisdom may not have been original but it came from his heart.