Trapped

Dear Boo and Bubble,

While on the faculty of Eastside High School, I had one other run-in with someone of Bob Jones University persuasion.  This one was not as surprising and revelatory as the incident with Mr. Knighton’s student teacher.  In fact, it reinforced my own surmises as to the nature of Jones’ influence on his followers.  As it goes, I found myself caught in a very predictable trap and thought I had extricated myself quite cleverly from it.  But, I was wrong.

It was on a Friday as I recall which only becomes significant at the end of this story.  My American History classes had slogged through their textbooks into the turn of the 20^th Century and the time leading up to the Great Depression.  One of the sub-chapters in this section of the book covered a driving business philosophy of the era known as Economic Darwinism.  In a nutshell, governmental regulatory controls over large companies were non-existent which meant they could dominate markets and suppress competition.  It was an attitude that adapted to commerce the basic tenet from Charles Darwin’s scientific Theory of Evolution – survival of the fittest.  If you could survive, you could thrive.  Otherwise, you would be eliminated.

Let me give you a little context.  Since its origin, Darwin’s theory on evolution has been one of the most controversial issues ever debated by man.  Its scientific premise that all creation has evolved over billions of years in a natural order of survival comes in direct conflict with the fundamental religious interpretation of divine creation accomplished with the wave of God’s hand only beginning some 6,000 years ago.  The argument over it reflects the often unbridgeable deep divide that some people have between religion and science.

As an American History teacher, I knew that the domain of Darwin belonged in the science classroom.  All of my education classes at Furman underscored that questions about the man and his theories needed to be deferred to those equipped to answer them.  I had been forewarned.  Yet, here in my classroom, guiding my students through the approved text provided me by the authorities, I felt I might be drawn into the dreaded rabbit hole with the discussion of Economic Darwinism.

Sure enough, as I explained survival of the fittest and how it applied to business, one of my students raised her hand with a question.

“Miss Kendrick,” she said, “Do you believe in evolution?”

I knew I wasn’t supposed to answer, but how do you not?  She was my student, an innocent, inquiring 11^th grader - not some subversive, devious intruder planted in my classroom to get me in trouble.  I reflected for a moment on what to say in response and thought I came up with something so profoundly unarguable that it didn’t matter her motivation, she would agree.

“It makes no difference to me,” I said, “whether we evolved like Darwin says or whether we were put here in an instant.  The important thing to me is that in the beginning there was God and our creation is miraculous.  And equally important is that we know who we are now and what needs to be done in the world….so, we need to be about solving problems and doing God’s work.”

She seemed satisfied, or so I thought, since nothing else was said.  I returned to my lecture feeling quite content with myself.

School dismissed for the weekend and, other than feeling I did a masterful job with the situation, I didn’t think about it.  Come Monday morning, Mr. Durr, the principal of Eastside, intercepted me on my way to my classroom and asked me to come to his office.

“WHAT IN THE WORLD DID YOU SAY IN YOUR CLASS ON FRIDAY?” he yelled in as controlled a fashion as he could muster.

“What are you talking about?” I answered, quite shocked because he was normally very calm and affable.

“Did you tell your students that Darwin’s Theory of Evolution was the only way we could have been created and that the story in Genesis is hogwash?”

“No, sir, I absolutely did not!”  And I proceeded to explain to him what had happened, how it had all started with the explanation of a term in the textbook and how I had handled it. 

He relaxed then. 

“I didn’t think that you could possibly have done so, but I’ve been getting calls all weekend from several Bob Jones families and they want your head.”

I was mortified, not so much as to what might happen to me, but for the unnecessary barrage he had endured for two days. 

“I am so sorry,” I said.

“Don’t worry about,” he chuckled slightly.  “I can take care of this.”

As I walked down the hall towards my classroom, he shouted out, “By the way, I like your answer.  And, I think I’ll suggest that, from now on, we skip over that part of history!”

The Nature of Prejudice

Dear Boo and Bubble,

So many times I think I just might have run out of stories to tell you, and then something crops up to trigger another memory – like this quote a friend shared with me the other day.

“You can sway a thousand men by appealing to their prejudices quicker than you can convince one man with logic.”    Robert A. Heinlein

When I first read it, my inclination was to say “amen” and project its meaning onto others and the current situations they create.  But, my own conscience nagged me ….quite persistently nagged me……to the point of needing to confess to you that I, too, have fallen victim from my own prejudice and had a rather rude awakening when confronted with the facts.

The year was 1970, my first year out of college and teaching 11^th grade American History at Eastside High School in Greenville County.  I explained to you in my post of March 9, 2015, entitled “Separate, But Not Equal,” it had been a tumultuous time for the educational system.  The January court-ordered integration of the schools in the district had uprooted faculty and students, creating uncertainty and confusion all over the county as they reconvened for the new academic year beginning in the fall.  As I wrote in that post:

“It would be the first full year of integration and Eastside became sort of an oasis in the chaos swirling around the entire school district. Because it was new, every student there had been uprooted. There were no school colors or mascots already established. The yearbook had no name. All of the athletic teams started from scratch. In other words, it was a clean slate on which the black and white students could write their joint destiny.”

Likewise, the faculty gelled into a cohesive unit.  Young, old, black white – all sought to establish a strong foundation on which Eastside could build. This isn’t to say that there were never any lively discussions in the teachers’ lounge about the circumstances that affected us.  To the contrary, many a day found us expounding on our own personal perspectives, bearing our feelings quite openly.  But, let me get back to my story, although this fact plays a part in it.

My classroom was in the middle of a three-class grouping.  It had portable walls on either side, provided for the purpose of occasional team teaching.  Ben Knighton, the head of the History Department, held his class next to mine.  This was most unfortunate for him because on Monday’s, my running assignment allowed students to bring their records which we would play - provided the lyrics had some social relevance to current events. Much of the music reflected the times – the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, the assassinations of American leaders. After listening to a song, we discussed the meaning of the words.  A great teaching tool for me, but quite an annoyance for Mr. Knighton because the portable walls provided no insulation from the sound. (They were flimsy and ill- constructed and by the end of the year had come unhinged.  Perhaps a great concept gone awry!)

I will never forget that Monday morning when, right in the middle of a bellicose chorus of “WAR!” by Edwin Starr, someone knocked on my door.  Leaving the record playing, I went to open it and there stood a very pleasant, yet plain looking young lady who introduced herself as Mr. Knighton’s student teacher……..from Bob Jones University!

Boys, you would have no reason to know this, but in the genealogical tree of right-wing fundamentalism, Bob Jones, Senior, is the tap root.  Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson pale in comparison in their impact on ultra-conservative influences today.  Had the original Jones had access to 24-hour cable, FaceBook, Twitter and other social media available today, I’d hate to think how far-reaching his shadow might be over our cultural landscape.

As a moderately liberal citizen of Greenville who loathed the unsolicited, bold approaches of Jonesers on Main Street asking me if “I’d been saved,” my perspective of anyone associated with the institution of Bob Jones University was that of narrow-mindedness and bigotry.  This was true particularly at this time with the upheaval of forced integration.  Daily diatribes emanated from behind the rifle-guarded gates of the university’s campus on Wade Hampton Boulevard, quoting verse after verse from the Bible as to how God intended us to be separate and that blacks were inferior and the whole Civil Rights Movement was a communist inspired plot spawn straight from Satan himself……not to mention the moral decay of our society as indicated by the lyrics of modern day music.

The meek, unthreatening presence of this young lady at my classroom door immediately sent shudders down my spine and raised the hackles on the back of my neck.  Within a nano-second, I had her sized up, catalogued and categorized - not to mention that I nearly broke my neck getting back to the record player to screech Edwin Watts to a halt.  Actually, she wasn’t there to convert me, or to complain about the music.  Mr. Knighton had sent her over to get me to sign a form notifying me of a History Department meeting later in the week.

I didn’t have much occasion to be around her.  Part of that was my instinctive avoidance of anything Bob Jones.  Every now and then, she would show up in the faculty lounge while I was there.  She never said anything, perhaps out of respect for her place as a student teacher, but she listened intently as regular faculty discussed and debated the issues of the day. 

On one occasion, after some comment I had made (which totally escapes me now), she spoke up.   “Have you ever read the book The Nature of Prejudice by Gordon Allport?”

“No, I haven’t,” I replied, a shroud of suspicion overtaking me.

“Well, I have it and will bring it to you tomorrow.  I think you’ll find it very interesting.”

“I bet I will,” I thought to myself, assuming that it must be some ideological dogma promoted by Bob Jones.  “Sure, that would be fine.  I’ll look forward to reading it,” I lied.

She brought the book to me the next day and I began reading it during my study hall.  In preparation of our discussion, I even prepped a pen and paper to make notes on the points with which I disagreed.  Allport began with the premise that prejudice is a natural by-product of life and used fried chicken as an example – one would naturally be prejudiced towards a mother’s fried chicken rather than someone else’s because that is what he knows.  As humans, we favor those things that we know.  It would be unnatural otherwise.  The more I read, the more I agreed with what he said.  But, how could that be?  How could I possibly be in agreement when this book…….this epistle of evil….came to me by way of a student at Bob Jones University?

Over the duration of her tenure, we engaged in very deep discussions and I came to know her for who she was, not my pre-conceived notion.  She was an extremely bright woman whose father was on the faculty of Bob Jones University, thus she could attend there for free.  As she explained to me, this was the only way she could afford to go to college.  She further told me that she could hardly wait to graduate and leave.  Acknowledging that she could never intellectually accept the official doctrines of her father and the Bob Jones community, she confessed her intention to get as far away as possible from the oppression under which she lived.  Until then, though, she must lay low and walk the prescribed path to her degree. 

I asked her if her father knew she had Allport’s book.  He did not.

The last time I saw her was late in the spring of that year.  Mr. Knighton called a planning meeting of the History Department faculty to determine the future curriculum.  He graciously invited us to his home for a more social affair, rather than have the meeting at school.  As a student teacher, she was included and I suggested that she could ride with me since I lived close to the campus of Bob Jones.  She agreed and gave me instructions to come to the main gate where she would meet me….that it would be impossible for me to actually come on campus to her home.

When I pulled up, she raced to the car and opened the passenger door quickly.  Unfettered tears rolled down her face and she buried her head in her hands.  I reached over to console her.

“Go!  Please just go!” she urged; and I wheeled the car around and drove onto Wade Hampton Blvd.

“What in the world is wrong?” I asked.

“I can’t wait to get out of there,” she sobbed. 

“What happened?”

“My father accused me of going to a Communist meeting to set up a program of Satanic studies that will ruin the minds of our children.”

There was nothing I could say in response to that.  We drove along in silence. 

In recollecting all of this, I am reminded that we were only a year apart in age…..she, being a Senior and I in my first year out of college.  With the truth of her being, she personally pierced through my shield of stereotypical prejudice and taught me a very valuable lesson.  I would give anything to remember her name and find out where she is today.  I sincerely hope she realized every ounce of her dreams for freedom of expression and thought.

(Originally written in 1954, The Nature of Prejudice has had several editions since then.  If I remember correctly, Allport purports that prejudices occur from familiarity, but can become a negative force when logic is denied.  I think I need to read it again…..just for old times sake.)

Casting Your Own Shadow

Dear Boo and Bubble,

It’s Sunday morning and we awoke to temperatures in the 40’s.  Looks like tonight might be our first evening of fall with an anticipated low in the 30’s…..pretty remarkable for mid-September.  It’s also a little overcast and dreary which has me in a contemplative mood with the need to share something that’s been on my mind recently…..the observation, of late, on how dogma in religious institutions tend to get in the way of the ultimate commandment to “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”

To be honest with you, I struggle with organized religion because it seems to be a misnomer.  Every religion on the face of the earth appears to be fractured into so many splinters that what is professed from the pulpit of one denominational church isn’t even given credence in another of similar stripes.  The tenets of faith, which one would think should unite us, tend to cast us into disparate camps of contention, creating intractable differences that play out in every facet of our lives.  (It is often said one should never discuss religion or politics.  That’s sad to me two lumped together – indicative of how divisive both have become.)

As I’ve shared with you before, I am resolved to hang my religious hat on the nail of 1 John 4:8 – Whoever does not love, does not know God, for God is love.  (See post on November 16, 1024 entitled Cottrell, Needleman and Me.)  That keeps it simple for me.  If something is prohibiting me from loving my fellow man, I am compelled to root it out. 

On occasions like this, when my mind is centered on such matters, I often turn to the writings of your great, great, great, great grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell just to see what he might have to say.  (He is, after all, the one who penned the comment “I knew a woman once who loved her church so much, she couldn’t love her neighbor.”) This morning, I found the following passage from his 1873 scrapbook entitled “Emerson.”  It was an article he wrote for the Central Methodist as a correspondent for the Louisville Methodist Conference.  His words resonated with me and helped me understand that, as in most everything, it is human frailty at the heart of the problem.

Much perplexity comes in our attempts to express in precise and definite terms and in logical order all that pertains to life and salvation.  God expresses this is a living order, and there is mutual dependence – reciprocal interplay and support – among the variant, yet organically unified, parts that make up the concrete fact.  But when we come to express – to explicate – to demonstrate – in words, what may only be expressed by the life itself, there is inevitably mere approximation.  What we say – our systems of philosophy and theology, are tentative.  They are essays of the human mind to re-speak what God has uttered; and if what we know of the divine life and the divine work be only as they are reported to us by man, we will be acquainted therewith very much as we are with one whose photographs we have had shown us by friends, and of whom we have heard them speak.  We are to come into the very measure of life and power – of duty and privilege – immediately, and not suppose that the pictures of flame may warm us – that pictures of food and of water may nourish and refresh us.

Yet, it is inevitable that each one will for himself formulate the faith.  He must cast the outline of his own form in shadow, as he stands in the light, and as he may only acquaint himself with himself formally thus, his knowledge of himself must ever be partial.  Why may men not learn to be modest and self-distrusting in view of this fact?  Why such dogmatism – such rigidity and inflexibility by such as assume to teach and govern?  Alas, for human weakness?  It is the occasion of arrogance rather than of humility.

Upon no subject is there such intolerance and bitterness as upon that which no man can know perfectly, viz: The Divine government, as it includes the facts and comprehends the forces incident to its administration over the agents whose obedience must be according to knowledge and choice, and not according to necessitating force.

So Cheap He Squeaks

Dear Boo and Bubble,

When we were in Greenville this past weekend, I happened to run into an old friend of your great Granddaddy Schaefer’s whose name is Doug Smith. He has just turned 90 years old which would make him around 9 years younger than Granddaddy.  They used to play tennis together and he relayed a story to me that I had never heard before regarding Granddaddy’s frugality.

Of course, I knew that Granddaddy had that tendency.  After all, he grew up during the Great Depression in the home of his grandmother (your triple-great), Mamie Peninah Robinson Bryant.  As I have reported to you before, she is purported to have bragged that she figured out a way to conserve on eggs.  When a recipe called for three eggs, she’d use two; when it called for two, she’d use one.  Someone once asked her what she would do if the recipe called for only one egg.  Her reply – “Well, I just cluck a little and go on with the rest of it.

And, as I have also explained, this is the same Granddaddy who told your great Uncle Bryant and me, when we were little, that there were three things we could not afford – allergies, braces and golf.  To wit, he gave us both a tennis racket and a can of balls with the claim that if we took care of them, they should last us a lifetime.

You probably remember my post about how Granddaddy up-fitted the interior of the kitchen at 3 Lakecrest with plastic so that in the winter, it was totally insulated.  With the heat in the rest of the house turned down to almost nothing, Mamaw Mary spent her days in the kitchen next to the fire.   This supposedly saved a ton of money on the heating bill.

According to Doug, however, Granddaddy had a habit with his tennis group that tipped the scales from parsimony to downright cheap.  Every week they would gather at the courts.  Granddaddy would always claim to have a can of balls, but could never seem to find it in his tennis bag.  Inevitably, before he retrieved it, he’d hear the pressurized “psssst” of someone else pulling the tin tab off of a can.  “I’ll get it next week,” he’d always say.

This happened over and over again.  Becoming a little suspicious, the rest of the group got together and contrived a plan.  They determined that nobody would bring balls to the next gathering, just to see what Granddaddy would do.  He apparently arrived and, digging around in his bag, hemmed and hawed long enough for somebody else to open a can of balls.  When he heard nothing, he looked up and saw all of his friends with grins on their faces.  The jig was up……his precious can had to be sacrificed.

Every time I play tennis now, I will remember this story…..we’ll see how many times I wait to hear “psssst!”