President John F. Kennedy: Five years of assassinations

Today is the 50^th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. The past week has been jam-packed with images and commentaries on the event. From trhe new book written by the secret service agent who was there when it happened, to the ESPN report regarding the NFL’s decision to play games the following Sunday, this week has been a trip down memory lane.

Kennedy’s assassination, on November 22, 1963, was the first among five that exposed a critical divide concerning America’s communal image.  Medger Evers was killed on June 12, 1963. Malcolm X was killed on February 21, 1965.  Martin Luther King, Jr. died on April 4, 1968, and Robert “Bobby” Kennedy, Jr. was killed on June 6, 1968.

It was an era of both domestic and global confusion.  America’s persona as the world’s body ground against all forms of tyranny was juxtaposed against bloody battles regarding race. The nation was engulfed in redefining its identity.  The melting pot experiment was exposed as a colossal contradiction. 

Public servants imitated the message of Hitler

In 1963, the world watched as Theophilus Eugene "Bull" Connor , commissioner of public safety for the city of Birmingham, Alabama, authorized the use of fire hoses and police attack dogs against peaceful demonstrators, including children.

The nation and world took notice on January 14, 1963, as George Wallace stood on the gold star where Jefferson Davis took oath, 102 years earlier, to become president of the Confederate States.  Wallace boldly stood to take his oath of office as Governor of Alabama.

“In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth, I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” he said.

In North Carolina, Jesse Helms emerged as a critic of the civil rights movement.  His columns in the News & Observer reflected a growing view among southern whites. Helms claimed he civil rights movement was infested by communist and “moral degenerates”, and argued that Medicaid was a "step over into the swampy field of socialized medicine".

The deaths of the Kennedy brothers, Medger, Martin and Malcolm are imbrued within a context were the battle to celebrate particular perspectives is hindered by a universal mandate.  Those clinging to Dixiecrat views were forced to concede a world were black people exist beyond functioning as their servants.  Democracy was tested in a way that reflected the rationale for the Civil War.

The deaths of John and Robert Kennedy, Medgar Evers, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X are, in part, about America’s unresolved issues with race. It was also about the fear of Communism and liberalism. They all died due to America’s ongoing dilemma with dreading the unknown.  The years between 1963 and 1968 reflected the nation’s fear of the other. 

Are we a nation that kills the best of what we could be?

Remembering JFK uncovers the agony related to being nurtured in an era of assassins. The phantasmagoria of better days was quickly eradicated by the deaths of those who tried to lead the way.  The subtle message regulated the ambitions of those who followed - be careful when you challenge America’s contradictions. 

The essential question for today regards the lessons learned since the assassinations of those who tried to make a difference.   Has America changed since then, or are we quick to kill those who expose the things we fear?

Jesse Helms argued that Medicaid is socialized medicine. Sounds familiar.  States should be allowed to enforce laws consistent with the views of its citizenry.  He’s a communist.  He’s a liberal intent on destroying America. 

The force of rhetoric stirs the unruly ways of lunatics. That’s a lesson taught by the death of President John F. Kennedy.  We will never be a diverse union until we celebrate the message of those we fear.

I wonder if we will ever learn from our mistakes.

Jesse Helms: Lessons Learned

My pops voted for George Wallace. I remember the rage I felt back in 1976 when we debated his decision to support the symbol of bigotry during the desegregation period. “All politicians are liars,” he said. “I’d rather vote for one who tells me the truth than to support one who will lie in my face.”

That dinner table discussion has radically impacted the way I reflect on the political process. My father is a rare breed. He possesses the ability to look past the race of a man, and to find those good qualities that we all have locked deep inside. He was able to look past Wallace’s hatred toward African Americans, and supported him for one reason-he was honest.

My father wasn’t able to convince me to vote for Wallace, but he taught me an important lesson regarding how to measure the content of a person’s character. He taught me to admire those who say what they mean and mean what they say. He taught me to look past the cant of slick politicians to discern how they feel when reporters go home.

The words of my father helped me appreciate Jesse Helms. He stood for what he believed in, even when I despised him for taking those positions. When others demonized him, I saw beauty in the man. He fought against the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Holiday, funding for the arts and stirred hostility against gays and lesbians.

The dude stood against everything I believe in. He epitomized the Old South mindset that had me concerned when I moved from Missouri to North Carolina. I assumed North Carolinians must all be like Helms. They voted him into office, and I feared rearing my children in an environment hostile to African Americans.

I wanted a diverse community that celebrated the worth of different cultures, not a closed minded community trapped in the days of Dixie. I feared racial slurs and cross burnings. I soon discovered the beauty of living in a community that had struggled to redefine what it means to be community after such a hostile history.

It took extensive dialogue to move communities past many of its assumptions. I soon realized the emotions behind Southern symbols. I listened as old, proud Southerners talked about the Confederate flag. I watched them fight through the assumptions of their upbringing to embrace the worth of those of another race. This took hard work.

I’ve witnessed African Americans hindered by the memory of oppression. As white Southerners fight to overcome old assumptions, many African Americans are unreceptive to the efforts of those who are doing the best they can to embrace the new South. This is hard work that takes time and persistence, but it is work worth engaging.

It is what I love about the South. It is what I celebrate about Jesse Helms. Southerners don’t hide how they feel. They tell you what they think. I love that in your face approach. It is what drives my column writing and the work I do on this blog. Time isn’t wasted on sifting through well chosen words. I’d rather a person tell me how they feel than to waste time in an effort to uncover the truth.

It reminds me of a conversation I had at a local coffee house. An older gentleman was sitting at the counter next to me. “You know, I just don’t like Niggers,” he said. “I’m trying to do better, but I just don’t like them.”

His comments startled me. Not because he said it, but because he said it to me. In that moment I realized that he was working through his issue. He saw in me a person willing to discuss the matter. I was honored that he trusted me. His eyes weren’t filled with hostility toward me, but rather sadness rooted in his upbringing. He feared being too old to change. I could see it in his eyes.

“Come on old man,” I said. “You don’t hate all Niggers. Otherwise you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

He laughed. We talked. I walked away overwhelmed by it all. I refused to allow that word-Nigger-to hinder our conversation. Transformation came in that moment. His truth met my truth, and we were better served due to the conversation.

That’s the South of Jesse Helms. When people speak their truth honestly, change can emerge from the ashes of our past.

Rest in peace Jesse