Monthly Archives: January 2007

Remarks Made at the Ouachita Baptist University Faculty Meeting on January 15, 2007

I’ve known Dr. Johnny Wink for a long time. He’s a professor of English at Ouachita Baptist University, where my dad teaches and where Misty and I went to school. He’s one of those who uses language in such a way that, when I’m done reading what he wrote, my thoughts are rearranged for the better. Yesterday I had the great fortune to read a transcript of his remarks to the OBU faculty about Martin Luther King, Jr. I begged him for permission to reprint them here, and he kindly agreed.

I suppose I should tuck this away for next year and run it on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Somehow, though, that feels wrong. Wrestling with racism and with the legacy of slavery in this country shouldn’t be confined to one day. Johnny’s words deserve to be read by others. There is no bad time, only now.

Ladies and gentlemen, I yield the floor to Dr. Wink.


Today is the 37th birthday of Susan’s and my son Gene. I’ll come back to that fact at the end of these remarks.

I sometimes think my first remission began on a day when I got on a Gulfport, Mississippi, city bus and rode from somewhere to somewhere. I’ve tried to recall the date with some precision, but I cannot. I must’ve been fourteen or fifteen, so I think this event occurred in the very late 1950’s. It may have occurred a little later.

The buses that took us around the city had in their fronts two benches of seats that faced the aisle. There was room in these seats for four or five people per bench. The rest of the seats faced the front of the bus. In the back of the bus of course sat black folks.

However, there was an exception to the unwritten rule that day.

A young woman, black and beautiful, two or three years my senior, I suspect, sat across from me. There was no fanfare about her sitting there. She sat where she sat without apology. There were no more than a dozen or so folks on the bus. I was confused. I was embarrassed. For whom was I embarrassed? For the young black woman, I think. She was doing something that was making the white folk on the bus dislike her, although nobody said anything to her.

I didn’t dislike her, but I didn’t think she should be doing what she was doing. She was creating tension. She was showing that she didn’t know her place. In her own quiet way she was being uppity. And in a myriad ways the voice of my Mississippi education had said to me that Negroes ought not to be uppity. Doing so upset a balance–a necessary balance.

And then a white girl got on the bus, a girl who was maybe ten years old. She dropped her nickel into the slot and started to sit down next to the black woman, oblivious for a fraction of second to her incipient seatmate.

But she didn’t stay oblivious for long. Before her small butt hit the seat, she saw what she was about to do. And her response was reflexive. As if she’d touched a hot stove or seen a cockroach, she came to standing attention and walked quickly away, to a more segregated seat.

And that’s when I think it began for me, my first remission from what Francois Mauriac has called one of the most voracious idols at which ever the human race has worshipped, the idol called racism.

For at that moment I was ashamed. I was ashamed of myself for having thought a moment before that this citizen of the United States of America seated across from me didn’t have the right to sit where she durn well pleased on a vehicle that was part of the public transportation system of Gulfport, Mississippi. I was ashamed of the system which had inculcated in me such an attitude as had been mine before my remission began and which had helped foster in the little white girl her reflex.

I was ashamed of being ashamed. I wanted that young woman across the aisle to know that I wasn’t like all the rest–but I was–I had been a minute before and I would be, on and off, later in my life, depending on how the remission from that long and cruel disease has gone.

And she knew it. Her beautiful eyes offered me no pardon.

Later I married Barbara Lambert of Clinton, Mississippi. Her older sister, Brenda, had been fired by a department store in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, for trying to register black voters. Barbara and Brenda and Brenda’s husband Doug liberalized me. I know the word liberal has been in bad odor for the last decade or so, but, believe me when I say that back there in the Jurassic Age, in Mississippi, if you were going to go around thinking that black citizens ought to have the right to vote, you were going to be labeled a Liberal and you were going to think of yourself as a Liberal . And so I continue to wear this verbal badge with not quite as much shame as Newt Gingrich or Sean Hannity think I ought to wear it.

And then Martin Luther King, Jr., entered my life. Let me try to give you at least some small idea of just how unpopular Dr. King was on many fronts back when he was not safely dead. Bob and Dot Lambert, my first set of in-laws, were having a couple over from the that very same first Baptist Church in Clinton, Mississippi, in which Barbara and I had been married a year before. Barbara had vowed to make her wedding appearance in the church her last, for there was at the time no Civil Rights auxiliary wing of the First Baptist Church of Clinton, Mississippi. Nobody there bore the sort of witness that Barbara needed at the time.

I do not recall the name of the couple. Let us call them the Joneses. Brenda and Doug and Barbara and I were in town. Since Brenda was trying to register black voters in Hattiesburg and protesting the Vietnam War and doing all sorts of other communistic stuff, Bob and Dot were a bit antsy about the course the conversation might take when they entertained their guests.

I’ll never forget what Brenda said. “Look, all we’ve got to do is turn the conversation to Martin Luther King. I don’t like him and neither do the Joneses. We can at least agree on that.”

Brenda didn’t like Martin Luther King because she liked H. Rap Brown and Stokely Carmichael and other folk of the Burn, Baby, Burn persuasion. The Joneses didn’t like Martin Luther King because, although he was saying precisely the same things the Joneses were hearing in the First Baptist Church of Clinton, Mississippi, every Sunday, he was, shall we say, applying those things a bit differently from the way the Joneses were applying them. A disciple of the Prince of Peace, Martin Luther King, like his Lord, came not to bring peace, but a sword, the sword of agitation, the sword of controversy, the sword of the surgeon who makes a wound to cure the cancer.

Brenda didn’t like Martin Luther King, but I did. He became my mentor. He bore witness to the very best earthly possibilities of my faith. More than any other single person, MLK taught me how to read the Bible as the living word of a living God. I watched as he took it upon himself to try to redeem the time. And what a very hard time it was to try to redeem.

How very hard it must have been to be Martin Luther King. How deep his faith must have been to have borne what he bore. Leave alone for a minute the constant threat, the constant menace of violent people, the unwritten fatwa that shadowed him as surely as did the Ayatollah Khomeini’s fatwa against a writer who dared to think about religion in a way the Ayatollah didn’t. I fear I should have been reduced to a puddle of neurotic jelly by such a threat. Dr. King was obviously made of sterner stuff than I. But leave that alone.

Think with me for a minute about being disliked by so many people solely because you’re trying to do the right thing. I sometimes wonder whether King didn’t occasionally find himself muttering with Hamlet: “The time is out of joint: O, cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.” If he did, he kept such mutterings to himself, and marched on, and, in the process, educated and ministered to poor, confused Johnny Wink and God knows how many other souls in need of such a ministry.

Brenda didn’t like Martin Luther King. J. Edgar Hoover didn’t like Martin Luther King. The Joneses didn’t like Martin Luther King. My dear father didn’t like Martin Luther King. I knew good people who didn’t like Martin Luther King. I knew bad people who didn’t like Martin Luther King. I knew all sorts of people who didn’t like Martin Luther King.

I knew people who reveled in calling Martin Luther King Martin Luther Coon. There was supposed to be a joke somewhere there. It depended partly on alliteration. King and Coon are both single syllable words that start with the same sound.

It depended on the age-old ploy of racism whereby the race being demeaned is dehumanized by means of animal imagery. The next time you watch The Hotel Rwanda, count the number of times the word cockroaches is used.

It was a pitiful attempt at a joke, but, alas, it got laughs. And I guess there is, after all, something funny–in the pathetic vein–about folks who didn’t have a morsel of this man’s dignity, courage, vision, and love of his Lord and his fellows calling him a coon. As I said a moment ago, my dear departed father, as good a man as ever I’ve known, a man who, when the chips were down, behaved decently in ever racial situation I ever saw him in, still didn’t get Martin Luther King, didn’t like him, saw him as a troublemaker, couldn’t see to see just what a prince among men this man was.

But my mom took a different tack. She always liked Martin Luther King and would take up for him on 3621 10th Street in Gulfport, Mississippi, when the conversation turned in that direction.

And a couple of days ago, when I was visiting my mom, who’s a Katrina refugee and now lives a mile from me and my wife Susan at a place called The Beverly, she reminded me of something she once said to my dad, back in the early 1970’s on the occasion of the second or third birthday of our son Gene, who, as I indicated at the beginning of a speech that is very soon coming to an end, is today doing the best he can to celebrate a birthday in the icy mess that Tulsa, Oklahoma, currently is.

Mom and Dad are at the kitchen table. It’s January 15, 1972 or 73. Dad says, “I wish Gene hadn’t been born on MLK’s birthday.”

My prescient mother says, “I’m glad he was. You just watch. One of these days Martin Luther King’s and Gene’s birthday is going to be a National Holiday.”

Friday Night Videos: Robotic

Björk: All Is Full of Love (1999)

Curious how many music videos use images of technology to capture human emotions. Some, like the Such Great Heights video, do it by having humans wandering around inside the technology. Björk takes a different approach, appearing as a robot being operated on. When I think of Björk’s music videos I think of Michel Gondry as director, but this video was actually directed by Chris Cunningham.

Daft Punk: Around the World (1997)

Oh, right, here’s a Michel Gondry-directed video. Here the various musical elements of the song are reified as robotic dancers: the mummies are the drum machine, the skeletons are the guitar, the spangly swimsuited girls are the synth, the robots are the vocoder, and the — what the hey are those tall guys, anyway? — are the bass. Niftiness abounds.

Better Dressed

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but engineers and scientists are not the best-dressed people around. It’s a different kind of badly-dressed than coders, whose ground state is a ratty t-shirt and jeans. Engineers and scientists often go in one of two directions: the corporate or the academic. The corporate involves a lot of solid-color polo shirts, occasionally sweaters, and khaki slacks. Stains and tears are optional. The academic look…well, it tends towards the coder look if you’re not careful.

There are a couple of things going on. One, we can’t pick clothes that match. Khaki slacks are preferred for just that reason: it’s much easier to find shirts that have a hope of matching if you’re wearing khaki. Two, we wear our clothes until they have gone out of style and come back into style.

With your help, we can solve this problem. I propose making a new line of Garanimals clothes, only for scientists and engineers instead of kids. Garanimals is a line of mix-and-match clothing for children. They come with animal hang-tags on them, so the kid can easily pick an outfit that matches. All rhino clothes go together, all monkey clothes go together, and so on.

Let’s extend that. Imagine having clothes that include geek-oriented hang-tags. Multi-function screwdrivers. A PCMCIA card. A klein bottle. Add to that an expiration date, like you find on milk cartons. Then the whole issue of dressing becomes one of finding matching hang-tags and making sure that the clothes haven’t expired. The expiration date could be adjusted depending on how quickly the clothes are likely to go out of style. We’ll have to charge extra money for clothes with expiration dates that are further in the future, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.

I wonder if VC money is available again?

Pete and Repeat

Of late, Eli has taken to repeating “Mom? Mom? Moooooom?” over and over again. The typical conversation goes something like this:

ELI: Mom?
MISTY: Yes?
ELI: Mom?
MISTY: Yes?
ELI: Mom?
MISTY: Yes?
(ELI PAUSES AND LOOKS THOUGHTFUL.)
ELI: Mom?

Last night, Misty had had enough. Partway through the “Mom?” cycle, she said, “Eli, unless you have a question or something to tell me, pick a different word to repeat.”

Without missing a beat, Eli said, “Dad? Dad? Dad and mom? Dad and mom?”

Premonitions of Mail

My aunt said over Christmas that she would send Eli a copy of “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” in the mail since she has multiple copies and Eli, for whatever reason, has managed to not collect that book. This afternoon a large envelope came for Eli in the mail. I told him he’d received a package. He looked up at me and said, “Oh, it’s my “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” book. Of course, he was right.

Cross-Stitch Multiple Personality Disorder

So as you know from here and here, I’ve been working on a rather large cross stitch project. I predicted here that in six months I’d move on to a smaller project. It’s been four and here I am movin’ on. I decided that I wanted to do something for the baby’s room, not because I was bored with the dragon, that’s an acceptable excuse, right?

I had thought that I would move this piece (currently hanging in Eli’s room)
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to the baby’s room but I decided that I wanted to do something different for the new baby. I found a pattern that I liked and I was lucky enough that Stephen’s mom already had it. Here’s the photo. And by the same artist, too!
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I started on Thursday and here’s what I’ve gotten done so far.
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See her dress? It’s right there. I can’t believe you can’t see it!

So all that to say I have MPD for cross-stitch. I’m guessing you aren’t all that shocked by my admission.


When I started work on The Fortunate Traveler, I thought it was the largest chart I had ever seen or put together. The book was 20 pages and took me about an hour to cut out of the photocopied pages and paste together. Well I’ve see the new winner in the chart-size arms race. While we were visiting Stephen’s parents, May (Stephen’s mom) tried to get me to take a pattern that she had ordered but had decided was maybe to complex to do. Her words were that she couldn’t “see” the picture in the pattern. When I opened up the pattern it was a whopping 36 pages of chart! Here’s the photo:
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So I offered to put it together for her. Well, actually I didn’t offer, I told Stephen’s dad to make copies and bring them back to me and then I commenced to cutting and pasting. (I try to curb my autocratic tendencies but sometimes I can’t help it. I also art direct at nearly any opportunity but that’s not a big shocker for you either, I bet.) It took about two hours and the finished chart is actually in three sections but the whole thing is about five feet by four feet.
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Once she saw the chart she decided that she might give it a try after all. I told her that the chart itself was enough art work all by itself so maybe she’ll just hang the chart and call it a day.

Cataloging the Granade Library: Part 6

So today as part of the great after-Christmas cleanup, I pulled out the box of books that I knew was lurking in the guest room closet. Our guest room holds over 500 books. (No, you don’t have to sleep on books when you visit, I promise.) I honestly don’t know where they are going to migrate to over the next couple of months. I’m thinking about papering the ceilings with some of them. Now there’s a DIY project you want to tackle!

At the end of today’s scanning, I am officially in the home stretch. I only have the books in the living room to do and I think that I can knock those out in an evening. Movies and video games shouldn’t take that long either. Then the only other hurdle to jump is to get the music Stephen has scanned into the database somehow.

  • 784 total books scanned.
  • 84 books scanned today.
  • Stephen’s Count: 476 total.
  • My Count: 141 total.
  • Eli’s Count: 165 total.
  • Discards: 5. Four of the five were mine, do you see the pattern here?
  • Discard Total: 48. On Tuesday this past week, we let the Nerd Herd pick through them so the stack is somewhat reduced.
  • Rooms Finished: Kitchen, Eli’s room, master bedroom, guest room (for real this time!), and office.
  • High Resale Value: The Simple Solution to Rubik’s Cube. Retail: $1.95. Current Resale Value: $64.49. Only ¢6 less than The Feynman Lecture Series of three volumes. That ought to explain how the world works, in case you didn’t know.

Consumer Reports Has Infant Car Seat Recommendations

If you’re using an infant car seat or are in the market for one, Consumer Reports has some important information for you.

Cars and car seats can’t be sold unless they can withstand a 30-mph frontal crash. But most cars are also tested in a 35-mph frontal crash and in a 38-mph side crash. Car seats aren’t.

When we crash-tested infant car seats at the higher speeds vehicles routinely withstand, most failed disastrously. The car seats twisted violently or flew off their bases, in one case hurling a test dummy 30 feet across the lab.

The punchline: of the twelve seats they tested, only the Baby Trend Flex-Loc and the Graco SnugRide with EPS performed adequately. In addition, they found problems with some seats and cars’ LATCH system for securing car seats.

Friday Night Videos: Cowboy

Madonna: Don’t Tell Me (2000)

The video is nicely matched to the feel of the song and has a strong and consistent style. When the Music album came out, a number of people returned it because this song’s stutters convinced them the CD was defective.
The video’s stutters at the beginning are even more eerie on YouTube, since you’re convinced the video hasn’t finished loading. There’s some subtle things going on — watch how, when the cowboys on the billboards freeze, the dust they kick up keeps moving. I don’t know what it means, but it’s nifty nonetheless. And who would have thought to see Madonna doing line dancing while sporting a nice tail and an elite squad from the New Cowboy Village People?

Boards of Canada: Dayvan Cowboy (2006)

This is one of those videos I could watch over and over. The echoey music is coupled with striking visuals that add a story to the song, one that fits nicely with the music itself. When I first saw this, I wondered where they got the footage of the man falling to earth. Wonder no longer: it’s from footage of Captain Joseph W. Kittinger Jr.’s jump from over 100,000 feet as part of the Air Force’s Project Excelsior. He rode a balloon up for an hour and a half; the trip down took nearly fourteen minutes. Crazy.

The Tent

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It takes up all the floor space in Eli’s room but this morning we solved part of that problem by putting approximately 900 toys inside the tent.

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As requested, the sleeping bag inside the tent as well. Then we also needed the space blanket, inside the sleeping bag, inside the tent. Notice in the lower left corner the tiger phone, in case he needs to call from the deep, dark woods.

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Eli snug in his sleeping bag. See the three hairs sticking out of the bag?

This tent is quite possibly the best invention ever. I hear him rattling buckets in his room. I think more toys just went into the tent. He stopped by just now to inform me that the Thomas blanket (as well as his space blanket and Nemo blanket) needed to be inside the tent.

Do you think it’s possible to fit the entire house inside of the tent? I’ll let you know when I have internet hookup in there…