Beware: Art Enlightens

I wrote this article for The Minute Magazine. I thought it was appropriate at this time to post it on my blog.

BEWARE: Art Enlightens


I had my first moment of enlightenment before I was twelve.

My father was in the US Army and we lived on the outskirts of Paris, France. I was on a school field trip to the Louvre that would forever alter my self-awareness.

I was not a good student. Poor grades, bad attitude, anger issues-- you name it, I had it. And I had yet to come to understand what this art thing was.

When we entered the massive building with the huge staircase, we walked down a long hall that seemed to go on forever. We walked right up to a portrait of a woman. The sight of this painting stopped me in my tracks. It was the Mona Lisa. I was surprised at my reaction. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I stood there in a trance while my classmates ventured on. I remember what my next thought was as if it were yesterday. At the tender age of eleven, something inside of me changed. I felt drawn to the genius of this creation. This piece of art seemed to have a special message for me. I remember thinking that I wanted to be a better human being. I wanted to be a part of this creative thought process.

I never forgot that day. And things did change for me. My grades improved, along with my desire for learning. The transformation had begun. Now, nearly fifty years later, I reflect on that time with a new appreciation and sadness. I realize how fortunate I was to have had that experience in the Louvre, and how unfortunate it is that very few children in my community will ever have that chance.

I’ve shared this story often with my students, not because I want them to grow up to be artists, but because I want them to grow up to be thinkers. I’ve spent the majority of my life trying to encourage, expose, teach and promote the arts. I quote studies, write letters, apply for grants, and go door to door. We need to bring the arts back into our schools, I say. With all the studies that show the value of an arts curriculum and emphasize how the arts play an important role in brain development of a child, I am constantly amazed that the message isn’t getting to the right people. The connection between art and creativity is often discounted, down-played, or out-right ignored. I’ve even come to wonder if there’s a conspiracy to dumb down our children. Our public school systems seems to be putting all of their emphasis on teaching children how to pass a test. We are simply teaching our school children ‘what’ to think, and not ‘how’ to think.

Studies show the role the arts play in critical thinking and problem solving, and it’s no wonder that our children are suffering from the lack of an art curriculum in our schools. Our high school dropout percentages are through the roof. According to the US Department of Education, National Center for Education Statistics, by 1998 the average dropout rate nationwide for African American children between the ages of 16 and 24 was at 13.8%. Native Americans were at 11.8%. Now compare this statistic to Louisiana. According to the Louisiana Department of Education, in the 2005-2006 school year term, forty-five out of every one hundred African-American students that should have graduated did not graduate. Forty-two out of every one hundred Native American students living in Louisiana suffered the same fate.

I wonder who’s controlling the system. Who promotes this system that stifles creativity, that discourages individuality?

Jonathan Kozol, author of Amazing Grace: the Lives of Children and the Conscience of a Nation, explains it this way. “But for the children of the poorest people we're stripping the curriculum, removing the arts and music, and drilling the children into useful labor. We're not valuing a child for the time in which she actually is a child.”
I believe that we have become more interested in test scores than in incorporating a learning environment that stimulates creative thought. We rarely allow our children to ask “why?” Conformity has become the norm. Instead of unlocking the minds of our children, we’re limiting their brain development and we’re limiting their future prospects. While considering the future of our country and the many challenges our children and grandchildren will face, it is becoming obvious that we need creative thinkers. We need the kind of leadership that encourages intellectual growth.

I know first hand what the arts can do to not only improve a child’s self-image, I know what it can do to spark a child’s imagination, create a desire for learning, and open their mind to unlimited possibilities. Right now, we are simply teaching our children how to answer questions. Without a stimulating environment, it’s only a matter of time before even more of our children will become statistics. And I am not willing to stand back and watch it happen here in Louisiana.

I have been an advocate for the arts for more than half my life, and it hasn’t been easy. Most people don’t understand my drive and passion. Most people are still of the mindset that the arts are just some fluff stuff you give kids who can’t pass the test. Many have the mindset that art and music are not important, and they want their child to learn a “real” skill so they can get a “real” job.

I had a friend ask me one day why I fight so hard for the arts in a community that obviously does not embrace it. I thought about what Richard Riley, the former Secretary of Education once said. "I have long believed in the important role that music and the arts can play in helping students learn, achieve, and succeed. Education in theatre, dance and the visual arts is one of the most creative ways we have to find the gold that is buried just beneath the surface. They (children) have an enthusiasm for life, a spark of creativity and vivid imagination that need training that prepares them to become confident young men and women."

But I didn’t quote Riley in answer to my friend’s question. I told her the one thing that keeps me going, that gives me hope for the next generation of children in northern Louisiana—the possibility of a movement beginning that will save our children and bring creativity back to the forefront of the American educational system.
“I’ve got to keep fighting for the arts,” I say. “Because I’m waiting for the 100th monkey.”

------------------------------
THE STORY OF "The Hundredth Monkey" has recently become popular in our culture as a strategy for social change. Lyall Watson first told it in Lifetide (pp147- 148), but its most widely known version is the opening to the book The Hundredth Monkey, by Ken Keyes.

The story is based on research with monkeys on a northern Japanese Island, and its central idea is that when enough individuals in a population adopt a new idea or behavior, there occurs an ideological breakthrough that allows this new awareness to be communicated directly from mind to mind without the connection of external experience and then all individuals in the population spontaneously adopt it. "It may be that when enough of us hold something to be true, it becomes true for everyone."

The 100th Monkey
A story about social change.
By Ken Keyes Jr.

The Japanese monkey, Macaca Fuscata, had been observed in the wild for a period of over 30 years.

In 1952, on the island of Koshima, scientists were providing monkeys with sweet potatoes dropped in the sand. The monkey liked the taste of the raw sweet potatoes, but they found the dirt unpleasant.

An 18-month-old female named Imo found she could solve the problem by washing the potatoes in a nearby stream. She taught this trick to her mother. Her playmates also learned this new way and they taught their mothers too.

This cultural innovation was gradually picked up by various monkeys before the eyes of the scientists. Between 1952 and 1958 all the young monkeys learned to wash the sandy sweet potatoes to make them more palatable. Only the adults who imitated their children learned this social improvement. Other adults kept eating the dirty sweet potatoes.

Then something startling took place. In the autumn of 1958, a certain number of Koshima monkeys were washing sweet potatoes -- the exact number is not known. Let us suppose that when the sun rose one morning there were 99 monkeys on Koshima Island who had learned to wash their sweet potatoes. Let's further suppose that later that morning, the hundredth monkey learned to wash potatoes.

THEN IT HAPPENED! By that evening almost everyone in the tribe was washing sweet potatoes before eating them. The added energy of this hundredth monkey somehow created an ideological breakthrough!

But notice: A most surprising thing observed by these scientists was that the habit of washing sweet potatoes then jumped over the sea...Colonies of monkeys on other islands and the mainland troop of monkeys at Takasakiyama began washing their sweet potatoes.

Thus, when a certain critical number achieves an awareness, this new awareness may be communicated from mind to mind.

Although the exact number may vary, this Hundredth Monkey Phenomenon means that when only a limited number of people know of a new way, it may remain the conscious property of these people.

But there is a point at which if only one more person tunes-in to a new awareness, a field is strengthened so that this awareness is picked up by almost everyone!

From the book "The Hundredth Monkey" by Ken Keyes, Jr.
The book is not copyrighted and the material may be reproduced in whole or in part.

Ben's Greatest Adventure...until the next one!

Raising our son, Ben, was one of the most enjoyable times of my life. Rick and I moved into our new underground home in the piney woods of Claiborne Parish the week Ben was born. Now thirty years later, we’re still living in the woods of Claiborne Parish and the son we raised now lives in Taiwan.

The following post was written by Ben. I think it is an extraordinary piece of writing that I thought was worth sharing.

Ben’s recent adventure included a trip to Borneo, Malaysia where he competed in the Sky Runners Super Cup 25th International Climbathon. This race up Mt. Kinabalu was held on October 23. The experience is as extraordinary as his written account. It’s a true piece of art. Just as some artists use graphic imagery to communicate a feeling or a moment in history, Ben’s writing is just as powerful and just as graphic. In other words, it is unedited. So, if you are sensitive to graphic language, here’s your opportunity to opt out.

Here is his account of that day. ( Note: The runners in this race are expected to make it to the top of Mt. Kinabalu in 2 and half hours or suffer elimination. Of the 200 that competed, 115 were disqualified. Ben was the 25th runner to make it to top and qualify to finish the race.)

Ben vs Mt. Kinabalu

I landed in Kota Kinabalu on Saturday afternoon, just after the bus I was supposed to catch took off with all of our esteemed international runners on board. So, I opted for the cheaper, more public transport; an old white van loaded with salt of the earth mountain folk hitching a ride up to some hut in the hills where they sell hats, or vegetables and stuff. This sums up my traveling in Borneo, relying on strangers for food and transport, offering tobacco pouches that I advertised as “premium European tobacco, you know, the good stuff,” and asking clerks and waitresses how many “ribbits” I owed them (the official currency is the ringet). In short, I was in over my head the whole time, yet completely fortunate and probably a bit lucky.

I remember rounding the mountain top in the “public bus” when I finally got my first look at Mt. Kinabalu. She was a monstrous, wicked beast, with a back like a thick retarded sail fish and a base that reminded me a lot of our junglish, Taiwanese landscapes but with bright orange clay. She was partially hidden in a ring of fawning clouds, every once in a while peaking her sharp grey head out to wink at me as if I were some fresh-faced prisoner with an ass for the taking. My initial reaction was excitement, but after a few seconds this quickly disintegrated into sweaty palms and hot collars. I was quiet all up until the gun went off.

Thoroughly intimidated and worried, I had built this race up to be something that I would complete no matter what, and now it was dawning on me that not only might I not finish in time, but also that fates a thousand times worse could befall me; in short, death or injury. I also noticed that this race wasn’t about all the participants; it was about the world championship of crazy-fuck sky runners who get paid to burn ass at the top of the world. Everyone clapped when these guys showed their faces, they were the champs, the heroes, and the rest of us peons should be thankful that we were given the opportunity to eat their mountain dust for one day.

Before the race I had met quite a few nice, ordinary folx like myself who were looking for a real challenge. I was as friendly as I could be, sharing stories here and there, but I wasn’t much fun. I was gotten, shook, back on my heels; that bitch of a mountain had wormed her way into my head and was pulling my levers. This thing needed to start, and fast or I was going to lose my shit, literally.

The gun goes off. I’m running hard up the 1km road before the trail head and already feeling out of breath and faint. My motor wasn’t running, I just needed to push on. Finally the red-dirt trail started and I could tell that the rocks around these parts were much less forgiving than the ones I was used to. They were sharp and oddly shaped with barely any room to land a foot without lodging it somewhere in some painful position, and the ground beneath them was just as solid. The ascent started quite immediately, no foreplay, no gentle slope to sooth the soul, but this was all for the better. My motor started to warm and I began passing a few of the people in front of me.

Going up the trail there were a few straightaways between each intensely steep climb, mostly pretty short, usually only tens of meters long and riddled with those god-awful rocks. I was reminded of my friendly stair case back home and running with Master Jed. “Remember your training” he would say while meditatively snagging a mosquito with his chopsticks, “and take it easy for fuck sake.” My mind began to buzz. My hands on my thighs, right leg up, left leg up, over and over until I slowly started to notice the sun as I was reaching the clouds. The trees began to thin out, the rocks changed from red to grey and everything became drier and brighter. I could hear a crowd at some important point ahead hooting and howling as the top runners passed by. I wasn’t too far behind; I was moving well and feeling good as my fear started to turn to excitement. I just kept climbing.

Eventually the trees and I parted ways and before me lay the very slab of saw-toothed rock that I noticed from the first time I looked at the mountain. I had one more kilometer of altitude to climb and it was by far the toughest and steepest. It was about this time that the first place runner was descending. This guy was flying down the slab, running and sliding on the rocks at the same time, as if controlled sliding on the side of a mountain were every bit as natural as running around the track. He flew by me as the support team kept repeating fearfully “sir, the rope, please grab the rope!” Yeah fucking right! This guy was about to grow wings right in front of us! What’s a rope going to do? I stopped to watch him disappear down the side of the rock face, and I felt extremely humbled. After him came the next two, racing each other intensely in a way that only pros can do. They ran with the grace of two exotic animals that you would see on the Planet Earth Series, both jockeying for position on a razor thin precipice without the least symptom of caution or concern. Meanwhile, I stopped running to stare like some dumbstruck halfwit, thinking to myself “WTF is going on here?” After gawking and making primitive non-verbal sounds of approval, I continued.

Partly on all fours, sometimes pulling myself up with a rope, and at other times assuming the traditional hands-on-thighs position, I climbed way above the clouds. I was a tender little pink ball of mushy flesh next to these rocks, just waiting to be crushed and brushed aside as soon as my welcome was worn. But, in the back of my head a thought was born and slowly gaining momentum: I’m actually going to make it in time. At last, the very summit, like some craggy granite nipple poking the sky right in front of me. Holy shit. With no breath left and every muscle burning like lava, I couldn’t think straight and started seeing shit that wasn’t there, birds here, little black bugs over there. “Great job, sir!” I heard the nice young guys say as I pulled myself up the last rock. There in front of me stood the summit sign that I dreamt about, the one I was supposed to touch to make it official. I collected myself, stood up and grabbed the sign as I looked around at where I was. It was here that I began regressing to some infantile state of shock. I was way, way above the clouds and higher than I’ve ever been physically, geographically, and emotionally. My mind exploded. I noticed that I had taken to low, elongated grunting and deep breathing, and that luckily my tears were camouflaged by ice-cold sweat. I pulled my shit together, all the while sounding like I was taking the world’s biggest dump, or more likely, that I had just undergone a successful lobotomy. I slayed the fucking dragon boys! But, she wasn’t totally dead yet, her death rattle would catch me on the way down, like some stony fist pounding me into human pulp.

Every step was like a hammer to the knees and gut. The mountain was sucking me into its center like I was a piece of chicken caught in its teeth. I fell a few times and quickly forgot the joy I had so recently experienced. These next two hours were terribly rough, so rough that I started swearing at my situation and the mountain; she was irritating the living piss out of me, and I wished for someone whose ass I could just kick the hell out of, someone I could pick on. I wanted the shit to roll downhill, but the buck was stopping with me. The blows just came one after another and there were as many hits as steps that I took; each one worse than the last because of my energy deficit. I drifted through every emotional state that I have, all randomly and rapidly until two hours later I was at the base of the dead beast. That finish line kept moving further and further back, I started swearing again, at no one and everyone. Finally, after 4 hours and 23 minutes my ordeal was complete, and my retarded jubilation came rushing back, yes sir! I hobbled through the crowd of cheering onlookers and took a knee somewhere secluded only to wrap my head around what had just happened. What a race! I give it an easy 10.

Angels Among Us

Thoughts of suicide were clouding my thoughts when we moved to Doyline in 1965. I was in the middle of my freshmen year in high school. We had moved from Paris, France. I can remember wondering what the kids at this new school would be like. I knew they would be different from my friends in France. They lived in Doyline, for goodness sake! My first day and those to follow were horribly painful.

The next few weeks were pretty intense. Trying to catch up on my grades. Trying to make new friends. Trying to fit in. I had learned that the kids were calling me a French whore. I didn’t know what that meant. That was a word I had never heard before. I knew it had to be bad. I went home and asked my mother what it meant. She was mortified that the children were calling me this. When she explained what it meant as gently as she could, it pierced me like a knife. How could they think that of me? They didn’t even know me?

I remember feeling very left out. I began writing a letter to my best friend in Paris. I wrote about my pain and my desire not to live. I made the mistake of writing it in my English class. I would have gotten away with it except for the fact that my impulsive crying caught the attention of my teacher. Mr. Jimmy Smith was a new teacher to Doyline. This was his second year of teaching. He was in his early thirties and somewhat attractive. He walked over to me and gently asked for the note which I had tucked in my book. He took the note and asked that I meet with him after class. Great, I thought, one more thing.

I stayed after class. Mr. Smith closed the door behind us. He pulled up a chair beside his and asked that I take a seat. I was shaking like a leaf. He put his hand on my shoulder and began to apologize for having read my letter. Instead of scolding me for not paying attention in class, he gently began to ask me why someone like me would consider writing such a thing. I explained the difficultly I was having fitting in. I shared the trials of the last several weeks and the taunting that I had received from the students. He said something to me that no one at this point had ever said to me, not even my parents. “You really don’t know just how special you are, do you?” Me, special? He then asked if I would trust him and he made a pledge to help me get through high school and on to college.
For the next four years, Mr. Smith coached me in my studies. He gave me books to read and on our lunch hour, he would quiz me about them. We would discuss what the author meant when he wrote the book. I was so determined to please Mr. Smith that I took the many books he assigned to me and read them over and over. I was not a good student. My grades were fair. Mr. Smith recognized my artistic abilities, too, and made sure that I would be included in the various theatrical productions he was assigned to direct.  The juniors and seniors each year put on a play. He brought me in as a sophomore for a bit part. I was to deliver two lines. I had no idea that this theatre thing would be my thing. I fretted over those two lines for months but my delivery was perfect. The audience screamed with laughter over those two lines and I was in heaven.

Each year the best of the best would represent their schools at literary rally. Molly, one of the more brilliant students in Mr. Smith’s class was designated to go in English Literature. No one doubted that she was the right person to represent the class. Molly was sick and would not be able to compete. Without asking and without notice, Mr. Smith announced in class that he would be sending me to take her place. I gasped, as did the other students. “Oh, no, you can’t send me,” I said out loud. “Please pick someone one else.” Mr. Smith didn’t acknowledge my comments. He went on with the class as if nothing had happened. I stayed after class to once again insist that he send someone else. “You can do it, Christine.” He was the only teacher who called me by my given name. “You know all those books I’ve had you read all these years? Well, that’s what this test is about?” He told me that he wanted me to do this for him. He told me not to worry about placing. He told me to know that he believed in me and that I was the right person to go while he handed me one more book to read.

I went to the literary rally and it felt good to sit among the brightest stars of Doyline High. I took the test and I felt good about it. I had no expectations as Mr. Smith instructed. The results came in before we left Louisiana Tech that day. Over the loud speaker they announced that the first place winner in the English Literature division went to Christine Sampson of Doyline High School. I couldn’t believe it. We returned on the bus that day and when we arrived school was still in session. I walked into the big hallway that ran down the middle of the school. And on the other end of the hall, I could hear Mr. Smith shouting “Christine!” He scooped me up and twirled me around. Everything was in slow motion, like in the movies. He kept saying “I knew you could do it! I knew you could do it.”

Mr. Smith’s encouragement and support saved me. When graduation time rolled around and we were all getting ready to plan our next step. I had enrolled at Louisiana Tech and was told that they had an excellent art department. During graduation week, Mr. Smith said he had written a poem for us. He also announced that he would no longer be teaching after this year. I couldn’t believe it. He was one of the best. Why would he quit? Where was he going? He explained to us that his time at Doyline was over and that he had accomplished what he had set out to do. Rumor was that he was independently wealthy and really didn’t need to teach.
I went to Louisiana Tech and my stay there only lasted a year. (That’s another story) I moved back home and did what many of my fellow female classmates did. I got married. I didn’t see Mr. Smith after graduation. And he did indeed leave Doyline High school.

Many years later I was taking a dance class in Minden. I had opened the Children’s Center and thought that I might be able to bring more enrichment through dance if I knew a few steps myself. Bill Cook was my instructor. I did not know Bill personally. I had heard about him and I had heard that he was a dancer in New York and had even written a book. We got to know each other and before long I had learned that he had written a second book but it had not been published. I found out that much of it was still in long hand and that he didn’t have the money to pay to have it transcribed. I offered to do it for him. We met at the Children’s Center every Tuesday afternoon for a few months.

While I was typing his book on the computer, we began to exchange details about ourselves. I asked him who in his life had given him the confidence to write and who was it that encouraged him to write down his stories. He shared his life in New York. But he did admit that it was a friend that told him he could write. He went on to share that this close friend was a school teacher for a brief time. He said his friend told him of a student of his that he referred lovingly as his ‘rising star.’ Bill continued to share that this friend left the teaching profession after his rising star graduated.. He went on to say that he taught English at Doyline. Could this be my Mr. Smith? Out of curiosity, I asked who the teacher was. “Jimmy Smith,” he said. “Wait that was my teacher at Doyline.” To which Bill said as we both realized at the same time ……“You are his Christine?!!!”

“He dearly loved you,” Bill Cook told me. “And I dearly loved him,” I replied. “Jimmy Smith saved my life.”

Jimmy Smith died a few years later but not before I was able to share with him the impact he had on my life. I will forever be indebted to this man, this teacher,  who saw in me what nobody else saw and who loved me unconditionally. What a gift?! What an Angel!

I love you Mr. Smith!

My first real friend.

I had a great childhood. We moved to Louisiana when I was around 8 years old. My parents bought a home out in the country about a mile from Lake Bistineau. Our neighbors across the street opened their heart and home to us immediately. Aunt Florence and Uncle Fred is what we called them even though we weren’t related.

Aunt Florence and Uncle Fred were farmers. They were more self sufficient than anyone I had ever met. Uncle Fred had a huge garden every year and he would recruit the kids in the neighborhood to help him plant the seeds and even drive the tractor at times. My favorite part was harvest time. I loved when it was time to hunt for ‘taters.’ Uncle Fred would plow up the mounds and make it easy for us to dig out the potatoes. The heat and the sun never bothered me when we were out in the field. I guess it was our youth but it felt great.

Aunt Florence was a great cook. She would fix a huge breakfast every morning for her family. Biscuits, gravy, bacon and eggs. I use to try to go over in time for breakfast but I was always too late. They got up before the chickens. I would get there just as Aunt Florence had cleared the table and was throwing the scraps out for the chickens in the back. I could still smell the bacon and the sight of her biscuits made my mouth water. There were so many days I thought about getting on all fours and eating those scraps with the chickens. I think if no one had been watching, I would have probably done that.

I had a great childhood friend. We played Barbie dolls together. My friend was great at sewing and made all my Barbie doll clothes. His name was Joe. We were the best of friends. We did everything together. We fished together. We played games together. We went to church together. Joe was exceptionally talented. He could play the piano by ear. He could hear a song one time and then knock it out on the piano. I loved it when he would play some ragtime for us. Aunt Florence didn’t like it much. She preferred it when he would play some of her favorite church hymns.

Joe and I remained friends until we left when I was ten. My dad received orders to do a tour of duty in Paris, France. We left that wonderful life in the country. We would spend the next three years in Paris, France.

When we returned to the States, my dad was nearing retirement and he loved Louisiana. He loved the fishing and hunting and he had decided that we would return to our home in Doyline. I was thirteen when we returned. Aunt Florence and Uncle Fred were the same. But so much had changed. They tore down their old dog trot and replaced it with a more modern house. It didn’t have the character of the old place and it was hard for me to adjust to the newness.

Joe and I had not kept up with each other and things were not the same. We had grown up and grown apart. Joe and I would go our separate ways. We left Doyline after graduation to start new lives.

A few years later, Joe called me out of the blue and asked me to have lunch with him. We went to Barbara’s Backporch in Doyline and had a wonderful lunch together. Catching up was great. Joe told me he had found love. And he had found someone to love him. I was so happy for him. I wasn’t surprised when he told me he was gay. I knew it all along. Even as a child, I knew he was special. I didn’t have a name for it and didn’t need one. I loved him for who he was. I loved his spirit. I loved his kindness. Without giving any thought to what all that meant. Whether it was right or wrong, I knew it was right for him. I’m sure his parents had a hard time with it. They were devout Christians and I’m sure their beliefs were challenged. But they loved him anyway, too. How could you not? Joe was wonderful. He was talented. He was gifted. He was generous. He was kind. And yes, he was different. But that’s the way God made him. There was no doubt in my mind.

My childhood friendship with Joe and my unconditional love for him opened my heart and my mind to accepting homosexuals for who they are. I truly believe you are born gay. I know there are some exceptions, but overall, I believe that it’s part of their genetic makeup. I find it hard to understand and accept the homophobia and the public ostracizing I see happening around me.

When did we get so hateful?

My Salvation

I was thirteen years old and a freshman in high school when I accepted Jesus as my savior. We had returned from living in Paris, France for more than three years and I had accepted an invitation from my neighbors to attend their church.

It was a special moment in my life for more reasons than the obvious. My new church home and my new church friends took me in and made me feel very welcomed. I was a faithful servant. I attended Sunday school and Sunday worship services both morning and evening and even Wednesday Bible Study. I wanted to share this new feeling with my brothers and sisters. So I convinced them to attend Sunday school with me. My parents were not big church goers so we had to rely on our neighbors for transportation.

The preacher at this Church was fairly new to the ministry. He filled the church with his excitement about the Lord and brought many people to the altar. He was moving his congregation in very new and bold ways. The entire membership was excited about their new preacher. He was a young married pastor with two small children of his own. His fiery red hair and his bigger than life personality brought new life to this little old rural church.

My siblings followed suit and accepted Jesus into their lives as well. The difference was that my brother and little sister were very young, ages 7 and 5 respectively. That wasn’t a problem for the new preacher, but it was for my parents. My father was concerned that neither understood what they were doing. The new preacher had several conversations with my father and mother over the phone. He wasn’t persuasive enough and my parents were not budging.

My father was very familiar with salvation and baptism. His own father was a lay preacher and his mother was a faithful servant. The preacher came calling on one occasion to try one more time to convince my father that he needed to let these two children of God receive the gift of baptism. My father reacted in a rage and threw the preacher out of his home and threatened to shoot him if he stepped foot on his property again.

That same evening I attended the Sunday worship service. I knew that the preacher had visited my father but I didn’t know any details. The preacher began to preach about the importance of salvation and the importance of bringing all God’s children to the altar. Then he said something that made me angry. He told his congregation that the parents of Sister Christine would not allow their younger children to be baptized. He said that these two ‘heathens’ did not understand the importance of their children’s salvation because they themselves were not saved. He asked that the congregation pray for my parents and he called them out by name. I was so embarrassed. How dare he single out my parents? How dare he judge them? He taught me that only God could judge.

Everyone trailed out of the church but not before walking by the preacher to shake his hand. Something he did after every sermon. I stood in line fuming. When it was my turn to shake his hand, I placed my hand behind my back. The preacher stuck his hand out with a big smile on his face. I looked up at him and simply said “shame on you” and then walked out.

I left that church and decided to join another church. It would be several Sundays following that awful incident when word got out in the community that the new preacher had been arrested. My brain raced to formulate what could have happened. Did he push his way into the homes of other people like he did ours and take it too far? Our neighbors who had remained members of the church visited our home to share the bad news. The preacher had been arrested for abusing children. He had taken it upon himself to discipline the children of the church with his belt strap. The puncture wounds from the hook on his belt were all the evidence the police needed to arrest him. I felt sick at my stomach.

This encounter was not my only unfortunate experience with men of God. It didn’t affect my love for our creator but it did affect my ability to trust religious institutions.

The Parade

When I met Rick Broussard, he opened a whole new world to me. Camping being one of those worlds. Mountain View, Arkansas was our favorite choice of camping experiences. We would often camp out on his secluded property and then drive into Mountain View for an evening of local culture which usually consisted of clogging, fiddling and storytellin.

On one of our trips to the Mountain View Folk Life Festival, we decided to venture downtown and lineup with the other locals for the big downtown parade. These parades were different than anything I had ever seen. The creativity was spectacular. Without the benefit of fancy decorations, the local children would create floats that depicted their pioneer history. Many of the floats were made out of materials they would have in their backyards. One was an old school house themed float. They had constructed out of real wood, a mini school house with a school bell in the tower. Kids were seated in old timey school desks and decked out in old timey clothes. The school teacher was at the front of the class with a blackboard behind her giving out instructions to the kids. Another child was seated on a high stool beside the blackboard wearing a ‘dunce’ hat. It was the cutest thing I had ever seen. I marveled at all the floats and the work and creativity that had gone into each one.

While I was admiring their handy work, I noticed an antique car coming towards us. Whomever was in the car was obviously popular with the locals. They started cheering and applauding. He was seated high on the back seat of an old convertible. There was a sign attached to his car. I couldn’t see it at first. I was curious about this guy because he possessed a certain charisma. You could tell that this was someone of great importance. He was handsome and seemed pretty popular with the locals. The streets of Mountain View are pretty small and narrow. People were lining the street and we were lucky to have a front row seat. As his car got closer and I could read the sign on the side of the car. It read “Bill Clinton for Governor.” I watched him drive by smiling and waving at everyone. I gave him a big wave. We had heard from the locals that this guy was a great governor and might run for president one day.

Well, we know how that played out. I have always been an admirer of President Bill Clinton even when it wasn’t popular. And maybe it was because of that earlier encounter. I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I thought he was unfairly treated and unfairly judged. We didn’t put past presidents or even current congressmen under the same scrutiny as we did Clinton. I thought he was a great president.

Dirty Politics--My first real rant!

When I was at the ‘top of my game’ I was managing political campaigns and winning. I think I’ve worked on over thirty big races from State Representatives to Mayors to City Council members and not once did I stoop to mudslinging. Of the thirty odd races I assisted in, we won all positions but one.

I despise dirty politics. Dirty politics is just that…dirty! And it shouldn’t be tolerated by anyone especially us. The reason that most of the candidates do it is because it works….and it works because we the voters make it work by giving in to the dirt and believing the twisted tails and outright lies that are spewed upon us.

I don’t do campaigns anymore. The last one I did was for State Representative Jean Doerge’s campaign. She and I decided early on that we would not stoop to dirty campaigning. And being the gracious lady she is, she didn’t. Her opponent ran horrific ads slamming her for things that were not true. She did not retaliate. She ran a clean campaign and she won. So, it is possible to run a clean campaign and come out on top.

We’re all being bombarded with ads on television and literature in the mail with candidates attacking their opponent. It doesn’t have to be that way. Let us send a message to them. “Enough Already.” If these candidates can’t win on their own merit, record and character, then they don’t deserve to win at all. If they will stoop to dirty tactics to get elected, what do they do when they are supposed to be serving us?

The Fart

Some readers might find this too sensitive. I personally think we all need to chill out and not take each other so seriously. So, if this offends you…you were warned.

Several years ago, I invited a prominent person in Minden’s professional history to my home for dinner.  (Don’t try to guess who it is. She’s long been gone.) Anyway, she and her fiancée came to our home.  We had a very enjoyable evening.  After dinner we got comfortable and started to chat. In the middle of our deep conversation, I heard a rapid popping sound.  While I was wondering what it was, she continued to talk. I saw no changes in her facial expressions or that of her fiancée. I thought they must not have heard it. I stopped trying to guess what it was and simply dismissed it.

 We talked some more and I heard the rapid popping sound again. It sounded like it came from her direction. ‘Did she just fart?’I thought to myself.   Again I saw no change of expression in her face or his. I didn’t look at Rick’s face because I knew that any changes in his expression would be the end of me.   We conversed some more and there it was again.  There was no doubt in my mind this time that she had farted. And there was no doubt in my mind that she knew we all heard it.  She’s not deaf, I thought to myself. I could hardly keep up with the conversation for obsessing over her having farted. She kept her composure and never changed her expression. I couldn’t help but admire her strength and that of her fiancee. I know I could not have pulled that off.  I was dying inside.  I was right on the edge of busting out in laughter.  Keeping myself contained was beginning to cause me great pain.

Time passed and we were near the end of the evening anyway.  They began to make their way to the door.  We were standing in the doorway when another gust of wind was allowed to escape. No rapid popping this time just honest to goodness flapping of the cheeks.  And she remained poised and expressionless.  By this time, I am bleeding inside. My head was spinning with all kinds of painful memories of my cat dying so I wouldn’t break up.

They left that evening and once the door was shut, I busted out in laughter. Rick could not understand why I was laughing so hard.  Even when I tried to explain it through my manic laughter, he lost patience with me. He didn’t think it was funny at all….which of course made it even funnier.

                 

The Horse and the Stick

One of my most embarrassing moments happened when I was 19 years old.  I was living in Minden and working in Shreveport.   I normally carpooled to work and back with three other women from Minden.  But on this day, I was driving home alone. I decided to take a short cut. There was a country road that ran behind the bowling alley and adjacent to a large field. We took this short cut often because it was so scenic.   The road ran fairly close to a fenced area where one of the locals kept his horses. 

I was driving slow and enjoying the view when I happened to glance over and see a horse grazing in the field.  It was a picturesque scene with the tall green grass swaying in the wind while the huge oak trees shielded the pasture from the setting sun.  What caught my eye was this horse.  And what further got my attention was the fact that it appeared to have a huge stick lodged in his side.  I pulled over and backed up to get a better look. I jumped out of the car and ran up to the six foot fence to check out the horse.  I was so concerned for this poor animal. I looked around to see how he could have impaled himself.  Did he jump over a fallen tree limb?  How could this have happened to him?  I looked up the road to see if there was a house or if the owner of the horse was nearby.  I thought if I could locate the owner I could alert him about the horse’s condition.  With no owner in sight, I looked up at the fence as if to think I could jump it and run over and help this poor creature myself.  And that led to my wondering how in the world would I go about pulling this huge limb out of this animal.

I became frantic. I thought I needed to do something. He obviously had to be in a lot of pain. Good grief he had a huge limb or stick poking out of his body.   My heart started to beat faster and I felt in a panic to do something.  While trying to figure out how to reach this poor animal, I began to notice other things.  He was eating, for one.  So, I thought he must not be in too much pain if he can still eat. Then I noticed that there was no blood around the entrance wound.  That was strange I thought. He should be bleeding profusely with that kind of wound. And then something happened.  The stick moved.  I jumped back and gasped.  

All of a sudden it dawned on me that this was no stick.  Then what was it? Oh, my God! I couldn’t say it out loud.  The shock of it all made me finally take notice of the rest of the world. While I was hinged to the fence staring at this poor animal, cars began to stop and wonder what was going on. People gathered to see what all the commotion was about.  I guess they knew what it was before I did.  When I turned to retreat to my car, they broke out in applause as if to congratulate me on finally figuring it out myself. I was mortified.  I drove home and never spoke of it to anyone.

I was so embarrassed that it took me several years and a couple of glasses of wine before I could share this story with anyone. Now that I’m much older…and somewhat wiser....and could care less what people think of me, it’s easier to tell and write about.  We've all shared many laughs over this story. I hope you enjoy it, too. 

Open your heart and find your 'Arley James'

Arley James was special. But there are many Arley Jameses.  She was unique to us because we chose to make it so. We didn't let prejudice keep us from accepting her invitation to come into her home. While she may have been poor, she was certainly rich in spirit. And it was her spirit that enriched our lives.

I've shared this story about her over the years with my art students. I don't want them to allow fear or prejudice keep them from experiencing the joys of true friendship and unconditional love.

Arley James lives on in art

We would visit Arley James a few more times.  We  brought our baby boy, Ben, to see her.  She was gracious and asked me if I ‘had that baby on my breast.’  It took me a few seconds to realize what she was saying. “Oh, yes mam,” I said. “That’s good.  That’s good,” she said while patting my arm. “That’s why so many babies have allergies. They not on their mother’s breast.”

    

     Ben was a toddler when Arley passed away.  He was sick at the time. We  knew that we needed to go and pay our respects.  But one of us had to stay with the baby.  So, we tossed a coin and I won. I attended Arley’s funeral. I had never been to a black funeral before. The family made me feel very welcomed. As the only white person in attendance, it was another one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences. I remember like it was yesterday. I sat in the back and waited for my turn to walk up to the casket and pay my respects. Arley’s gray braids cupped her face. I remember thinking she looked more ‘Indian’ that day. I cried.

     The year after her death, I submitted Rick’s photo of Arley in the Red River Revel photography contest. He won second place.  The Shreveport Times saw what many saw in the picture and wanted to publish ‘the story.’ They published the photo of Arley and her story on the front page.  We received a phone call a few days later from some of Mrs. James’ family members. They were asking for a copy of the photo.  It turned out that the photograph Rick took was the only photo of Arley James in existence.

     Over the years, we’ve shared the story of Arley James with friends and family.   And she now lives on in art. A wood carving of her was commissioned by a nationally known woodcarver from Mountain View Arkansas. And a soft sculpture artist and friend crafted the grand lady in fabric.  And I painted her.  

     We loved Arley James. How could you not?

   







Arley James carved in walnut by
Charles Widmer of Mountain View, Arkansas



Arley James as soft sculpture created by
Colleen Collins-Rabalais



Arley James

     I was 27 years old when I met Rick Broussard.  He had invited me over to his house along with his friend who was also my boss at the time. Sitting uncomfortably on his antique sofa, I nervously looked around his house to find something to talk about.  I knew from my boss that Rick loved photography. His walls were full of framed prints of his work.  My eyes kept coming back to one particular photo. It was a black and white photograph of an African/American woman. What made this one particularly interesting was the fact that she was holding an ax.  I asked him about the photo and if there was a story to go with it.  And of course there was.  It seems he was driving the back roads of Webster Parish and came upon this woman chopping wood at the edge of a pasture. He stopped and asked if he could take her picture.  I asked Rick if she had ever seen this picture of her or if he ever gave her a copy of it. He said 'no and that he hadn’t thought about it.' I quickly told him he needed to do that. At which point he said, “oh alright, you want to go with me?”  And without even thinking about it, I said ‘yes!’ 

    It was November and it was cold. Rick spent the better part of the weekend printing a copy for the woman with an ax. We didn’t call. We climbed into his Blazer and drove out to her house. When we pulled up, I couldn’t help but take note of the fact that her home was quite modest, to say the least. The wooden structure had not been painted in years, if at all. We walked onto the porch and Rick knocked on the door. It took a while for her to answer the door. I’m sure she saw his Blazer outside her window and wondered who would be calling on her on a Sunday. She answered the door and she looked just like she did in the photograph. It was so good to see her in person. She smiled and asked us to come in. I was waiting for Rick to beg our forgiveness and give her the photograph. Instead he said, ‘thank you’ and began to walk through the door.

      Mrs. James offered us a seat. I looked around and you could see the ground between the cracks in the wooden floors. The room was small and there was just a wood burning stove in the middle, two cow-hide bottom chairs on one side and a rocking chair on the other side. Before we sat down, Rick handed her a large copy of her photo. She looked at it and said “Who is that?” Rick chuckled and said, “Why that’s you, Mrs. James.” “Oh, naw, “she said. She looked a little longer at it and finally recognized herself. She took the photograph and called for her husband to bring her some paper towels. He came out of the back room from beneath a quilt that hung on the door frame between the room we were in and the back area of the house. He handed her the paper towels and she immediately began to pull off several sheets and wrap the photograph in paper towels. “Don’t want nutin’ to happen to this,” she said. She handed the wrapped photo to her husband and asked him to put it up for her.

     She sat down in her rocking chair and we sat on the cow-hide bottom chairs. She began to poke the fire in the potbelly stove with a stick while she leaned over and spit in a coffee can. A trail of snuff juice ran down the side of her mouth. She wiped her mouth and continued to stoke the fire. “Mr. Rick, that be yo wife?” she asked.

     “Oh, no, we’re just friends,” he said with a big grin. “Now, why you wanna deny yo wife?” she said. Rick chuckled and again said, “Oh,no mam, we’re just friends. “Now, I know that be yo wife,” she said. “I see the way you two look crossed eyed at each other.” We both laughed and Rick changed the subject.

     There was a stainless steel pan sitting on top of the potbelly stove. I noticed that the handle was broken off. She had some turnip greens cooking and the water was starting to come to a rolling boil. She let it cook a little longer and then called out to her husband again to ‘come get his greens.’ Her husband appeared from behind the quilt. She apologized for him saying that he had been down in his back. She reached down and without a potholder or anything to grab the hot pot with; she lifted the pot off the stove with her hand while her thumb dipped into the hot boiling water. She didn’t flinch. She held the pot and gently handed it to her husband. “That didn’t burn you, Mrs. James?” I said. “Oh no child, these hands are like leather.”

     We continued to sit and visit with her. She scolded Rick for not letting her put on her Sunday bonnet the day he photographed her in the field. She went on to say that she was out chopping wood because her husband was down in his back then, too. We visited Mrs. James for several hours that day. We discovered from our conversation that she was half African/American and half Native/American. She didn’t know how old she was because there was no record of her birth but she did remember that they would celebrate her birthday at harvest time, so she figured she must have been born in October. At the time she thought she was nearly 80. When we left I felt as though I had been offered a gift, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet a woman that didn’t seem to mind that she was poor and didn’t seem to mind that these two strangers had entered her world.

     We would see Mrs. James again the next year. Rick and I got married that spring. We drove up to her house and she was outside. She recognized us. We got out of the car and walked up to her. She hugged us both. We told her we came to see her so we could tell her that we had gotten married. She grinned really big and said “I told you that was yo wife.”

Photograph of Arley James by Rick Broussard, taken around 1978.

    

Introducing the Old Hen

I’ll be 60 this December and I am trying to get comfortable with my old lady-ness. I stopped coloring my hair and let it all go gray.  I’ve been trying to figure out what kind of wardrobe I need to adopt.  I would be happy in just jeans and a chambray shirt but I realize that now that I’m old, I need to look a little more dignified and stately. I think. I haven’t made up my mind on this.

I was reading our local newspaper recently and noticed a photograph of three women who were in attendance at a local art gallery opening.  I read the cutline and I saw where they had identified one of the women as me.   I was surprised because I knew that neither of three women was me.  I was indeed at the gallery opening but I was pretty sure that I stayed away from cameras. I looked again because I knew two of the women in the photograph were friends of mine but the third one was some old, fat woman that I didn’t recognize.  I pulled the newspaper closer and squinted my eyes to get a better look.  “OH MY GOD, IT IS ME!....I WAS THE OLD, FAT WOMAN.”

I knew that getting old would come with some challenges.   Being comfortable in my own skin was not one that I thought I would have trouble with. I have been successful in my denial until recently. I didn’t think I would see the day when I would have trouble just putting on my underwear.   And you have no idea what a wrestling match it has become to scoop my boobs up so I can throw them into my sling. …once I find them.  It’s not funny! But you know, I have to laugh to keep from sinking into deep depression.  And I have been fighting depression from time to time and I have nothing to be depressed about. I have a wonderful life, a wonderful husband, a wonderful home, a wonderful son and wonderful friends. So what in the world would I have to be depressed about?  It was that question that made me look at my life and all my experiences both good and bad.  And it was then that I decided that I needed to write it down.  And not because I think I’ve got some great message for the world.  But I needed to write it down for me.   I’ve always told people that my life is an open book.  Well, now it is.  Good or bad, controversial or not, I am going to share with you some stories that make me laugh and some stories that make me mad as hell.  Whether you get joy out of them or not isn’t why I’m doing this. So, if I hit a nerve…know that you have been forewarned.