Blog Posts

I have been thinking and dealing with rather a lot of important stuff since the last time I posted anything here. Stuff that matters. Sadly, though, I either can’t blog about it for reasons of confidentiality, or my thoughts are too scattered to admit of blogging. Plus I am busy.

Last year, I wrote a post about the apartment I was living in: the “nice place,” as I called it. It was nice, but under a veneer of affected warmth its heart was pure, cold sterility. I didn’t like it very much at all. I resolved that when my lease expired I wouldn’t renew it and would move somewhere else less polished around the edges, but more alive.

I am pleased to say that of all the things I have set out to do in my adult life, this is about the only one I have accomplished. A little over a week ago, I finished packing the last of my belongings, which proved to be about fifty percent books, thirty percent kitchen stuff, and the rest mostly shoes and gadgets, and moved to a new place.

Well, it’s new to me, anyway. It is just what I wanted: An old apartment on the second floor of an old converted house. I don’t know the entirety of the building’s history, except that my landlords (who I really like, a lot) say that the building was originally the office of a trolley company that ran a trolley that terminated in a loop just up the street. (The neighborhood is still called the Douglass Loop as a dim memory of that time.) The apartment itself is the crazy, funky mess I was looking for: Slanting floors, high ceilings, old floors, uneven steps, doors that lead to nowhere, a stained glass window in my shower. It is well maintained, don’t get me wrong; it’s just been around quite a while, and it shows.

I am far happier with the surrounding neighborhood, too. The main plus is that it is walkable in a way that my previous neighborhood simply wasn’t. My previous neighborhood had sidewalks and such, but there just wasn’t anyplace much worth walking to there. Here I am within quick walking distance (3-5 minutes) of six restaurants, a coffee shop, a bakery, an ice cream shop, a bargain home decor store, my barber shop, and my church. And that’s just the stuff I am particularly excited about. The immediate vicinity of my apartment, though, is very secluded and doesn’t feel much like the city. The view from my bedroom window is of the barn across the street. Seriously.

The best part is that my son, who is four years old, has embraced the move without reservations. He loved the place from the moment he first set foot in it. It isn’t functionally all that different from our old place where he is concerned, except that our bedrooms are now on the same floor as the rest of the apartment. But whether it is the sheer novelty of it or something intangible, he loves the place. It helps that the facade looks like a castle, and we have exclusive access to the second floor patio on the parapet (as it were). It gives him an opportunity to pretend to shoot at passing cars. Our fortress is indeed well-defended.

So the move happened, and it has been positive. The new place doesn’t completely feel like home yet for all that. I am emotionally cautious; I don’t just give my heart up to any old place. I haven’t yet learned how to relax there. It is hard for me to feel truly at home; in fact, I am not sure when was the last time I felt completely at home somewhere, like it was where I truly belonged. I assume that will come with time, and I do hope to spend some real time here.

I have some worries about the place too. For one, I have at least ten years on all of the neighbors I have seen so far. I am the resident old man, it appears. I lack a hipster beard, I don’t own a single pair of Toms shoes, I have profound anxieties and issues towards which I have no ironic detachment. Nothing you can say will make me give a crap about vinyl records containing twee songs performed by reedy-voiced white people. I don’t even own a turntable. Oh, and I have a child. But for all that, I am already more at home here than I have been anywhere since moving to Louisville in 2003. This fact says a lot about how I have spent my time in this city, I suppose.

I am learning that I had more wrapped up in my domestic surroundings than I thought. We frequently make the mistake, at least since Descartes, of assuming that our mental and spiritual life takes place primarily and in the first instance “in the head,” in foro interno. Your mental and spiritual life may be like that– in which case, more power to you– but mine certainly isn’t. My thought and entire sense of self are oriented in space and attuned to my surroundings. Some spaces are fertile, alive, an invitation to thought and awareness. Others feel enclosed, trapped, like dead ends.

My old apartment, for its part, was a garret, a hiding place. Nothing was going to happen there; it was a place to hide, to ride out a number of storms that have now passed or never broke at all. In that, it served its purpose; it sheltered my son and me for a time. But now it is time to venture outside a bit, to risk stormy weather again. I now have something that feels like home to which I can return.

Dear White People,

I think I like you well enough. I had better. I am one of you, after all. But today, Lordy. Today some of you are making me so furious that I literally don’t have screams enough to hurl at you.

By now I hope you are aware of the killing of Trayvon Martin and the continuing outrage at the fact that his killer remains at large, apparently indemnified by racism and bad laws. If you aren’t aware of this story, here is a very brief summary. I know, though, that a lot of you are aware of it, since some of you are talking about it. It’s what you are saying–and I’m sure many more of you are thinking– about it that has pushed me over an edge.

Some of you–not going to name names, you will figure out who you are– are saying, or thinking, that in one way or another Trayvon is at fault for his own murder. You are saying, or thinking, “He should have known that he looked suspicious with that hoodie on.” “He should have known that someone like him would come across as threatening.” “He shouldn’t have felt afraid of the large man following him and chasing after him.” You are saying, or thinking, exactly the same sort of thing that some of you say, or think, about rape victims: They should have known what a dangerous world it is for them out there and they should have dressed and carried themselves accordingly, so as not to invite bad things to happen to them.

Never mind, of course, that the people who do these bad things are responsible for what they say, think, and do, too. Never mind, of course, that the people who actually do racist, sexist things are emboldened and enabled by the way that good folks who would never, ever in a million years think of doing such things continually blame their victims and not them. No, racists and rapists are just a fact of life in your worldview, like severe weather; women and people of color have to dodge them, take cover, be on the lookout, but we certainly can’t think that there’s something we might do about them.

Some of you get angry when I talk like this. You protest that you would never do racist things or commit rape. You are just making an observation. You don’t mean to say anything racist or sexist. Then I point out to you the difference between intent and impact. You might not mean to say racist things, but the things you are saying just are racist. The very fact that you have to appeal to the purity of your intentions to cleanse your words should provide you with a hint. Neither your good intentions or mine have magical powers. If you said something that was racist, your good intentions, assuming they are good, mean at best that you need to be far more careful in what you say and think. Learn from it in all humility and try to do better next time. Trust me, I’ve been there many times.

Some of you get even angrier at being told this. How unfair, you protest! Isn’t it a free country anymore? Now I have to police what I say and think? Yes, of course you do! I was raised in rural Kentucky to believe that people are supposed to think carefully before they say things and consider the impact my words have on others. This is just what good people do. However hard it is in practice, it isn’t all that complicated a concept. Why is this somehow forgotten, though, when the others aren’t other white people? Do you really want or need me to answer that question out loud?

Here’s what angers me the most, though: It’s that you can’t see, or refuse to see, that this distinction between intent and impact is the very same distinction to which you appeal when you blame Trayvon for his own murder or when you blame rape victims for their own rapes. You are saying, in effect, Trayvon may not have meant to get shot, but he should have known that wearing his hoodie up like that would make him look threatening to the world. He should have known better. How is that not the same distinction? Why do you get to use this distinction against Trayvon, an innocent child, without anyone getting to use it against you when you try to explain away the actions of the man who killed him? Why? Why does Trayvon or any other person of color have to carry cognitive and volitional burdens you don’t? Why are your comfort and ease and your precious feelings and your ability to mouth off whenever you want about whatever you want so damned important? Why do black kids have to learn to pay for your peace of mind and self-esteem by having to worry about whether what they are wearing might contribute to them getting hunted down in the street? Why is this a privilege you get and he doesn’t? Why can’t you see that this is as blatantly unfair as saying that some spaces are whites only? Why?

Some of you may be thinking, “Brian, you’re not just saying that everyone has to be mindful of what they say and think. You’re saying that as a white person I have to be on my guard in a way people of color don’t. You’re saying I have a heavier burden to carry in this respect than they do.” Actually I doubt many of you would put it so carefully. Usually you– not all of you, not going to name names, you will know who you are–simply cry, “reverse racism!”, then fold your arms and think you’ve made your point. Except you’re simply wrong about this. Notice I didn’t say that we have a difference of opinion about this. You are just wrong. A young black man walking down the street wearing a hoodie is just not inherently threatening, unless, of course, you insist on seeing it that way, and that says more about you than it does the man. Saying and thinking “young black men wearing hooded sweatshirts look threatening,” though, perpetuates the notion that young black men just are threatening. The social facts are simply different on either side in a way that tracks a differential distribution of power. Also, let’s not forget the fact that if we are keeping score on who bears the heavier burdens overall under systemic racism, white folks can bear this burden and still come out way ahead.

We white folks do have a big burden to carry in this one respect, it’s true. We have to be very careful and mindful in discussions of race. But this is not the fault of people of color. At all. What is at fault is the fact that the situations in which we find ourselves are constructed in racist ways that give us privileges we haven’t earned. What white folks should be upset about is the racist legacy left to us by our own forbears. We find ourselves in situations where ignorance is bliss and knowledge is sometimes painful. We have to do hard work, because we can get by just fine by looking the other way; we have to sacrifice time and comfort. After doing so, we might still feel awkward. This work isn’t easy.

I have to believe, though, that at the end of the day us white folks need to learn how to detach our self-esteem from a blind, innocent faith in our own inherent goodness. It’s the only way this cycle ever stops. We also need to learn how to shut our mouths and listen, something that I myself have problems doing if the length of this post is any indication. Maybe, just maybe, what we white people think matters, but isn’t of paramount concern. Perhaps we aren’t the ones to redeem history and humanity; perhaps we alone aren’t capable of redeeming anything from the murder of innocent Trayvon Martin. The least we can do, though, is not stand in the way.

Sincerely,

Brian Cubbage

Tonight’s song is Beck’s “Sexx Laws.” The video for this song really makes me laugh. And it has Jack Black!

This song is what it sounds like inside my head most of the time. It’s bold, it has a horn section and a part for the banjo, just like the inside of my head does.  Plus, the chorus kinda says it all:

I wanna defy the logic of all sexx laws

Let the handcuffs slip off your wrists

I’ll let you be my chaperone

At the halfway home

I’m a full-grown man but I’m not afraid to cry…

Aside from the sheer joy of this song, it reminds me of possibly my favorite television show evar, Strangers with Candy. In case you missed it in the late 1990’s (for shame!), Strangers with Candy chronicled the foibles of Jerri Blank, a 46-year-old high-school dropout and runaway who spent a life on the streets before returning back home, moving in with her father and stepmother, and starting high school all over again. Yes, you read that right. The premise is wildly improbable, of course; it basically furnishes an occasion for Jerri to get into all sorts of situations straight out of old afterschool specials from the 1970’s and crash through them with ex-prostitute fish-out-of-water aplomb. Jerri can be counted on to do or say precisely the wrong thing in any given situation, and usually the wrong thing involves something impossibly filthy.

Jerri is an extremely complicated character. On the one hand, we are clearly meant to feel superior to Jerri. She is blatantly racist, small-minded, deliberately ugly, and does horrible things like defecate on home furnishings and give the homecoming king syphilis. On the other hand, though, she is needy and uncool, desperate for friends, and perpetually confused by her inability to fit in. Jerri simply does what comes naturally to her, and what comes naturally to her after a lifetime on the streets is hardly appropriate for a suburban high school. Yet Jerri is ultimately a sympathetic character because she is at the very least straightforward and honest, which is more than can be said for every other character on the show, from hypocritical, uptight, closeted history teacher Mr. Noblet (played perfectly by Stephen Colbert) to her hideous, hateful, keeping-up-appearances stepmother. If you’ve never seen the show before, track it down somewhere. It’s trashy and occasionally extremely offensive and utterly indescribable. And over the ending credits of the very last episode of the show, the cast dances to Beck’s “Sexx Laws,” which is possibly the most appropriate ending in the history of television.

I feel like Jerri Blank often. Few people understand just how intense and institutionalized the academic life is. It imposes tremendous demands upon those who devote their lives to it, as I once did, and it habituates them to all sorts of odd customs and outright indignities. It is– and I use this comparison seriously and deliberately– rather like I imagine prison to be. Unlike prison, I was able to leave the academy voluntarily, but like a parolee, I found it (and sometimes still find it) extremely difficult to live on the outside. I am a middle-aged man who never got out of school and learned how the world works. I often feel like a fish out of water, saying or doing the entirely wrong thing, too large or too weird to fit in most situations. There is no halfway house, either, for people like me, unless four months of unemployment or underemployment counts.

I wish I had half of Jerri Blank’s ability to be herself regardless. I get by pretty well by being nice and keeping my mouth shut, which probably serves me better than the alternative. Just once, though, I want to burst into a room and shout out “I GOT SOMETHING TO SAAAAAAYYYYY!”:

God love the Jerri Blanks of the world.

Tonight’s song is Frank Sinatra’s “Tell Her (You Love Her Each Day)”:

As a young man I had an off-and-on amateur acting career. Most of my acting was in high school, and most of it was unintentionally hilarious. My first role was Dad in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” a role so dull that I don’t remember a single moment of it. My next role was a little more interesting. I played the role of Paw in something called “Down in Hoodoo Holler,” which had as much subtlety as its title would lead one to expect. It seemed to have something to do with a rich city slicker coming to the holler and courting my daughter as part of a plot to swindle me out of precious oil and gas rights of which I was largely unaware. I barely remember that part, as I spent most of the play lying on a cot pretending to be drunk and asleep, snoring loudly enough for the back of the room to hear. Working under the time-honored principle that there are no small parts, only small actors, I poured my heart and soul into that snoring.

Fearing that I was about to get typecast as the father in everything, in my next role I played a son– the Son of God, that is, Jesus himself. Our local impresario in Leitchfield, Kentucky at the time wrote and directed her very own passion play for Easter. The play consisted of the Gospel of Mark in the King James Version rendered faithfully into dialogue with little to no dramatic license. Get out your old red-letter King James Bible, open it to Mark, and if you see words in red, those were my lines. Even Oliver Cromwell couldn’t have objected to such a display of fidelity and piety. Aside from the black Rasta wig I got to wear (which I sported in a pre-show publicity shot on the front page of the Grayson County News-Gazette), the most noteworthy element of the play was the part where I carried my cross down the center aisle, right through the audience, lugged it up a platform at the back of the theater, planted it there, and made a pretty game attempt at acting crucified while the whole audience craned their necks around to watch. The play provoked mixed reactions. My performance moved the director to tears. My girlfriend at the time, though, who was Catholic, delivered a terse one-line verdict: “That was very… Baptist.”

But my most noteworthy moment on the stage by far– though it was really only about 60 seconds long– came in college. I have not stepped before the footlights since. It was that good. Georgetown College, my undergraduate alma mater, has for a long time had a yearly homecoming event called the Festival of Song. The Festival pits the various fraternities, sororities, and residence hall groups on campus in a competition to produce the best seven or eight minute musical skit based on that year’s homecoming theme. The theme that heady fall of 1993 was “Back in the Saddle Again.” Most adaptations of the theme that year revolved around some more or less creative but straightforward appropriation of Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, or Western minstrelsy generally. Fun, whimsical, but not too adventurous. They made good, decent sense.

And then there was Collier Hall’s entry.

Collier Hall was the dormitory I lived in for most of my time in college. Fate (and the residential life staff) so contrived it that during my time there it became something of an artist’s colony for the college’s contingent of hopeless literary and intellectual nerds. I was right at home. Bill, my very best friend in college, was a brilliant young man with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for provocative obfuscation. When the theme was announced, Bill conceived, and several of us helped write, a Dadaist tale of a boy and his lovelorn on-again-off-again relationship with his saddle. The boy encounters a variety of friends and well-wishers, including a Bootsy Collins-esque funkateer, on his way back to his wayward leathern beloved. We wrote and performed all of the musical numbers ourselves.

I auditioned to play the saddle, but that part went to another friend. My part was even better: I got a solo singing part, which is the first and last time I have ever sung in public other than in church. When needed, I can summon a swinging crooner’s tenor, so I got to portray a lounge singer vaguely resembling Frank Sinatra. I helped write the song, since I was the one who knew the most about Sinatra’s music. We settled on a sound-alike version of “Tell Her (You Love Her Each Day),” changing the key and having it build to a show-stopping crescendo:

You’ve got to tell her that you love her today

You’ve got to tell her … that you love her… todaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay….

On the night of the performance I was terrified and excited. I was also nursing a head cold and halfway to losing my voice. This fact didn’t help my nerves. Nor did the packed house; the Festival was held in Hill Chapel, the biggest space on campus, and the crowd was full of students, families, and visiting alumni (it being homecoming and all). I was terrified of flopping, no lie. But I suited up, opened my collar, let my bow tie dangle untied, and waited for our moment.

Which came. Because in one way or the other, the moment always comes.

When I perform in front of a crowd, I can never quite remember everything about the experience afterwards. I go on a sort of autopilot, and it is more pronounced the bigger the crowd. And this was the biggest. I do sort of remember singing my song, though. I have seen video of it, too, which I believe my parents still have on VHS (be kind, rewind). And I can say, in all humility, that I nailed it. Nursing my voice, I summoned enough vocal cords to belt my sixty seconds or so, building to that showstopping crescendo. And it brought the house down. My sister, who was two years ahead of me at Georgetown and was in attendance that night, tells me that she began shouting to the people around her, “THAT’S MY BROTHER! THAT’S MY BROTHER!!!” It was my finest hour.

My friends and I didn’t enter the competition with any reasonable expectation of winning any awards. Truth be told, we secretly expected that the judges would find our entry a deliberate nose-thumbing at the whole competition. We were clearly out to entertain ourselves, and being young and self-indulgent, we certainly succeeded at that. Much to our surprise, though, our entry took top honors, a fact that I am told caused some consternation among the other entrants. I can’t remember, but I seem to recall that whoever decides these things gerrymandered the rules the following year so as to prevent us from competing directly with the fraternities and sororities. I could be misremembering this, though. (If you are reading this and remember one way or the other, please comment.) All that was in the far off future then, though. We were delighted.

That ended my glorious stage career. I went on to other things after that. I taught for many years, and I discovered that that, too, was a kind of performance. The part one plays when one is teaching is some version of oneself, true, but it is no less a kind of acting for all that. But it was never what one would call “entertaining” except to spare the feelings of a teacher whose feelings one cared about. But I can say that, for sixty seconds at least, I took center stage, took up the mantle of entertainer, and had a crowd in the palm of my hand.