Photo: Letter from NRA, with fake plastic membership card chopped up

An Open Letter to Wayne LaPierre

Mr. LaPierre:

Thank you for your letter inviting me to join the National Rifle Association. I’m not interested at all, and I’m surprised that my name ended up on your mailing list, but since you bothered to write, I figured I’d write you back. And (although I’m reasonably certain you’ll never see this) I can do it here without wasting postage on a reply that I am certain would never be looked at beyond a brief inspection to see if I sent you a credit card number. And while I’m thinking about it, if perchance you do happen to see this, please take my name off of your mailing list, and don’t contact me in any way for any reason in the future. Thanks very much!

In a way, your two-page letter was a confirmation—if I ever had a shred of doubt about whether my personal policy of never voting for any candidate that receives support or endorsement from the NRA was the right one, your letter reassured me that I needn’t reconsider that policy.

I briefly considered quoting some of your absurd claims about the intentions of the Biden administration regarding gun legislation, but frankly, I wouldn’t want any of that nonsense to appear on my site, so instead, I’ll summarize the actions the administration is taking, which you can find here:

In short, this is what the current administration plans to do to address gun violence in the U.S.:

  • The Justice Department, within 30 days, will issue a proposed rule to help stop the proliferation of “ghost guns.”
  • The Justice Department, within 60 days, will issue a proposed rule to make clear when a device marketed as a stabilizing brace effectively turns a pistol into a short-barreled rifle subject to the requirements of the National Firearms Act.
  • The Justice Department, within 60 days, will publish model “red flag” legislation for states.
  • The Administration is investing in evidence-based community violence interventions.
  • The Justice Department will issue an annual report on firearms trafficking.
  • The President will nominate David Chipman to serve as Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.

I can only imagine why your organization would oppose any of these measures. Perhaps for some reason you like the idea that guns without serial numbers (and thus relatively untraceable) can be assembled from kits. (After all, in your letter you did make it clear that you oppose gun registration and licensing.) Maybe you feel it is important for the owner of a handgun to be able to easily conceal it when desiring to use it as a more accurate/deadly rifle, though I can’t think of many good reasons for that. Maybe you believe mentally unstable people should be allowed to have full access to whatever weapons might be within easy reach. I don’t understand why you oppose the idea of community-based violence interventions, but I’m guessing you see that as a threat for some reason? I have no idea why you would oppose an annual report on firearms trafficking, except that there’s a lot of money to be made out there by gun manufacturers and dealers, and by those who lobby on their behalf. And the ATF hasn’t had a Director since 2015–maybe you would prefer the ATF be unorganized and without leadership, or at least not to be led by someone who desires to work for enforcement of common-sense gun regulations. I’m just spit-balling here.

In any case, thanks again for your letter and for motivating me to step up my personal efforts to support candidates who oppose what you stand for.



Pardon me while I preach to myself…

The old teacher in the book of Ecclesiastes wrote:

Photograph of typewriter with a blank sheet of paper inserted
Photo by Markus Winkler on

What has been is what will be,
    and what has been done is what will be done;
    there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there a thing of which it is said,
    “See, this is new”?
It has already been,
    in the ages before us. (Ecclesiastes 1:9-10, NRSV)

Writers know this, or at least, we need to be reminded of this from time to time. Although the circumstances in which we live continue to change with the passage of time and the progress of technology, we human beings still face essentially the same kinds of pleasures and pains, passions and problems, hopes and disappointments that our ancestors knew. We who can’t keep ourselves from putting words and sentences and paragraphs together in hope that our work will one day be read and appreciated know that our stories are not truly original—“There is nothing new under the sun.”

Were it not for one important thing, one could imagine most writers simply giving up.

The thing is—and writers know this—the billions of people in the world may have billions of stories to read, but until we write ours, not one of them has read it. Understanding this may not make the task of actually writing our story down any less daunting or intimidating, nor does it remove the pressure to learn the craft of writing well. But just as each one of us has unique physical and personality traits—the product of our parents’ DNA—each of us is shaped by unique sets and sequences of experiences, by the things we have seen and read and done, by the things that have been done to us and for us and around us, and our eyes are the only eyes that have seen things exactly as we have seen them. The task of the writer is at least partly to bring that unique personal history and experience to the work, and to tell our own version of the story, whatever it may be, with all of the skill and craftsmanship we can muster. 

The fact that we each have a unique voice and story does not necessarily ensure that we will be “successful” writers in any of the various ways such things are typically measured, but for those of us who cannot not write, does it really matter?

Social media and this aging writer

About 13 years ago, during a year-long transition from my previous career in the technology world to a new career in church ministry, I decided to start a new blog, one that would both stretch me as a writer and also potentially provide a bit of income. The blog was titled “Underpants Office” and was aimed at professionals and creatives who work from home. In my previous job, I had spent more than a year working from home, and felt I had accumulated enough experience that I could provide some useful help and insights about setting up and operating from a home office to others who were finding themselves in that situation. (This was around the time of the economic down-turn of 2008, and a lot of people were having to reinvent themselves professionally.) The blog, now defunct, was nonetheless a truly enjoyable and fruitful experience for me, and I learned a lot.

Underpants Office blog logo
The logo for my 2008 blog, which no longer exists

My blogging experience up to that point had been mostly focused on hobbies and avocations, like woodworking, fishing, bicycling, and home recording. I had never given any of those blogs more than occasional attention, so Underpants Office was the first time I had a blogging project that felt like a real job, albeit a self-employment situation. The actual writing part of blogging was never a chore for me. I have enjoyed writing since I was in junior high school, and I have written a lot over the years, as a newspaper columnist, as a professional technical writer, and as a Bible teacher and occasional preacher at my church. I loved (and still love) to write. But I quickly learned that blogging, and in particular, blogging with monetization as a desired outcome, was way more than just writing.

I have a good friend, who is much younger than me, who had had, by his mid-20s, a very successful blogging career. He was well-connected with other bloggers around the country (and the world), had a successful blog of his own, and was skilled in Web development, plus he knew his way around social media. He took me under his wing, so to speak, and spent some time with me, completely free of charge, showing me the ropes of how to develop my blog and my readership and how do do the other things with social media that would help me to extend the reach of my blog. He also opened the doors to a couple of guest-posting opportunities on blogs that he had frequently written for, and this allowed me not only to draw considerable additional traffic to my blog, but in a couple of cases, I was paid for my guest-posts.

Thus my year of blogging as a job began, and I spent many, many mornings working in coffee shops and working from my home office, building my brand, such as it was, and really having a lot of fun doing it. Though I tried for a while to keep it going, I had to let Underpants Office go not long after I accepted a job on the staff of my church–there just wasn’t enough time for me to do both. (The Underpants Office domain was quickly bought by someone else, and the last time I looked, it was being used to sell medical supplies in China. Go figure.)

Now that I am retired from ministry, I am finally able to pursue writing in earnest again, and though very little writing has been published here so far, I have been working toward the kind of life in which writing is at least a part-time job for me. But it’s a different world today, and I know that I have a lot to learn about what it means to be a writer in a world where over half of the world’s population uses various social media platforms an average of nearly two and a half hours per day.

People write for a lot of reasons, but most of us ultimately write so that other people can read our words, and while that once meant working through traditional publishing venues like books and magazine articles and such, and using agents and editors and publishing companies to market your work, it’s a whole different world today. I recently met a young man who makes his living writing romance novels, and has written more than two dozen books in the last seven years, all self-published, and is making a fairly comfortable living doing so. When I mentioned to him that I am an aspiring writer, he highly recommended self-publishing as a great way to become a professional writer.

I’m not a total newbie at this stuff–I know self-publishing has changed a lot over the past few years. Blogging itself is self-publishing, and an impressive number of authors have broken into traditional publishing after amassing large followings via their blogs or other social media postings. Where self-publishing once seemed like a sad alternative to “real” book publishing, and one in which there were plenty of companies who were willing to take the money of an aspiring writer who couldn’t get a traditional publisher to buy his or her work. In recent years I have helped my father, who has written children’s stories for his church newsletter for many years, and has also written plays and a couple of novels, publish a book online via Amazon’s self-publishing system. He attended numerous writers’ conferences, spoke with agents, and pursued the traditional publishing route without success for years, and finally, he’s been able to sell a few copies of his work to friends and family, and he couldn’t be happier with it.

I’ve met a lot of writers in recent years, having participated in some writer’s workshops and talking with people who self-publish and publish in more traditional ways, and though it is still possible for some writers to have success without engaging much in social media, for a writer just getting started with publishing, it seems that social media engagement is a requirement.

I have to confess that this seems more than a little daunting to me today, and I’ve been on some of the most popular social media platforms for a lot longer than most of my friends of a similar age. I am a fairly regular user of Twitter and Instagram, though I do not post frequently on either of those platforms. I have a Facebook account that I use only rarely, and usually only if someone I know messages me there. I have a small number of friends who never contact me any other way, which is the only reason I haven’t left the platform altogether, and I spend very little time on Facebook because it can be a very toxic, polarized (and polarizing) environment. I am also concerned about the algorithms that some of these platforms use to connect people with content, and I admit I am more than a little skeptical about them. I’d like to think that it is possible for someone to choose to engage on social media platforms on their own terms and in their own ways, but it seems to me that the algorithms and artificial intelligence engines that these systems use make that impossible.

I admit that I really have no idea how these systems work, so I’m clearly speaking from a certain degree of ignorance here, but I don’t have much confidence that the content that I might post on some of these platforms will be made available in the ways I expect it to, or even be presented to the sorts of people for whom I might have written it. And I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

But with all of that said, I have to concede that, for the time being, these platforms are important for writers who want to see their work be made available to wider audiences. And I’ll probably be testing the waters a bit in the weeks and months ahead. I am not likely to use these platforms as effectively as a younger writer who has literally grown up in the age of social media, and I am bracing myself for the inevitable gaffes and blunders I will surely make. I suppose saying this out loud is a way of apologizing in advance for what I anticipate could be my clumsy use of these tools, and I imagine it will be obvious that I have a lot to learn. I hope you’ll be kind.

If you happen to be a writer, or if you happen to be a skilled social media user, I would be happy to hear your suggestions as I venture (slowly) into this world. And thanks for taking the time to read this.

Previous tenants

I live in a fairly quiet neighborhood in a medium-sized college town in the northeast corner of Kansas, with a population just under 100,000. This corner of our state is unlike much of the rest of the state–we are in a lush, green, hilly corner of a state that is often characterized as flat, boring farmland–the heart of “fly-over” country.* My property consists of just over half an acre of land on the west side of town, a location that was once the west edge of the city, but is now more like the middle. My house is a modest, split-level, mid-century modern dwelling, built sometime around 1959. I believe that we are only the second owners of this house, which we bought from a friend.

I’m going to be doing some light construction soon–some modifications to my home. In the process of planning for this work, I need to make a drawing of the property and planned improvements to send to the appropriate agency within our city government, since I will need building permits. There is an online, interactive geographic map available here that provides me with much of the information I need.

That map also allows me to view satellite (or aerial) images of my neighborhood from 2019 all the way back to before this neighborhood existed. In 1949, there were no houses in this area; by 1959, the whole area had been developed.

As I looked at the 1949 aerial image I began to wonder who owned this parcel of land before it was purchased by a developer and turned into a housing development; but that spawned another, weightier question–I wonder who lived here before white men came and claimed the land as their own?

Was the land where my house stands today once dotted with teepees or lodges and campfires? Or was this hunting ground that was once roamed and grazed by herds of buffalo, or antelope? (I don’t even have to wonder about deer–they are still here, in abundance.) Surely First Nations people lived here, walked here, hunted here–what were their names and tribes? If I were to dig around a bit in the soil, would I find flint arrowheads or other artifacts of their existence? What was it like when they lost this land to white settlers? Were they simply driven off, or were they intentionally relocated to a reservation somewhere far away? Did they leave under the threat of violence? Did they receive anything in return for being moved off of the land?

The answers to some of those questions are not hard to find. The indigenous people of what is now the northeast quadrant of the state of Kansas were the Kaw People, or the tribe known as the Kanza (or Kansa) Indians. Their tribal lands, shared with other First Nations people groups, such as the Oto, the Pawnee, the Omaha and the Ponca Indians, extended across most of northern present-day Kansas, into much of Nebraska, and further north, into central South Dakota. The Kaw are descended from members of several Dhegiha tribes, all part of the Siouan language group, who lived in the Ohio River valley east of the Mississippi, in what is now the southern tip of Illinois, until the mid-17th century. About that time, some of these tribes migrated westward (probably having been displaced by white European settlers), with each group splitting off along the way and occupying a different region west of the Mississippi River. The Kaw people first established a large village on a bluff along the Missouri River in the area of present-day Doniphan, Kansas, which is just west of St. Joseph, Missouri. A French explorer named Bourgmont was apparently the first European to visit the village of the Kaw people, in 1724. By 1804, when the Lewis and Clark expedition passed by on the Missouri, only the remains of the Kaw village were there, as the Kaw had relocated farther to the southwest, near the junction of two rivers, known today as the Big Blue River and the Kansas River, near present-day Manhattan, Kansas. This may have been so they could be a little closer to the large herds of buffalo that are known to have roamed the Flint Hills.

The Kaw people established trading relationships with surrounding tribes, including the Pawnee, the Oto, the Ponca and others, but they must have had contentious relationships with most of them, because they were attacked from time to time by tribes more numerous and powerful than they were. By the early 1800s, their numbers were considerably reduced, to about 1500 people, and only 300 of them were men.

In 1811 an explorer, merchant and Indian agent named George Sibley visited the Kaw settlement and reported that there were 128 large lodges there, each one about 60 feet long and 25 feet wide. The Kaw men lived in the village only about half of the year, and traveled to western Kansas to hunt buffalo and to engage in trade with other tribes (and sometimes white people) during the other half. Sibley noted that the Kaw were seldom at peace with other tribes, except for the Osage, with whom they seemed to get along well.

The Louisiana Territory purchase of 1803 had moved more native tribes westward into the Kansas territory, and the Kaw found themselves increasingly boxed in by other Indian nations. In 1825, the Kaw sold a huge parcel of land, stretching across northeastern Kansas and northwestern Missouri to the U.S. government in return for an annuity of $3,500 per year for 20 years, to be paid in goods and services, but the payment was quite often late or never made it to the Kaw tribe, often intercepted by shady local government officials and merchants.

Two smallpox epidemics, in 1827 and 1831, decimated the tribe, killing about 500, and a disastrous flood in 1844 destroyed most of the tribe’s crops, leaving them with few options for survival–so they sold over 2 million acres of their land for $200,000 plus a reservation of about 250,000 acres near Council Grove, which proved to be a terrible location for them, where they were ravaged by attacks from other tribes, and by traders, merchants and settlers traveling the Santa Fe Trail. By 1860, the Kaw reservation was overrun by white settlers, and reduced to 80,000 acres.

The Civil War came in 1861, and about 70 young Kaw men were either convinced or forced to join the Union army–about a third of them were killed in the war, which further reduced the already-decimated tribe. In 1873, white settlers finally forced the Kaw out of their lands and they were moved south to a tiny corner of a large reservation in Oklahoma.

In the early 20th century, the U.S. government abolished the tribal government of the Kaw people, and divided the reservation among the 247 remaining members, in the form of small homesteads of roughly 400 acres. Most either lost their land or sold it, and most of the remaining tribal lands were immersed by the creation of Oklahoma’s Kaw Lake in the 1960s, east of Ponca City. In 2000, the remaining members of the tribe bought a small bit of land near Council Grove, Kansas to commemorate the tribe with a park called Allegawaho Memorial Heritage Park. The last native speaker of the Kansa language died in 1983, and the last full-blooded Kaw Indian died in 2000.

I cannot help but mourn the fact that this people group was treated so badly by the U.S. government. I cannot help but mourn the fact that white European settlers managed to eradicate entire cultures and nations of people, taking advantage of them in the most crass, cruel and heartless ways. (My little half-acre is apparently worth more in 2020 dollars than what the U.S. government paid the Kaw people for millions of acres.)

Legally, I own this land and the house that sits on it. I pay my property taxes, the deed is in my name, and yet I cannot help but recognize that there is something fundamentally wrong behind all of this.

Maybe this just “is what it is” (a phrase which I am coming to dislike more and more), and all I can do is simply acknowledge the wrong that was done and do my best to not let this be forgotten, and to make every effort to work for justice to be done. Without a doubt, I need to do my part to try to learn and understand this season in the history of the country I call home–these are chapters of our history that I was not really taught in school, but the history has been recorded, and I can read. And I’m sure there is more I can do.

In any case, I’m sitting with this for a while, because this needs to sink in.

*In fact, the state of Kansas is not merely flat farmland. It is, in fact, a state that has a broad range of ecosystems. Drive from northeast to southwest through the state and you will find everything from green, forested hills, to gently rolling hills with few trees and lush pastures, to the high plains with hundreds of thousands of acres of wheat, corn, soybeans, milo and more, to almost desert-like areas in the extreme southwest, where the winds never cease and tumbleweeds four and five feet across are a common sight. Travel from southeast to northwest and you’ll find a similar broad range of geography, while the elevation increases from less than 700 hundred feet above sea level in the southeast to over 4,000 feet (Mount Sunflower) in the northwest. Kansas is quite beautiful, and I heartily recommend you come see for yourself.

Cut Grass and Grape Juice

It was an uncommonly beautiful August morning, sunny and clear, warm, but not yet hot, as I left my office on the university campus where I worked and walked toward the student union to grab an early lunch on a busy day. My route took me alongside a freshly-mown sports practice field, and as I loped along, mulling over one technical issue or another that was still on my mind, a gentle wind suddenly gusted across the field, pushing a whoosh of air from the warmed surface of the field right across my path. I felt the extra warmth and humidity as the air rushed around me, and I was quickly enveloped in the rich, pleasant fragrance of cut grass, which I inhaled deeply. Without warning, a very old memory flashed through my brain: I was thirteen, lying on the grass on a football practice field, having just been run over by a much larger 14-year-old ball carrier whom I was assigned to tackle. Both of the bones in my right forearm were broken, the shock was giving way to pain…and as quickly as it appeared, the memory faded. 

I had not been thinking about my brief junior-high football career (just one day, as it turned out, because my arm was broken on the first day of two-a-days—in those days we did full-contact from the very first day of practice). I had not been thinking about sports at all, but rather about some programming problem. What brought that memory out of the vault so unexpectedly was the smell of the cut grass. And it happened just that one time—I’ve smelled cut grass thousands of times before and since that walk without awakening that memory.

I don’t know anything about the psychology or physiology of such things, but I can’t help but believe that our sense of smell can at times be a powerfully evocative trigger for memories, and sometimes in unexpected ways.

There are some smells that always bring memories—the smell of a cattle pen always reminds me of my grandfather’s dairy farm, for example. The smell of my wife’s perfume or shampoo will always make me think of her. The smell of a very particular sort of pizza will always bring to mind Pasquale’s Pizza in Cincinnati, Ohio in the late 1950s. The smell of a used bookstore reminds me of the library my parents took me to every week as a child. The memories evoked by smells are not always pleasant ones, but for me, it seems they mostly are. 

One of the most powerful aroma-triggered memories for me is the smell of the wine (grape juice, in most of the churches I’ve been involved with) of the eucharist. A whiff of the aroma of the juice in that little plastic cup often transports me to a specific communion service on the last day of a month-long youth ministry training school I attended right out of college in the summer of 1976. I was beginning my internship year with a para-church student ministry organization, and on the final night of our month together, we shared in a particularly meaningful communion experience, in which the communion officiant had read these words from the gospel of Matthew:

While they were eating, Jesus took some bread, and after a blessing, He broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is My body.” And when He had taken a cup and given thanks, He gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you; for this is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for forgiveness of sins. But I say to you, I will not drink of this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in My Father’s kingdom.” (Matthew 26-27-29, NASB)

That communion observance was an unusually emotional moment for me, as I was ending my formal training and would soon begin my work in real-world ministry. The month had been a very intense and exhausting time of learning, and an equally intense time of spiritual growth. There were people I had come to know and love whom I would likely not see again. And in the swirling of those emotions, the statement of Jesus that he would wait to have that wine again until we were all together with him again in his Father’s kingdom was powerfully comforting to me. My head was bowed, and I remember tears falling from my eyes onto the inside surface of my eyeglasses as the passage was read from the gospel.

Many years later, sitting in a church service, long after I had left the para-church ministry, I remember taking my little plastic cup of juice and passing the tray down the row, and catching a whiff of the grape juice aroma—and suddenly there I was again, a brand-new ministry intern, eyes wet with tears. In a brief moment, I remembered that long-ago communion, and what Jesus had said about the wine…and then the moment passed.

I have wondered, in the years since then, whether Jesus’ followers ever had those same sorts of feelings and memories when they sat down together for the Lord’s Supper, or for any meal, for that matter. Jesus had said, “Do this in remembrance of me.” The apostle Paul had written, “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes.” As intense as my memories were, I imagine those memories and emotions were immeasurably stronger for those who actually knew him and walked with him. And I imagine that the aroma of the bread and wine always reminded them of their time with Jesus.

How and why memories work this way, I have no clue. I suspect that one day all of this will be explained and it will all become perfectly clear; we’ll see how all things do work together, and just how fearfully and wonderfully we are made. Until then, I’m praying for the grace to look and listen carefully, to inhale deeply, to feel all I can feel, and to receive every memory as a gift of grace from a loving God, who, in the person of Christ, has walked in the warm sun and smelled the cut grass, whose face has been wet with tears—a man of sorrows, and yet desirous of one day sharing his great joy with all who believe in him.

These lyrics from a song by Andrew Peterson now come to mind, and serve as a fitting conclusion to these rambling thoughts:

Into the peace of these wild things
Into the wild of this grace
Into the grace of this blessing
Speak in the peace of this place
Here at the magic hour
Time and eternity
Mingle a moment in chorus
Here at the magic hour
Bright is the mystery
Plain is the beauty before us
Could this beauty be for us?

—Andrew Peterson, “The Magic Hour” (from the album, Counting Stars)

Alabama, 1954

Pierce Pettis’ song, “Alabama, 1959” (from his outstanding 2004 album, Great Big World), is a wistful, melancholy, achingly beautiful song about growing up in Alabama in the 1950s. The lyrics thoughtfully mix nostalgia for a childhood lived in a bygone era with references to the segregation that was simply part of the culture, and a mournful violin part throughout the song evokes both a sense of loss and longing for that time, and also an acknowledgment of the injustice of those days. (It is among my favorite Pierce Pettis songs, and I advise you to go find it and give it a listen or two.

The lyrics are both nostalgic and a stark picture of the segregation and racism of that era and that region:

Football games beneath the lights
No one ever dared to cross the color line
Black faces watched through the fence outside
Alabama 1959

Don’t use that word, my mother said
It isn’t Christian–call them colored folks instead
So I learned to be polite
Alabama 1959

As I think about hearing that song for the first time not long after the album’s release, I have to confess that I am embarrassed that has taken me so long to thoughtfully consider and confront the reality of the world and culture that I was born into in 1954. I, too, was born in Alabama, at the WAC hospital at Aniston–my father was a corporal in the Army Corps of Engineers, working as a draftsman at the Redstone Arsenal. He was discharged a few months after I was born, and immediately moved us to Kansas–I have not been back to Alabama even once since I was six months old. But in recent years, I’ve decided I really need to go back there.

I have thought very little about Alabama over the years–I remember the George Wallace presidential runs, I watched the civil rights struggle play out on television, and it isn’t like I forgot I was born there, but it has only been recently that I confronted the reality that I was born in a place and at a time when there were whites-only water fountains and restrooms and when segregation was being vigorously debated (the Brown v. Board of Education case was decided in 1954). (I asked my dad recently if the hospital where I was born had whites-only restrooms and water fountains. He told me he didn’t think so, because I was born in a WAC hospital in Aniston at Fort McClellan–my dad was in the Army Corps of Engineers, serving at the Redstone Arsenal near Hunstville–and President Truman had signed an executive order in 1948 requiring equal treatment and opportunity for all in the military. Real integration in the military would not be a reality for many years, of course, but at least the bathrooms and fountains were probably shared, on-base.)

A couple of years ago I heard a talk by Bryan Stevenson, the director of the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama and the author of the book, Just Mercy, and the subject of a recently-released docu-drama film with the same name. Stevenson is a lawyer who has worked many years for reforms in the criminal justice system, and helped to obtain justice for prisoners who were wrongly accused and incarcerated. Stevenson also headed the effort to develop the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery. The Memorial is an effort to tell the story of the lynchings that took place primarily in the South between 1877 and 1950. Stevenson’s description of the Memorial (which had not yet opened at that time) deeply moved me.

With the Memorial and the museum, EJI not only shines light on the horror and the injustice of the lynchings, but the staff have also done considerable work to identify as many of the victims as possible, to help shed light on this gruesome and shameful period in American history, to make it personal, in effect, so that the names of these men (and women) will not be forgotten.

I feel very much like I am being drawn to Montgomery–the word “pilgrimage” has often come to mind. I feel I am being drawn there, perhaps by a sense of regret or remorse or sadness, but also out of a desire to simply face the truth about our nation’s history, or maybe even to own it, to some degree, as a sin of my country.

I was taught that slavery was merely an aberration, a sad and regrettable error that had been recognized and corrected. I was always taught that my country was founded by pilgrims who sought religious freedom, and then freedom from the tyranny of the King of England. The fact that my country was built on stolen land and stolen labor was essentially swept under the carpet. I did not learn about the laws that systematized racism in my country from the beginning. Now it seems obvious to me that the resistance to the removal of statues and monuments that honor the Confederacy, and the increasingly brazen demonstrations by white nationalists and the so-called “alt-right” since the 2016 elections are indicators of the persistence of a deeply-rooted racism and white supremacy in this country (and almost certainly a backlash against the two-term Obama presidency).

So I will go to Montgomery one day. I need to see the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. I don’t know what I expect to happen, or to feel. There is certainly a part of me that doesn’t really want to confront the ugly truth, for fear that the horror of it will be unbearable–a sure sign of “white fragility” in me, I know. But there is another part of me that simply wants to sit for a time in this reality, to contemplate the injustice that is intertwined with my own past, and to shed at least some portion of my ignorance.

And I imagine there will be weeping.

*Lyrics quoted from “Alabama, 1959,” by Pierce Pettis, ℗ 2004 Compass Records.