Charleston Church Shooting Is Not A Hate Crime: It’s Murder

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Hate crimes are crimes based on thoughts. A bogus idea on a good day. The shooting at the church last night was murder-x-9. Let’s call it what it is and not whip up the traditional racial animosity that the media and politicians love so much. The man who pulled the trigger is a sociopath and a killer. Motivation won’t matter until you get to the trial, and if he meant to kill that’s enough. Let’s be real: all murders are hate crimes. It’s the premeditation that makes that the case. It’s evil that motivates the shooter.

People, don’t be blinded by the racial component. When shooters have showed up at other churches in the last 20 years it was not a racial crime. Plenty of white on white, black on black church shootings for everyone. This person’s race need not be the focus. If he spewed trash regarding race while he was in the church, he’s a despicable swine. But the murders are the real issue.

The focus should be on catching him.

So, let’s go to the pictures I’ve seen versus the blather on the news.

First, he looks like he’s wearing full-torso armor under the shirts. What say we search for purchases of that gear in the region.

Second, the talking heads are babbling about a gun hidden in the church because he’s not carrying one going through the door. Uh, ever hear of pistols? Perchance he didn’t haul in an AR-15. I know that would disappoint some, but does the weapon matter except to identify him? Let’s wait until some identification of the weapon is released.

Part of the hate-crime mentality is that it says to the public that if a white guy shoots a black guy it’s a hate crime. Based on what? What if a black guy shoots a white guy? Still a hate crime? I attend a primarily black church. Am I planning a hate crime? I hope not, but I’ll ask myself later to be sure. If so, it’s a long lead time for me. But after several years I think I’m safe.

Last, but not least: most churches are gun-free zones. A shame. Because there’s a chance there’d be only a single body in Charleston if one of the other congregants had been carrying a weapon legally. Bad guys don’t read signs.

Just like my church, and the Bible studies I sometimes attend, let’s close this out with prayer:

Father, bless that church and that city. Let peace reign upon your earth. Help us find this killer and bring closure to the wounds he created. Bless those whose families lost a member last night. Amen

Johnny Belinda: A Movie Review

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1948 was a long time ago in terms of social acceptance of disability. It was a long time ago in terms of understanding rape. Johnny Belinda deals with both subjects in a beautiful, humanizing way. It’s a must-see move from Hollywood’s golden age.

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Johnny Belinda was the first movie to deal openly with the subject of rape. Here’s the trailer:

For those of you who were born after 1970, some of the performers will be new faces. To some of you born before 1960 you will recognize faces but have different roles in mind. The best example is Agnes Moorehead. To most of you, she’s Endora from Bewitched. What a shame. This woman could act, and she was in over 115 productions in her day. If it was classic, she was probably in it, or should have been.

Overall, the cast is delightful. Charles Bickford plays Belinda’s father, and does a smashing job in this role. Torn between personal anguish over a daughter with troubles, and the love of a father, his face tells the story.

Jane Wyman is Belinda. She is so good at not speaking that she won the first Academy Award since the silent era for an actor/actress without a line in a movie. Tough acting job, but she does it all with her body language and eyes.

I like Lew Ayres, and I like him in this role. That’s about it: I liked his performance.

The story is – well, go watch the thing. It’s available free on several services, and you’ll no doubt find it in the DVD collection at Amazon.

I promise you it’s time well spent. A great movie from a great era. Groundbreaking in its portrayal of the deaf/mute character Belinda. Daring in its approach to the topic of rape. Well photographed, superior acting, and pretty good music.

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I May Be Black. Then Again, Korean Isn’t Out Of The Question. Is Jewish A Race? Maybe That As Well.

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It delights me to no end that we’ve finally hit the point in the idiocy that is liberalism where we can pick our own race, gender, and anything else in spite of reality. I was so tired of being just another white guy from Minnesota. That’s what I’ve been required to put on the forms since high school. In the wake of the controversy surrounding Elizabeth Warren and Rachel Dolezal, I’m finally free to just make stuff up and go with it for the big bucks.

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Once upon a time I was Hispanic. Truth. Got lots of college letters in Spanish, was offered scholarships for minorities, and I didn’t even lie on the paperwork that garnered me all of that lovely racially biased attention. I was just a 15 year-old kid who had a long name and really good test scores. You see, back in the dark ages (the 70’s) when you filled out computer forms for standardized testing, you were limited to a fixed number of spaces. My name, on one of those tests, came out like this: C O U R T E M A N C H E, J O S E. No room for the P H that would have finished the Wheel-of-Fortune phrase they were seeking.

Combine that with the urge to reward people for their skin color so that you can feel better about yourself, and I was in sweet clover. Sadly I had this thing called integrity. Nobody asked me to pony up any papers, but I knew I was pretty danged Caucasian so that whole thing wouldn’t work for me. I corrected their wild guesses and still managed to get a scholarship or two on offer.

The point of this little missive is that self-delusion and mental illness go hand in hand. You can claim to be from Zetox, but it doesn’t change the fact that you were born on this planet and aren’t green. I think it’s rather pleasant to identify with a number of other cultures and races. I’m delighted to have lived several interesting places. Picked up local habits and phrases. I like a variety of food and music. I’ve even been to a number of different religious services of various faiths. But I’m still Joe Courtemanche, the white guy from Saint Paul.

If you’re not happy with who you are, there are a lot of things you can change. One of the ones you can’t change, unless you like being branded a liar and whack-job, is your race. That one comes out of the box with a few notable exceptions. I will throw you the bone if you find out later in life that your race is different than you were raised to believe. Discovering that in your adult years could be daunting. But not for long, and only if you are race-focused. I’m not, and by golly that’s a blessing. (Was that “white” enough?)

I figure that who you are is more appropriately assessed by your actions than your skin color. Or lack of it. Or misunderstanding of it. (If I end enough sentences with the word “it” I know I can cause at least five heads to explode.) To quote a man whom I respect quite a bit, “I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Amen, Reverend.

Now, pass the home-made guacamole and the kimchi – I’m starving.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Roadtrip: Flash Fiction.

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This post is comprised of a story I’d written for a Christian radio station writing contest. I’m pulling it out of the file for two reasons: First, I needed a post today. Second, I didn’t win. So, it was just hanging out there and needed to be seen.

These flash fiction pieces are not deeply edited. In fact, they’re usually pretty sparse. But it is worth every penny of your subscription fees. If you don’t agree, let me know and I’ll arrange a refund. You don’t have to memorize this intro, but don’t be surprised if you see it again soon: I have another story to deposit on this blog that’s from the same contest, different year.

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Roadtrip

In many ways it made perfect sense to wear the red shirt: it hid the blood stains.

An hour before, when Larry was trying to decide which shirt he was going to wear pie stains were the order of the day. White was out of the question. No other color offered anything except a long day of stain removal. Red it was.

The Fourth of July was the perfect day for a cherry pie-eating contest. Everything about it screamed patriotism, right down to the vanilla and blueberry ice cream cones that were on the menu for the crowd.

Larry had volunteered to help with the contest this past winter. His associates were over the top patriots with a joy in simple fun. Janessa baked the best cherry pie for miles around – they’d sampled them last week. Larry couldn’t so much as scoop ice cream without instructions, but he was the clean up man and he figured the red shirt would hide some of the damage from half-eaten cherry pies.

He left a bit early for the park, knowing the crowd would be huge. He’d have time to grab a cup of coffee on the way. He’d loaded an extra box of contractor trash bags into the bed of his truck and a couple of gallons of bleach. He was going to clean the stage properly and leave it cleaner than when they’d started.

Turning right onto Jefferson, Larry spotted the convenience store where his favorite clerk would have the coffee ready. He pulled in with a smile on his face. Hamid was a good kid, kept things ship shape and brewed a fresh pot every hour. Larry knew that ten after the hour was the perfect time to visit – the pot would be 2 minutes old or less.

As he reached for it, the door crashed open, catching Larry full in the face. He hit the sidewalk hard and only had a glimpse of a pair of khaki pants running toward the road. A moment later, the squeal of tires assaulted his ears.

Larry struggled to his feet and went into the store. “Hamid, what the heck is going on around here – that guy just knocked me over.” Silence as deep as the desert night greeted his words. The tang of cordite and fresh coffee assaulted his nose. The sight of Hamid sprawled in a pool of blood and hot coffee polluted his eyes.

Larry dropped down next to the young man and checked for a pulse. It was there, but with all that blood it wouldn’t be for long. Larry rolled Hamid over on his side and found the entry wound just above the third rib. Grabbing a handful of coffee filters from the counter, Larry stuffed them down on the wound and applied pressure. He tapped his blue-tooth and summoned the police and ambulance with the other hand.

Hamid’s eyes opened and he spoke just above a whisper. “Pastor Larry, I am glad you came. I have been robbed. They shot me.”

Larry cradled the young man in his arms and helped him sit up to ease his breathing. “It’s alright, Hamid, the ambulance is coming.”

“No, Pastor Larry, it will not be good. I have seen wounds like this in my country. I will die. Please let my parents know. Their number is in my phone.”

Larry began praying out loud that God would speed the ambulance on its way. Hamid put his hand on Larry’s forearm and said, “Your Jesus, will he take me now? Or is it too late?”

“It’s never too late, Hamid. All you have to do is ask Him to enter His kingdom. Ask that he forgives your sins. I can help with the words if you want.”

Hamid coughed and struggled to breathe “I have thought of this often. You are a good man and your Jesus loves me as I am, no? I ask, Jesus, take me as one of your children, like Pastor Larry says. I beg you forgive my sins. I have tried to be good but missed many prayers here. Forgive me. Bless my parents. And Pastor Larry.”

Larry could see that Hamid would not make it until the ambulance arrived. He held him close to his chest and said, “He accepts you, Hamid. You will see him very soon. I will call your mom and dad.“

No response came from Hamid as he burbled his final breaths. Less than 2 minutes after being shot, he went limp and blood ceased to weep through the coffee filters. Larry held the young man to his chest and silently prayed.

The doors blew open as police and firemen rushed in to take control. One of the cops grabbed Larry’s hand and helped him to his feet. The officer looked at his hand in disgust. “Man, you’re covered in blood.”

“I guess we’re all covered in His blood today. Seems like the red shirt was the perfect choice.”

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Microwave Memories.

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We purchased our first microwave in twenty years this past month. It marked the end of an era, and brought to mind the loss of a very good friend. Not the microwave, but it’s previous owner.

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Twenty five years ago my life was a complete shambles. There were medical issues we were facing and the stress and sadness was beyond belief. One of the very few bright spots in that era was the group I worked with on a daily basis. I was blessed to have some very considerate coworkers. One, who shared my office, was Michele. She always had a kind word of encouragement, brought me lunch (I was the one who stayed in the office, she roamed around) when I needed a lift, and had a killer smile that would bring me out of the hole I was in emotionally. She was funny, bright, beautiful, and always a bit annoyed when I brought in some treat to the office. She had been a swimmer in college and she blamed me for turning her into a Rubenesque red head long before Christina Hendricks graced the screen in Mad Men. She had slightly less will power than I did, and the two of us lived to see what bakery treat would be on the table most mornings. She really didn’t have to worry, she would have been beautiful at 350 pounds. As it was, she’d diet when the skirts got too tight. A worthy sacrifice to enjoy the cheesecake crowns on a regular basis.

Not terribly long before I left the company, she moved to the corporate office. It was a promotion and a welcome change of pace for her. Michele was essentially an introvert who’d tackled a sales job. I know how hard she struggled to do that job on a daily basis. She was a blue jeans girl in a skirt-and-hose environment. But each day she came to work, made her sales calls, and then headed out into the field to meet with clients. My job was to interview, test, and place the temporaries in the jobs she’d scared up for them.

It would be an understatement to say that my office was one fine team. We blew out our goals every year and a big part of that was Michele’s hard work, and Julie who came on board when Michele left. I cannot thank the two of them enough for the great work they did finding jobs for me to fill.

Back to the matter at hand – the microwave. When Michele transferred to corporate I asked her what she wanted for the office microwave she’d brought for all of us to use. A nominal sum was named and a few months later when I left I took the microwave with me. It has sat, for the past 20 years, on top of my refrigerator.

Low powered, a dorm-room appliance at best, it met our needs. We didn’t microwave all that often so it cut the time on cooking by enough of a margin that it hung around until the rotating platter finally gave up the ghost. It made a grinding noise for a week and then quit.

The new one is shiny, very powerful, and very digital. The old one was analog with a dial and two heat settings. But every time I turned it on to cook something I thought of my friend Michele and her kindness.

Michele died in a head-on collision eight years ago. The driver of the other vehicle was high on cocaine and opiates when he crossed the line and destroyed her vehicle. Her husband, a very nice man, was left with tragically disabling injuries. My friend Michele was gone in an instant because of someone else’s drug use.

Each time that little microwave hummed I thought of my sweet and kind friend who did so much to lift me up and encourage me during dark times. She blessed my life and made it better in so many ways. And that little “ding” when my dinner was heated was her ringing a bell in Heaven each time.

The new microwave might be more efficient, but it won’t replace the old one. I’ll still try to remember her every time I punch the buttons and turn the knob.

If you’re so inclined, say a prayer for her husband, Dana. He needs it much as I did long ago when I shared an office with her. We both miss her.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.