Sunday, July 12, 2020

Sounds of the symphony

Tonight I'm going to go back in time four years.

In 2016 I was diagnosed with cancer. This happened shortly before a required move to Pittsburgh, and so, during the time I was undergoing chemotherapy and in and out of the hospital we were also getting ready to leave Illinois and move to a new city. 

It was during the second week of the fourth cycle of chemo that I sat in the rickety rocking chair, in a new house that was too warm, trying to keep my food down, listening to the Pittsburgh Symphony. They were playing the Mahler Fifth Symphony. 

With Mahler, a symphony encompasses "the world" and it frequently takes up the entire concert program. It is an emotional and spiritual journey. During my time with cancer there had been many long nights with classical music. Sometimes having only the endless parade of the same hackneyed selections for company got really old. Other times, they spoke to me in a way they hadn't before and probably never will again. For example, You can hear the Shostakovich Fifth Symphony differently when you think you are dying. Music which is often the expression of the deepest parts of human beings can sound forth with supreme clarity when you really are ready to listen. Many times we save these profound utterances for the background.

On this evening, four years ago, I wasn't listening very well. I was just exhausted. The journey was nearly at an end, we hoped. A positive prognosis had ushered in a time of aggressive but helpful treatment for a rare but treatable form of the disease. But it was still the second week of a three week cycle, the week when every day is very long and very ugly and you can't tell if you are hungry or thirsty and you just hurt everywhere and there is no way to spend your time well because you can't concentrate on anything. Mahler in particular.

So tonight I will sit in the same chair and focus on what I can now focus on. Back then the applause at the end sounded like distorted sonic junk because my ears were unable to hear clearly. I wondered at the time whether my hearing was going to be affected permanently. It wasn't, mostly.

Tonight I will sit in a chair and listen to music. Maybe not with the same life and death intensity. Although when I think about it, what will be gone will mainly be the discomfort. The intensity is still there. The music still matters.


Sunday, July 5, 2020

At the interfaith vigil

This past week, my wife and I participated in an event in our community billed as an "interfaith vigil." You might have called it a protest, because basically we stood along the street and held up signs.

Every rally or protest or vigil I've ever been to has been somewhat different from the others. The atmosphere at this one was quietly joyful, which was a bit of a surprise, even though it took place at high noon on a Wednesday, which seems like an odd time for something called a "vigil" (usually I think of those as occurring at night and being associated with specific tragic events).

One doesn't usually worry too much about bad things happening on a Wednesday at noon, but there have been several reports lately of persons driving their cars into protestors and many others suggesting that people ought to do that, so I had a bit of anxiety going in as to what might happen. But it was all fine. The most peaceful event of the many peaceful events that have happened this year (most of what violence there is being at night).

This year has been traumatic for everybody, but we should all be aware by now that people of color can be especially traumatized even by the fact that suddenly white folks want to talk about race 24/7 in public after years of trying to ignore it. At this event, though, several persons of color drove by in their cars and trucks and smiled and waved and honked, apparently glad to see the mostly white participants holding up signs saying Black Lives Matter. For a moment it felt like that cozy world where everybody gets along and everyone is united by respect and love. Of course that world melts away once policy decisions have to be made and white people learn that just carrying signs isn't going to make all the badness go away. But it was still nice to experience it, briefly, if only for a respite, a recharge, and a vision of what utopia might look like if we ever go there. We won't, but, it was nice anyhow for an hour on a Wednesday.

Everybody was masked and socially distanced, six feet apart. There were little marks on the sidewalk for everybody to stand. Since we had a small group of folks from our church it meant we got to see each other in three dimensions after months of appearing only like small, flat images on each other's computers. 

That was nice, too.


Saturday, June 20, 2020

getting political

This week one fellow went viral for complaining to a member of "Rage Against the Machine" that his music had lost its flavor for him because of the all the "political bs" that was now in it. This stance seemed odd to a number of onlookers, who wondered specifically what machine the former fan thought the group was raging against. Several suggestions followed (the toaster? the oven? the washing machine?). The point being that the group's music had always been political and that apparently the angry consumer hadn't noticed before.

It is a safe bet that when someone complains about an artist's political involvement, what they mean is that it is a political stance they don't agree with. Otherwise, they are not as likely to notice. This week, of course, everyone is embroiled in the aftermath of the killing of George Floyd, which seems to be this generation's version of the Birmingham church bombing, an incident in which white racism becomes so blatantly ugly that society is temporarily horrified and appears poised to take real action against the unacceptable. I wasn't alive during Birmingham, but the narrative was that it "shocked the conscience of the nation." A few reforms were made, some important laws passed. Then that nation hit the snooze button.

My history books lied. What they didn't emphasize is what a colossal struggle it was against the people who very much did not want things to change, even after Birmingham. The ones who were in secret sympathy with the bombers, even though they would have told you that that particular act of violence was going too far. The ones who have figured out racism is really really bad and will fight anybody who suggests they have a little of that disease in their blood because they don't want to feel bad about themselves for feeling that way. They are the reason President Johnson knew when he signed civil rights legislation that his party would "lose the South for a generation." Sometimes, when the war is not going well for them, they go underground like locusts for a period of time. And when it is safe to come out, they re-emerge. but they never go away altogether.

Some of those folks are laying low this week, trying to avoid having to notice that more and more of the neighborhood is going to hell, filled with discussions of things they don't want to discuss and which, in their hearts, disturb the peace merely by being noticeable. Others are pushing back, making the same arguments the Supreme court did in the late nineteenth century when it ruled that discrimination was entirely in black people's minds, even as those same folks were required to use the back entrance or go to the hotel at the edge of town. It's a very old argument, and getting older.

At least a few statues are finally being taken down. Most of them were put up during the 1960s to let certain people know that they needed to be afraid of certain other people. They aren't about honoring history any more than the ever-popular battle flag of the Confederacy is. Last year on vacation in a Southern state I only saw one of them the entire time. But back north, they are all over the place. They can also be found in Germany, where they form a work-around for Nazis who are not allowed by law to display swastikas, so they adopt the next best symbol of White Supremacy. Everybody knows what it means. You aren't kidding anybody.

Among the responses to the great national question that nobody can ignore these days (for a limited time, anyhow) were some outliers from people of color. One woman actually wished white people would just shut up about racism. While everybody else is chanting that silence is violence and that we all have a duty to speak out, she went the other way. Then there was a man who spent most of his time complaining that the only reason white folks were finally speaking up was that they'd had a really rough week (of rioting) and were basically not in it for justice, but for their own comfort. Black people live like this all of the time, he said. Give you guys a week of the same stress levels and now all of the sudden people come out of the woodwork and want change.

That seemed a little unfair, given how many of us have been speaking out, at least since Ferguson. I don't normally do it in this space because this is supposed to be a musically blog on a musical website. But the normal boundaries just don't apply right now. We are in a liminal time when something might be accomplished if we have the guts to shine a really bright light on it, in the usual forums and everywhere else. And in the end, I'm glad this fellow didn't have anything good to say about white people. For one thing the bill is due from centuries of oppression, regardless of whatever good things we've managed to do lately, or lip service we've managed to throw at it. And for another, as "a concerned citizen" wrote from the future last week on this blog, the danger is always that this is just about our collective comfort, and as soon as that is accomplished, we'll go back to sleep without fixing our system. He kicked us white folk in the butt. Good. Keep kicking, sir.

In the mean time I am trying to do what I can to help with the greatest social problem of our time--of every time. Working to change the system, and in the meantime treating people like people. Black Lives Edition. If the article I just saw is any indication, there is really no way to get this right, but you have to keep trying. The article was about how triggering it is for people of color to see all of these white people so easily discussing race all of the sudden--a topic black people have had to treat very carefully in mixed company, for their very survival at times. If it helps her any, discussions about race among white people can often be very painful, and cost friends and family. But it has to be done.

Eventually, I'd like to get back to writing about music again. But in some ways I've never stopped writing about it, as much as it may seem otherwise. This website, after all, is called "pianonoise." One of the reasons for that is that noise is often considered a derisive term to a musician. But terms of abuse, rather than being deflected, can be owned by their addressees, and used as a badge of honor. In a few weeks my fellow yankees doodle and I will be observing our nation's birthday. The British thought they had found the perfect insult while we were at war. But we liked it and it stuck. So there, Lobsterbacks!

but noise can also refer to the unwelcome political and social commentary that has sometimes been part of the music here as well. Some people would rather ignore it and simply bask in sounds. That is an ignorant approach, however. Music never did exist in a vacuum. Those who would like to avoid controversy can only do it by ignoring the circumstances in which so much of their favorite art was created. If the art is old enough it may seem nothing but a vortex of pleasant sounds made for no other purpose but my own entertainment. But not if I'm paying attention to where it came from. For a start, I was probably not the intended audience. And if I had been alive then, I may not have been allowed to hear it. Likely it was only for the rich few. If prince Esterhaza could come back from the dead for a bow, would he demand thanks from us for being able to listen to the glorious music of his servant Haydn? The prince is, after all, a "symphony creator," isn't he?

There are also plenty of works of art whose message is inherently political. We may be able to ignore that from a distance, but then we miss a great deal of what made the art powerful in the first place. Try to imagine listening to Finlandia as a turn of the century Finn, trying to get out from under the thumb of Russia. Or hearing a Shostakovich symphony in Russia under Stalin during the Second World War. Or Gottschalk's "Union" in 1863.

Not every piece has that function. A Haydn piano sonata is basically an essay in notes, but even so, it comes out of a series of expectations and societal practices that locate it in a very different time and place. One hears it differently if you have some ideas about what was in the air at the time.

It feels as though we are living history this week. That is mostly because the present moment seems like a particularly significant time, one that will be remembered when much of the rest of this turbulence fades. We are always living history. As it roars by, it changes us, and our attitudes. Things that used to seem like they belonged only to the past are now part of the present. Words that seemed like exaggerations from a different time, or customs that couldn't exist now are back. So are some of the same debates.  So are the same choices.

When I started this website some 18 years ago, I wanted to write about composers in a way that reminded us that they were human beings trying to exist in a distracted world. That their trials and disappointments, character flaws and temporary triumphs shaped who they were and the art they produced. Sometimes, despite my efforts, they may still be figures of history, from a time and place that is alien. At others, they leap off the page, and become real people again, restored in dignity and humility, bundles of anxiety and contingency all over again. Two things are needed to effect this: one is imagination and empathy, the other is an intuitive understanding of history. We are getting another sense of how the river is rushing by, and it informs all of us of their struggles as it teaches us about our own. This week the deep water runs fast.



Friday, June 5, 2020

Dear White America

Dear White America,

It happened again. That issue that you keep trying to ignore, hoping it will go away. That is, when many of you aren't actively, furiously, angrily, assigning blame to the very people who have been so grossly injured, and for so long, in the first place.

But it doesn't go away. Sweeping it under the rug doesn't make it disappear. I'm not sure if my contemporaries know what that saying even means anymore since the culture has changed so much that sweeping and rugs aren't even things that go on the same way. So many things have changed so much. But this lingers. It affects everyone, even those who think the way to handle it is to shunt all of those other people off to a corner where they can't hurt  all of us good people. It doesn't work. In wars everyone loses, even those who have supposedly won. And until you care to understand the real reason for these periodic outbreaks of unrest they will keep happening. And your own halcyon lives will be put on hold. Until you actually fix this. For everybody.

This round started with another silent protest, a simple gesture, as civil and respectful as it is possible for such a thing to be. But the outcry was unbelievable. How dare that person tell us we aren't perfect. How dare he point us to something better and say we weren't there yet.

People keep telling us we are a Christian nation, which is so full of ironies I don't even know where to begin. A very large percentage of the book that Christians claim is so important is full of prophetic writings which take the very same tone as that protester. Ceremonies don't do it. Caring for your neighbor is what I want. Says the Lord, that's who!

I've seen pictures of that president who once walked to a church across the street from the White House, tear gassing protesters all the way so he could hold a Bible upside down and look purposeful. I'll bet he has no idea what's in that book. Particularly a verse from Isaiah, chapter 30 verse 13: "your sins are like a high wall which is about to burst and fall down on you." Another verse from the later in that book has some crazy mystic (named Jesus, I think) saying "those who want to keep their lives will lose them." Now there is something to think about.

In times of crises we always do this backwards. We want to preserve ourselves and our status quo. We feel threatened and we think if we meet perceived force with real force it will keep us safe. Some guy is out for a stroll in a park and someone with less melanin in their skin thinks they are a threat to the American way of life and the way to fix that is to call security.

So the last time, when people carrying signs were getting beat up for putting words on them others did not like, I was not surprised. I remembered the fire hoses. Then came tear gas and rubber bullets. This is how power always responds. Out of proportion and with a deep sense of anger. And always with not the least concern for anyone but itself. And then, invariably, the problem doesn't go away, because power is only out for itself. And it knows most of the citizens similarly worry about what might happen if things change.

America is like the lazy parent. Two children are in the backseat of the car while mom is driving to the grocery store. One child is punching the other. "Mom!" one cries. "Billy is hitting me!" Mom yells "cut it out, YOU TWO!"  This does not fix the problem. Billy realizes that mom is not especially concerned about his behavior. She just wants things to be peaceful. And so, as the hitting escalates until he is beating the ever living crap out of his sister, he is not worried about being punished. And inevitably, "Mom! Make him stop" delivered through tears this time, is met with an angry reprimand. "Kayla! Knock it off!" The little girl learns her difficult lesson. It is not justice mom is after, she just wants everything to seem peaceful. Any injustice is OK as long as you don't say anything about it. But disturb "the peace" and that is a grave sin. Eventually Kayla is going to have to learn to take care of herself, and on that day Billy better watch himself.

So this time, when well spoken, calm, peaceful melanin-Americans tried to get society's attention, and were ignored, and the inevitable wave upon wave of stories about wrongs done to our darker-skinned brethren kept leading to nothing but acrimonious debates and no real change, there was, once again, a flash point. And that  threat of imaginary violence that had led so many citizens to call out their personal security force on their fellow citizens for looking scary to them became, for a while, actual violence, which must at all costs stop. Because it is the property damage that scares us. Not the reason it is happening. We want to keep our lives, just the way they are. But somehow they keep slipping through our fingers anyway.

We didn't learn the right lesson the last time, and so it is happening again. Racism, like mustard gas, gets everywhere. You can't hide in a gated community and escape it. It still finds a way to diminish your life. Even you at the top of the pecking order. And still you won't change.

So there were riots. Cities burned, largely with the help of white agitators trying to reboot the Civil War, and then, when we thought we couldn't take it anymore (which was pretty quickly), hope emerged. The worst thing of all.

We started seeing pictures of black folks hugging white folks again. Police kneeling, and even joining the protesters. Protesters protecting police with their bodies from other rioters. Signs of humanity in the midst of an inhuman chaos. It made us feel all warm inside. A symphonic swell rose in the movie score of American life. We relaxed, and smiled, and realized things were going to be alright after all. Life got back to normal. The social contract resumed. The nightmare was over. Except for one tiny, nefarious detail.

We didn't fix the problem.

The national appetite for having things seem normal has certainly been challenged. It is not a surprise why people want to go back to feeling calm and peaceful and secure. But it is one of our deadliest enemies in one of its most hurtful disguises. It lulls us to sleep when we most need to be awake. It guarantees the cycle will begin again. For many it never stopped from the last time. When you can't hear their cries anymore, take those things out of your ears and listen. Because if you don't, eventually they will pierce your soul.

We have to do better this time.

signed,
A concerned American
Summer, 2045






Friday, May 29, 2020

Frick Park

One of the pleasantest things about our current residence is its proximity to Frick Park. Pittsburgh is known for several lovely parks, some of which are quite large. This one originated as the back yard for Mr. Frick's children, because rich children need a place to stretch out that includes several hundred acres, usually (at least I think that sounds plausible), and has now been bequeathed to the city of Pittsburgh and its residents, who are allowed to go walking in it whenever the mood strikes them.

My first year in Pittsburgh was not wonderful. In order to continue my wife's education we had to move while I was in cancer treatments. That first semester, still recovering, unemployed, friendless, in a strange city, my days began with a walk in Frick Park. I spent the rest of it at the piano in our townhouse.

I first became acquainted with the park in July, when it is a vast forest of green, when it is impossible to tell, once you are in the park, that you are surrounded by city. In other seasons of the year it is possible to see distant cars appearing to race through the treetops. Frick Park is actually not all that vast (I think it may not be half a mile wide), but it is large enough to seem enormous when covered in green. It is about three miles north to south, however, and I have since been able to go for long runs along a trail that begins near my house and stretches for 4 and a half miles before stopping. After it leaves the park it continues along the Monongahela river for the final mile and a half.

If you go at the right time of day there are not too many people, and it can be you and nature. There are, of course, some naturally occurring park benches at intervals, manhole covers, and well manicured paths, but the trees do not seem to mind. There are steep hills, just like in all of Pittsburgh. The network of paths provides many choices, and I spent many mornings exploring where they all led that first year. One of them goes to a science center, and flows past a scenic overlook. There are flowing streams, and a couple of empty fields. Pictures will really not do justice to the feeling of being there. I am not saying this to make you jealous; rather it is to remind me of what I have in the park, especially if we move next year and I no longer have it nearby.


There is a cast of characters in the park. A dog walking society comes through every so often. The dogs have been trained so that when someone comes by they all wait patiently in a large group by the side of the path. There also appear to be strange pixies that live in the trees, and if you look carefully you can find their habitations. There is also some artwork, provided by an artist who relishes terrible puns (which is redundant, I know. Is there another kind?)


I will be quiet now, and just let you experience the park, as well as two dimensional pictures will allow.


















 


Saturday, May 23, 2020

Keeping Score

A few weeks ago I mourned the hard fate of an older fellow who found himself a ghost of a human. locked up in his house with nothing to do, and besides suggesting that one should try not to derive all of one's sense of self worth from that thing that you do for money, regardless of how hard society tries to get you to see it that way, it seemed to me that there must be millions of profitable and interesting ways to spend one's time during quarantine, even while fending off the inevitable anxiety of where the world seems to be headed. There is still joy to be had so long as we breathe. And as a wise teacher once said, "tomorrow has enough trouble of its own."

One of the really exciting things I've come across recently is a series of documentaries and concerts put out by Michael Tilson Thomas and the San Francisco Symphony. There are only nine installments, and they were done at pretty much yearly intervals through the early year of this century, stopping in 2011. The symphony has recently decided to release them all online for free. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

For me it was a chance to return to some familiar repertoire, since, as a musician, I've spent so many years acquiring new and varied music to learn and play (not to mention write). Each of the episodes concerns a well-known masterpiece from the orchestral literature, which means I know it well (despite not being a conductor I have sometimes felt that if they pulled people out of the audience to conduct say, one of the Beethoven symphonies I could practically do it). The pieces are mostly from the Romantic era or 20th century. Ives's Holidays Symphony is the odd one out since it is not nearly so popular as the others, and I haven't seen that episode yet. The rest include the Beethoven Eroica, the Tchaikovsky 4th, The Rite of Spring, the Shostakovich 5th, and pieces by Copland and Mahler.

The hour-long documentary potion of each episode features the maestro going on location to houses in which the composers grew up, or visiting the concert halls in which the works premiered. The first program, on the Tchaikovsky 4th, show how the orchestra prepares for a concert. I may have already known what it feels in the moments backstage before you come out to perform, or that bassoonists are obsessed by the making of reeds, but it was still fun to watch Thomas pacing around his apartment, score in hand, singing the phrases (so it's not just me!), then seeing how he marks up the score so that each player has all sorts of interpretive marks to aid with their own practice. You get to see the library at the symphony, and how the librarian takes the conductors penciled marks and transfers them to every part for every player. (This was 16 years ago. Any chance the process is digitized by now?)

That sort of procedural minutiae might not be interesting to everyone, though I'll bet it would satisfy a lot of curiosity. Most of the time the programs are a mix of composer biography and musical tours through the great moments in the work. Each movement is explored in some detail. There is footage from the Symphony's "Family Concerts" in which the conductor talks through the music to the audience, inviting different members of the orchestra to talk about their parts in the piece being played, how the piccolo solo in the Tchaikovsky Fourth gives piccolo players nightmares, or getting to peer backstage and watch the two harpists practice their part in the Berlioz Symphony Fantastique, or watch Thomas work one on one with his concert master.

One thing that is really interesting is that you get to know, or at least recognize, the members of the orchestra. During the documentary they will talk about certain parts of the piece, but in the accompanying performance, which occupies the second hour of the program, you really get to see them in action. Most concerts on television focus mainly on the conductor. You get to see plenty of the mastro here, too, but the use of multiple cameras and clever editing not only shows the typical shots you get of the players alternating solos and important licks, but tight close ups, wide shots, and traveling camera shots tell more than the story of the symphony. They visually illuminate the symphony, but also put us right in the middle of the action, as if we are part of the orchestra.

One of my favorite moments shows a close up of the horn player playing his solo, before the camera backs away from him until it is right over the shoulder of the maestro. Now we can appreciate just how far away the player actually sits from his conductor. Many similar shots show the relationship between the players and their music director. As the timpanist furiously rolls out the final chord, you can see Thomas facially communicating the intensity that he wants, and the expression in the timpanist's face matches it. It is almost as if the two of them are locked in a duel, except that here the timpanist is acting as an extension of the conductor, focused acutely on every move of the other man, who is some 40 feet away, but has banished every other thought from his mind. It is spellbinding.

The performance itself is so good that after watching the Tchaikovsky episode I thought that if I were ushered to a room in Hell and told I must take dictation of the entire Fourth Symphony from a recording (a punishment doubtless thought up as revenge by my students for taking too much enjoyment from watching their suffering when I announced a dictation in theory class)--faced with such an immense challenge, and having only one recording to listen to in order to write out the complete score, if I could have the performance from this series, I think I could nearly do it. Every note was important, every detail noticed. And there was passion to spare.

I enjoyed being on stage as part of the orchestra, spending time with the players, watching them in the heat of battle. I've spent a little time in an orchestra myself, but not a great deal (this is different than being a soloist in a concerto; there the social arrangement is different. You are out front, and spend your time mainly seeing the conductor from the back. Your only real visual friend is generally the principle cellist). When you are in the audience you rarely are able to familiarize yourself with the visage of the principle bassoonist, even if you are in the front row. Now, just after a few episodes,  I think I could pick most of the woodwind players out of a lineup. I can also tell you how they play, how they move their muscles, what they look like at rest.

Michael Tilson Thomas was at Tanglewood at least one year, where an important award helped him at the beginning of his career. He made his debut a year sooner than Bernstein (I'll bet that ate at the older man). And occasionally, from the right angle, when he makes one of the gestures he seems to have inherited straight from Bernstein, (which isn't all that often; he certain has his own conducting language), you'd swear Lenny lives again. But Thomas was also the inheritor of the New York Philharmonic's "Young People's Concerts" after Bernstein left. The brilliant educational series and the philosophy of connection to an audience are clearly in evidence in Thomas's makeup. But now, over a half century after those concerts began, this video series is able to do things the earlier series couldn't. It is able to take full advantage of visual appeal, recent research, and creative ways to bring the audience along for the entire journey, not just the final product, viewed from a distance.

If you're looking for a productive and exciting way to spend quarantine, and you've gotten tired of watching dysfunctional people do terrible things to each other on Netflix, you should really try this series out. I'll see you in 18 hours.

Sunday, May 17, 2020

Just out for a run

One morning I went for a run. By morning I mean about 4:30 a.m. It's usually cool enough in the summer at that hour, and it's quiet. Plenty of street lights, but it's still pretty dark. I like it.

The first hill is a serious climb. Once I get to the top, and on through a pleasant neighborhood, I descend into the park.

A short way down the hill I saw someone coming toward me. I'll admit to having my guard up for a second. It was not yet 5 a.m. and nobody was around.

It was a large, black man. He had his shirt off, and he was ripped. As soon as I saw he had running clothes on I relaxed. I've gotten mugged before so I have visceral reason to know not all random encounters with strangers on city streets are friendly.

I kept running. He kept running. He was running toward me, and I was running toward him. In a few seconds we....

passed each other and kept running.



Why, did you think that story was going to be more interesting?

Here's why I remember this guy at all. A couple of days later the same thing happened. We ran passed each other at around 4:45 in the morning outside the park, and in pretty much the same location. He was the same tall, seriously ripped dude he'd been the last time. He obviously knew his way around a gym. I tried not to be jealous.

We may have met a third time, I can't remember. Then, I went for a run and did not see him. In fact, I've never seen him since.

There aren't a lot of people out running in the predawn hours. You get to know them. For instance, there's this woman I keep passing in the same neighborhood, again going the other way. We'll wave at each other as we pass. I haven't got a clue who she is, but apparently she is used to getting up around the same time I do and running a route that takes her in the opposite direction through at least one major section of town. When I am running ten minutes late or she is early we might pass a few blocks over in one direction or other, but it happens enough that I always notice, there is that woman again, out for a run. You start to feel like part of the same club after a while, even though you will never actually know each other.

So when this athletic fellow stopped running by, I wondered what had happened. Maybe he moved, or changed his route, or decided to quit running. But it is at least as likely--let's not be too naive, now, it's probably the real reason--he didn't feel safe running by there at 5 a.m.

I hope I didn't have anything to do with it, but again, let's be honest, maybe he wasn't sure he wanted to keep running past a white guy in the dark. Sure, I'm a small guy, not very muscular, and this guy could have taken about six of me in a fight, but I am the one statistically more likely to be carrying a gun and to use it when a person whose skin color makes me think he's probably a criminal comes along and makes me feel scared because of his mere presence. Is that too much honesty for some of you?

Two months ago Mahmoud Arbery was out for a run and was gunned down by two white men. They later claimed that he looked like a suspect in a string of robberies in the area. The problem was that there hadn't been a string of robberies in the area. The last time anything had been reported was 7 weeks earlier when the assailants themselves had a gun stolen from an unlocked vehicle. There is nothing to indicate that they had any idea what the thief looked like.

So without Mr. Arbery actually committing any crime, which is what most laws require before you are allowed to play vigilante, they just assumed he was a criminal. This is the basis for most of the deaths-by-racism in this country. Somebody just feels in their bones that someone else is a criminal, and acts accordingly. Even when the police dispatch tells them not to pursue. Even when they are not in any danger. They confront, and ultimately kill. And then they have to tell a story about how threatened they felt. And I'm not sure they aren't telling the truth. The problem is they have a pretty screwed up sense of who a threat is. And, of course, it never occurs to them that they themselves are a much larger threat. Two white guys with guns in a state with a long history of lynching are chasing a black guy in a truck. Don't you think he had a right to be frightened?

We are in the process of finding out who was a threat to whom. Nearly two months after the killing, which was never even going to even be prosecuted before a national outcry, we are learning about the participants' shady pasts. Not the victim--although attempts were made to make it look like he somehow deserved it. Did you know he was arrested for shoplifting a couple of years back? Of course you did. No word on what he took. It's also irrelevant. He was justly arrested (we hope). That is not a license to shoot him on sight two years later.

But the assailants have, not surprisingly, problems of their own. The not unfamiliar background of a screw-up police officer who was not keeping up with his training, was not meeting the qualifications, had to be taken off the street, seemed very interested in combating jihad and not at all interested in community relations, because getting those people was more interesting than keeping real people safe in real situations.  But if Georgia was ever invaded by Isis, he would have been ready.

It's only funny on television. In real life, Barney Fife gets people killed.

Let's have a little training exercise of our own, shall we?

I live in a narrow row house with a tiny backyard. I hear a sound and when I look up I see a black man going through the trash within feet of my window. Do I

a) run out to confront him with my gun
b) call the police
c) realize he is my neighbor taking out his trash and leave him alone

I think you realized the correct answer was C. If you have no idea what my neighbor looks like, then I suggest waiting to see if the person in question actually does something illegal or dangerous before taking any action against him. In this case, the worst thing he could possibly do would be to steal my trash can, which, frankly, he can have. And seriously, what are the odds he'd want it?

Let's try another one. We got a locked bike stolen off our back porch a couple of years ago. I see a black person walking up the street. Do I

a) question him about the bike
b) make him wait while I call the cops
c) not assume he must have stolen it unless I see him riding it, and even then proceed carefully

The reason for the back half of letter C is because I do not want to create a situation in which either of us might get killed over an old bike. Not worth it. Also, you could still be wrong. Maybe the bike just looks like yours, or maybe he got it from somebody else. The point being, yes, let's not be naive, crimes happen, and sometimes they are committed by people of color. But here's a thought. Let's actually be sure a crime is being committed (not just has been but is in progress) and people are in real danger before we put them in real danger because of an assumption.

Sure, there is a small chance the African American I meet on the street just committed a crime that I
don't know about, but for all he knows, I knocked over a bank this morning before breakfast. I mean, you don't know. I'd rather he not decide to question me about it with his gun. You neither? What a coincidence.

But I am probably not going to be randomly stopped by a vigilante because I look like a guy who may have robbed a bank sometime in the last year someplace in the county. Because I'm white. We all need to be aware of that.

Stay safe. And don't kill anybody. Is that really so difficult? For most of us, I think not. But for the Barney Fifes of the world, I'm afraid we'll never get through to them. Because at its core racism is an irrational fear, and people who have the greatest amount of this disease (everyone has at least a bit) spend an awful lot of time and energy trying to make what is irrational seem rational. That's why some folks are going to believe that there was a good reason to kill Mr. Arbery. No matter what. Trying to get people to see that in themselves usually produces a lot of anger, which is the only way to protect that inner wound from the sting of the antiseptic that is reality. Sometimes it is known as "white fragility." If this column has made you really angry and you want to fire back with a thousand reasons why I'm wrong and it makes logical sense to chase a guy out jogging in a truck with a gun and if he'd just made nice with them everything would be fine, I'd urge you to think about why you need to believe that. Why is it so hard for you see that there is something wrong with this? Why do you feel so threatened by mere words? Or is it something else?




 If you need a little feel good story to end on, one about how we're really making racial progress in this country, like the pablum I grew up on, here's one.

A black man went jogging in past a white man one morning. He didn't get shot.



Yay.