A Houston Park, a Naked Angel, and Pure Evil: My Southern Heritage

      I admit it. I love grits with lots of butter, hot cornbread, and fried anything. At 60, I still say “yes, sir, no sir, yes, ma'am, and no, ma'am,” the way it was drilled into me as a boy. And, no matter which side of the Mason-Dixon I land, I use the plural of you every chance I get. In fact, I'm such a son of the south that my great grandfather, a Tennessee farmer, was named after not only one Confederate “hero” but two, Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee.

      Yes, I love my southern heritage, a phrase that's only besmirched, when you package it as an excuse to keep symbols of white supremacy, which in 2017 we should be long past defending. Our southern heritage, you see, is not only all that bad stuff. It's our food, our friendliness, our beautiful accents. But, most of all, it's our culture.

      Imagine American music without the three Southern cities of Memphis, New Orleans, and Nashville. It can't be done. American music does not exist without the south. And our culture doesn't stop there. Southern writers, like Robert Penn Warren, Flannery O'Connor, and William Faulkner taught me the pure joy of words and gave me, a teenage misfit in suburban Houston, a way to make sense of the craziness that has always been the south. To me, this is my southern heritage. But, obviously, others see things differently.

      When I was a teenager, after a morning doctor's appointment in downtown Houston where my dad worked, I was allowed to play glorious hooky the rest of the day. That afternoon I wandered through underground Houston, long hallways under streets that connected downtown buildings back in the seventies, and, for all I know, still. Later, I found myself in the old downtown library, a multi-story red-brick affair, now long torn down. But I didn't stop there. I wandered all the way to Sam Houston Park, a little west of City Hall. If you've ever driven on 45 through downtown Houston you've seen it, an oasis of green with old buildings, and yes, a statue.

      Picture me there, a 70's high school punk happily AWOL from the internecine conflicts of high school, sunning himself on a bench, just enjoying a little teenage R&R. After breathing in all that youthful freedom, I noticed an especially ugly statue looming behind me. It was a male angel with wings and a sword and not much else on. Curious, I got up and spotted its name: the Spirit of the Confederacy. I then read its dedication: “to all the heroes of the south who fought for the principles of states rights.”

      Gob-smacked, I reread the inscription again and again. Here we were in the seventies, and there was an actual statue honoring those who'd taken up arms against our nation, who, in other words, were traitors. And, even though, I was white and privileged, I remember being bowled over that in downtown Houston, where many African-Americans lived and worked, there'd be a statue to people who thought enslaving other human beings was not just par for the course, but worth fighting an especially brutal war over. How the hell must that make them feel?

      One argument I've seen on Facebook is that this struggle over statues is overblown. It's just not important. One meme blared as Harvey was pummeling my hometown with trillions of gallons of water that nobody in Houston now cared about Confederate statues. A statement, I suspect, even then was false.  This urge in 2017, some commentators believe, to get rid of these statues is just so much misplaced angst. Why now? they opine.

      But this specious argument can be turned around. If the existence of these statues is as unimportant as some conservatives claim, then one could plausibly argue, why not take them down if some members of the community are offended by them. Yet the truth is these statues, like most symbols – our flag, for instance – are important. Yes, the removal of these offensive monuments will not magically heal the very deep and real wounds caused by America's original sin of slavery. But it is still very much a fight worth having and having now.

Dating in Your Sixties or Beware of Crazy Greek Psychotherapists!

     Remember how awful junior high was? Well, dating in your sixties is worse. Women complain of hoped-for princes turning out to be frogs, mansplainers, or pervs, but, let me tell you, it's not so easy for men either. After my wife of 30 years died almost 2 years ago, I thought having a long successful marriage, plus still having my hair and being in relatively good shape, would bode well for me in the dating world. After all, I'm a nice guy, hard-wired for a long-term relationship. Surely, some woman would see that, and the rest would be history.

      Boy, was I ever wrong! Think something on the scale of Columbus believing that bumping into a few islands in the Caribbean meant he was on his way to China and mega-riches or working-class voters buying any of Trump's flim-flam, faux-populist rhetoric. World-class wrong!

      For example, none of the dozen or so women I've dated have been my ideal exactly, but I've always tried to see the good in each one. Some had nice smiles, while others were good conversationalists. But women, I've found, are not quite so broad-minded. They're like shoppers who know exactly what they want, and it hasn't been me. I don't seem to display quite the self-confidence of the narcissistic sociopaths they divorced and are used to. For example, I've been dumped for rather exacting reasons: not being able to salsa dance, not traveling to the “right” places, and, my personal favorite so far, being too intelligent.

      A while back, I exchanged emails with an attractive woman from Match.com. I learned she was Greek and a psychotherapist. Of course, I didn't know then that she was crazy. But when we talked on the phone, I ought to have figured it out. Enough red flags were raised that for a moment there I felt like I was in the middle of a Mao-era Chinese ballet.

      After she wondered how she would know me when we met, I told her I could wear my baseball cap. “That's a deal breaker!” she exclaimed. Taken aback, I explained I'd only wear it till she saw me, then discreetly put it away. That seemed to calm her, for a while. Then when she found out where I live, in a working-class, urban neighborhood, you would've thought mi barrio was a slum known for druggies and drive-byes, instead of great taco trucks and pho.

      Despite all the red flags, we met for lunch, and it went pretty well. Afterwards, we exchanged hugs and agreed to a second date. Or so I thought. But that night I got the “adios” email from her, which happens. I've rejected women and been rejected, but you try to do it nicely, not like a certain crazy, Greek psychotherapist.

      She wrote: I want to “enjoy the rest of my life with a romantic partner who wants and is ready to focus on his last love. You are not him. BTW, You are not the only one who watches 'Friends' and borrowing their 'sometime' line. Not very unique for a writer. LOL . . . I feel great to have said the Truth.”

      I had to ask my daughter about that “Friends” line. Who knew that show had a copyright on the phrase, “Let's go out sometime?” I sure didn't. But in the end, the crazy, Greek psychotherapist, who seems like she might need a little work upstairs herself, did me a big favor. Honestly, would I have really wanted to go on a second date with that nut job, even if she was quite attractive?

      Undeterred I've gone on to date two other women. A Brazilian who sent me tons of cute texts, until she broke our third date. And I haven't heard back from her since. Then I had 2 dates with a gorgeous 54-year old with a personal trainer, until she regained her sense of sight.

      Sure, I think about giving up sometimes, but then I realize all of it – the crazy Greek psychotherapist, the Brazilian addicted to cutsie texts, and la belle dame sans merci – are just fodder for my memoir, tentatively entitled, Worse than Junior High: the Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue Story.