Faith Shaken And Restored
How I Became A Southern
Heritage Activist And A Blogger
By C.W.
Roden
A special thank you to
my friend Jennifer for helping me to find the courage to finally tell this story.
"Silence in the
face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to
speak. Not to act is the act." ~Deitrich Bonhoeffer
Today's post is
kind of a long one but I hope y'all will stick with me on this. It's something
that I have been wanting to get off my chest since I began this blog, but
needed the time to put into proper words.
Have
any of y'all ever found yourselves at a crossroads? Faced an incident, or
situation in your lives that caused you to question the worth of something you
hold to be right? Found yourself wondering, Is
it all worth it?
I
want to finally talk to all of y'all about an incident that occurred off a
stretch of South Carolina interstate near the end of last summer that had a
profound impact on everything that I have ever believed in and have fought for --
and against -- in regards to the defense of my heritage as a Confederate
descendant.
The
incident -- a Southern heritage violation and hate crime, which I found
myself taking an active part in fighting - caused me to experience severe
emotional and physical stress, and led me to seriously question the worth of
everything I - and many others -- have fought for over the years. It would take
several months, and a chance encounter later with one of the victims involved
that would ultimately restore my faith in the struggle to preserve and defend
the most recognized symbol of my Southern identity as a Confederate descendant
-- the Dixie Cross (Confederate battle flag).
The
incident in question would also lead in large part to the creation of the very
blog you are now visiting.
In
order for you to understand just how deeply the incident affected me let me
first tell you the story of how I became an active supporter of
Southern-Confederate historical heritage. That will be the focus of the first
part of this story. The second part which I will post tomorrow will deal with
the incident itself and the aftermath that led me to question my views and
ultimately put into perspective and restore what I feel to be a struggle
against ignorance and prejudiced mindsets.
Now
some of y'all reading this blog post are already friends and family that I
know, many from facebook and other social media sites who are supportive
-- or at least tolerant of -- my views promoting Southern identity and
heritage. However, it is for the benefit of those visitors who may someday read
these words that I'll begin by explain a few details concerning some of those
views, to give you a better understanding of where I am coming from, and why
the incident affected me so deeply.
My Southern & Confederate Historical
Heritage
To
start with, I am a proud supporter of Southern identity and heritage. Let me
explain to you exactly what that means to me.
Southern
heritage -- as I define it -- encompasses a vast amount of the history and
cultural identity concerning the various peoples that live in the American
southland today. Some people have a particularly narrow view of that heritage
-- or outright denies its legitimacy. Sadly, even some who honor it have a
narrow view of what it means as well. Southern heritage itself is not
restricted to any particular point in time, rather it represents a vast amount
of time that predates white colonialism, or even native American claims to the
land, and encompasses ancient history from prehistoric times all the way to the
present day. It represents various peoples - those living today and those who
came before us. It's as old as the Appalachian Mountains and the Piedmont
plains themselves, made up of many cultural identities linked together into one
common theme, one grand and colorful tapestry.
It
is a heritage neither completely defined by either its good history, or its bad
history, nor does any one group of Southern people hold a monopoly on how it
should be defined -- though there are some who do feel themselves to be more
Southern than most. How one chooses to define it for themselves is up to
them. Or if someone who calls themselves Southern chooses to reject aspects of
that identity -- a concept that I personally regard the same as claiming to
love the beautiful colors of that grand tapestry and being colorblind --
well that too is up to them, and a right I would support and defend.
What
someone do not have the right to do is force their own definition of
that identity onto others, or to mock and falsely label those who choose to
embrace a view of that heritage that does not suit any political or social
agenda.
I
also consider myself a proud descendant of a Confederate soldier, and unashamed
to say that. That aspect of my Southern heritage began with me, as it
does for all others who honor it -- with the graves of the honored Confederate
dead. In my case, it began with the graves of 56 Unknown Confederate soldiers
buried in Evergreen Cemetery in downtown Chester, SC.
It
was May of 1993, and I was a month away from my 17th birthday. I was visiting
the cemetery with my family to clean headstones of a couple family members
buried there. Close to the graves was the section where four rows of simple
markers, all but two of which were labeled "Unknown CSA".
The
graves are marked Unknown because most of them died at the nearby railroad
depot, or in transit, during the closing months of the War in 1865 and hastily
buried with wooden markers. Many of those markers were later destroyed by Union
occupiers for firewood. The graves were all marked and names recorded, but a
fire at the Chester City Hall a few decades later destroyed these records. The
current granite markers at the site were placed there by the Walker-Gaston Camp
#86 Sons of Confederate Veterans in 1994 -- a year later. The names of those
dead Southern men are lost to history -- though to this day, the Sons of
Confederate Veterans continue to search for documentation that can tell who the
soldiers in those graves were. So far only one name was found and a stone
placed in that man's honor a few years ago.
The
other two marked graves (because both had granite markers at the time of their
burial) belonged to an aged Confederate veteran who was buried with his
comrades decades following the end of the War Between The States, and a 20 year
old Union soldier from Maine who died of fever in late 1865 during the federal
occupation. The latter grave had a new US flag placed on it, and a new wreath
of flowers in honor of US Veterans Day of that year 1993.
I
thought about the other graves, the men and boys buried there. Fathers.
Brothers. Sons. All of them lost to their families who must have loved them.
Their bodies laying there without some sort of token of respect.
I
just didn't feel in my heart that it was right and it kept coming back to my
mind. So I resolved to correct this oversight.
During
that summer of 1993, one of the ways I had to make pocket money was to ride my
bicycle along the roads around town and pick up aluminum cans, which I would
later bag and take to the nearly recycling center. Two weeks of collecting,
along with twenty dollars given to me by relatives earned me enough to purchase
sixty Confederate (Dixie Cross) battle flags and some white flowers that I
placed on each grave the afternoon of July 1st.
I
had three battle flags left over -- one of which I placed at the base of the
Confederate soldiers' monument near the center of downtown Chester. That flag
would stay there till after the 4th of July before someone removed it. The
other flags at the graves remained where they were till the end of December
where they were sun-worn and tattered from wind and weather.
Over
the years I would get a set of battle flags (as well as a 35 Star US flag for
the Union soldier's grave) that I would place at the graves for the month of
May (the Confederate Memorial Day state holiday in South Carolina is celebrated
on May 10th) and then retrieve them the day after US Memorial Day, leaving one
at the main marker stone in front of the Confederate section to fly all year
rough. I ultimately found this to be more cost efficient, and allowed me to
reuse the same flags for a decade or so.
My Defense Of The Dixie Cross And Its Southern
Heritage
For
the last 22 years I have been an a supporter of that heritage and proud
defender of the memories of those soldiers -- particularly the sacrifice of my
own great-great-grandfather, Sgt. Jackson S. Roden, Co. A, 48th Alabama
Infantry Regiment, CSA, who was killed in action defending his home and
family from Northern invasion at the Battle of Chickamauga, GA. (Sept. 19,
1863).
I
have been a community activist, organizing memorial events for Confederate
Memorial Day. I have stood for hours on end yearly at a Confederate monument --
in Confederate gray uniform -- as "honor guard" to ensure that battle
flags placed in honor of those veterans were not removed before sundown. I
officially joined the Sons of
Confederate Veterans in September of 2001, and been an active member
since. I have attended Confederate Memorial Day services in Columbia, SC every
year since 2001 without fail regardless of the weather conditions.
As
many of y'all also know -- and for those new to this blog who are not aware of
it -- I have also been active on social media since early 2008, particularly
facebook, a member of several Southern heritage and civil war fan pages. I have
made many friends among other Southern heritage proponents, as well as garnered
more than a number of opponents -- particularly among certain
"historians" and "educators" who deemed it necessary to
label me and others because we refuse to conform to their particular narrow
mindsets about how the war and the men who fought it should be
remembered.
A
huge part of that disagreement concerns how appropriate someone feels the
public display of the Dixie Cross battle flag is in modern America. Of which
there are a number of widely conflicting views -- one of which led to the
incident in question.
I
-- and many others -- view that old battle flag and its Dixie Cross design, as an
important symbol of my identity as a proud Confederate descendant, a
Southern-born American, and a memorial for the Confederate dead. I don't
consider it a symbol that sets Southerners, or Confederate descent apart from
the rest of America, or even better than other Americas, but rather as a living
symbol of a vast and diverse group of Southerners linked together by that
common thread in the tapestry of Southern heritage itself.
Now
by "living symbol" I mean that I consider it as much a relevant and
modern symbol as I do a historical one. Not so much in honor of a nation that
no longer exists except in history books, but rather as a hereditary symbol
that links the modern descendants of those men and boys in gray to their
ancestors and the positive values of personal honor and devotion to duty that
connect the generations. Values that I honor not because they are old fashioned
but because they've stood the test of time and still have meaning today.
That
is not to say that all aspects of that flag's history are positive ones,
far from it. I recognize the negative aspects of that history all too well, and
I never allow myself to forget them, or allow others to forget them completely.
I've always felt that doing so is unjust to those who were wronged, and those
who feel pain associated with that flag's display today for whatever reasons.
That
being said, I also feel that those negative aspects in and of themselves are
not the defining aspect of that flag and the heritage it stands for, from its
conception in war to the present-day. We who honor that heritage say that only
those who had ancestors who served under that flag have any legitimate and
moral right to define what it stands for today, and nobody else.
The
opponents of that flag believe that because (in their opinion) the Confederate
soldier fought for an illegal and traitorous rebel nation that's government
supported the preservation of slavery, and because that flag was used wrongly
as a tool by others who promoted white supremacist ideology -- many times with
the blessing and support of Southerners -- that the Dixie Cross banner is an
inherently tarnished banner, founded in racism and infused from its beginning
in hatred. A symbol that belongs only in a museum, if not outright erased from
the memory of man altogether.
On
the other hand, I support the belief that regardless of what the Confederate
government's goals in declaring their independence were (at least six articles
of secession make that point clear enough for even a layman to understand), the
Southern citizen soldier who fought in the hallowed Confederate gray and
butternut uniform was not fighting for slavery -- or even had the institution
of slavery in his mind -- when he fought the invading bluecoats. No in his mind
was defending home, his loved ones, and the land of his birth. I don't believe
he saw himself as a traitor to his conscience, or to the ideals of
constitutional government as he saw them. That Dixie Cross banner was his
flag, first and foremost.
I
also share the belief that after it was surrendered, and then later returned by
the US government, the Dixie Cross battle flag became a precious gift that he
passed down to his children and grandchildren, and the generations that
followed. Some showed respect and reverence to that flag, others did not and
trivialized it. Others used it to show hatred for other Southerners and
Americans of color, a fact that fills me with shame; but also fills me with a strong
resolve to fight against further misuse of that flag as a negative symbol, and
to preserve and protect those aspects of that flag's heritage that are noble
for future generations.
I
am always reminded of the words of Southern historian Bell I. Wiley once said
in a speech at Mercer University in Macon, GA. on January 19, 1961 -- Robert E.
Lee's birthday. These words were spoken at the beginning of the Civil War
Centennial and near the height of the Civil Rights Movement in America:
"It
is inconceivable that Lee, if he were alive today, would advocate resistance to
national authority or in any way abet social turmoil or racial hatred.
Certainly, he would staunchly oppose the use of the Confederate flag to cloak
sordid causes and shield unworthy persons. To him the Confederate flag was a
symbol of suffering, gallantry, and heroism of the highest and noblest sort. He
would be infuriated by the sight of self-seeking demagogues and wrong-thinking
agents of bigotry, hatred and violence wrapping themselves in this revered
emblem in an effort to acquire respectability and enhance their
influence."
They
are words that I wholehearted agree with, and applied in my every dealing
against opponents of the flag and against white supremacists in fighting this
cause.
Now,
I know some people would say that regardless of how brave the Confederate
soldier was -- some of them would concede that the South's gray and butternut
clothed warriors were among the best soldiers in American history -- the flag
he fought for was as much a symbol of his government and their interests. This
is true, both for good and for ill. I will never deny that, nor try to downplay
the institution of slavery's role in bringing about that war. In the end
though, that fact alone takes nothing away from the service of the Confederate
soldier himself, nor diminishes the honor he won through his bravery, his
sacrifice and his service in defense of home and family.
I
believe that this is the only true way to bring justice to those wronged by the
misuse of that flag, and to bring about a positive conclusion that will heal
the divide between those who view that flag as a modern version of an
"American swastika" and those who view it as purely a way of saying
to the world: I'm Southern and I'm damn proud of it!
No
true reconciliation on the issue of that flag's modern display can come if
either side is unwilling to accept the whole story of that flag -- the good and
the bad. The flag is not completely pure as a symbol, nor for that matter is it
completely tarnished beyond redemption either. Ultimately, I believe that the
positives outshine the negatives. That embracing those positives, while never
forgetting the negatives and not allowing them to outshine the positives, will
have a more positive effect on modern and future generations of Southern-born
Americans.
This
is no means an easy task, and certainly nothing that will be accomplished
overnight. But with the hard work, and the effort of people of good will who
honor that flag for all the right reasons, I believe that in as little as
thirty to fifty years, perhaps by the time the bicentennial of that terrible
war comes about, the full history of that flag will be accepted, and more
importantly, the ability of wrong-thinking agents to use that noble banner to
harm another human being will be irrelevant, if not completely extinct.
Today
every legitimate Confederate heritage organization made up of lineal
descendants of the South's soldiers firmly rejects the view of that flag as a
symbol of hate and condemns all acts of hate committed by groups that wrongly
misuse it. I can also say with pride that thanks to the efforts of Southern
heritage defenders over the last 25 years no such act can be reported today
without at least one or more good Southerners there to speak out against it.
Obviously
opponents of that flag disagree and site what the limits of their political and
educational backgrounds allow them to believe, that they alone hold a monopoly
on the only path towards social fairness and justice. They tell us that
preserving that flag is pointless, even harmful to others. They reject all offers
at reconciliation and education on any terms except their own. Rejection of
their views, even countering them -- which I can honestly claim I've done a
number of times quite successfully -- inevitably leads to personal attacks and
labels, some of which as ugly and obscene as racial slurs.
I
was fully aware since day one that in this current era of political correctness
displaying that flag outside the American Southland -- and often times in it
unfortunately -- can be viewed by the Establishment as extremely controversial,
let alone saying that you are proud to do so. I knew that fighting to protect
the rights of myself and others to be taken seriously when we say we display
that flag only to honor our ancestors, our Southern identity and heritage would
be an uphill fight -- some would say akin to hiking up the Appalachian
Mountains.
In
that time I have seen lots of incidents in the media, stories about the fight
to display that flag, or the meaning behind doing so. I've taken active part in
much of that fight, defending monuments, flags and even occasionally grave
sites from being destroyed or removed. I knew that so-called "popular
culture" as its defined today labeled me and those like me to be the ones
standing against "progress" rather than those fighting for a
different type of progress, one that would take back a symbol that those who
use it as a tool of bigotry have no moral claim to, and never allow them to use
it effectively to harm another human soul again.
I
knew that by standing against the tide of political correctness, I ran the risk
of being labeled and marginalized for my rejection of the popular conclusions
and simply consigning that flag and the memories of those who died under it to
the museum; or worse to surrender it to those who would continue to redefine
and display it as a means of expressing their hatred without opposition.
Yet
I made the choice to do so the day I placed those flags on those graves as a
youth and never looked back.
Heritage But Never Hatred
I
have always stood opposed to those white supremacist ideologues who would use
that flag, that symbol of my identity and my ancestor's sacrifice, as a tool to
intimidate, or claim as a symbol of their own blasphemous and hateful
doctrines.
I
have thrown back in their faces the arguments of all those who attacked us, who
mocked us and ridiculed us for speaking out against the misuse of that flag
today. I told those people that their defense of how that flag is viewed as a
racist symbol was itself an act of racism and moral cowardice that ultimately
did nothing to end bigotry, but rather reaffirmed and legitimized the inhuman
position of those who continue to misuse that flag as a tool of hate.
I
have also challenged some of those on our side who honor our heritage to speak
out more against racist misuse of the Dixie Cross; to remind them never to look
the other way whenever someone display that flag out of hate, to never fail to
speak out, least they show their own support for those obscene acts.
Obviously
doing so, and holding such an uncompromising view on how to fight against
attacks on that flag, Southern heritage, and racist misuse of its symbols, has not
endeared me to a number of folks -- both in opposition to the flag and a few
that claim to support it, but hold their own political ideologies in higher
respect and give only lip-service to Southern heritage. I accept that.
It
has certainly earned me the hatred of -- and several personal threats and at
least one near assault from -- white supremacists who reject my views of
Southern identity and Confederate heritage as someone purely Southern for all
Southern people, and not as a rally point for how they twist and define
"white identity."
I
have even stood against white supremacists, holding that beautiful Dixie Cross
in my arms in defiance, and turned my back in protest as they rallied on
several occasions, letting them know to their faces that I reject them and
their ideals. Most certainly, that I defy their false claim to my ancestor's
flag -- to my Southern flag!
For
more than 20 years I've held the same consistent view of the Dixie Cross that I
held of it the day I resolved to place 56 of them on those unknown Confederate
soldiers' graves. I have defended that view, spoken out against those who
attacked my heritage, educated those who were willing to listen and learn, and
done what I could in my own small way to fight back against ignorance and bigotry
-- be if Left wing or Right wing extremism -- on this issue.
To
me those actions are the right thing and I have never found myself
questioning them. Though I must admit that there have been occasions where my
enthusiasm and passion for this issue has given me a touch of
self-righteousness in how I fight it and deal with those who oppose it. I know
that this is a long fight and that the odds against success in the face of
opposition that have almost every advantage -- while much better today than it was
two decades ago -- are still high, I never once questioned the idea that it was
right. Even if we were to lose, I know that heritage will still exist in some
form and continue forward, but at least I could look in a mirror and say
without regret that was fighting against hatred and ignorance in my own way.
Let
me also emphasis something else that's very important. Because I know that some
people who view that flag with dread have had personal experiences where they
suffered at the hands of those who misused it and waved it proudly, I have
never found it in my heart to feel hatred for those people for speaking against
it, even if I cannot support their labeling of everyone who honors it as
racist. I have certainly felt disgust and anger, but never directed at them as
people, but certainly at their misplaced rage at non-racist and non-violent
Southern heritage supporters and at the backward ideology that believes that
simply removing the display of flags and monuments will somehow bring about a
utopian ideal of brotherhood between racial identity groups -- even in a
symbolic way.
Certain
history bloggers have attempted to push my buttons -- and failed nearly every
time -- but likewise for all their obnoxious actions and attitudes (and believe
me some of them are pretty obnoxious people) I have never allowed myself to
feel hatred of them. Plenty of amusement obviously at their petty attempts, but
no never any personal hatred.
Even
against actual white supremacists I have felt no real hatred of them as people.
I feel nothing but disgust at their own scientifically flawed concept of racial
identity and misplaced sense of superiority. I certainly hate their
false-prophet twisting of the Christian faith to justify their claims. But hate
reserved only for the ideology, never for the misguided person themselves.
Anger
yes. Hatred never....or so I always told myself.
I
always felt that to give into that emotion would lower me, turn me into the
very thing that the opponents of our heritage label us as. The very same sort
of person who would fly a Confederate battle flag in the face of another human
being for their own amusement or out of desire to offend that person willingly.
I
have always maintained that I was not afraid, that I would stand my ground if I
ever saw an act of hate committed against another person where that flag was
used as a means to attack another. That I would not falter or fail to stand up
and speak out against that sort of act. Yet aside from a few token protests,
and words written in blog comments and facebook posts, I'd never personally had
that resolved tested. Never personally experienced such an act of hate with my
own eyes.
That
was, until exactly 3:18 PM EST on the afternoon of August 31, 2014, near
southbound exit 75 on Interstate 77 in Rock Hill, South Carolina. That was the
day that -- for the very first time in my life -- I was faced with making that
choice (or failing to) and afterwards discovered that I could truly feel real
hated for another human being over the misused display of a battle flag.
The Incident
Until now
only about half a dozen other people outside my immediate family know the story
-- not counting the other individuals actually involved in the incident.
One of the
reasons I have waited so long to tell this story to all of y'all is because up
until just over a month ago, I was still dealing with the strong emotions the
incident evoked in me. Even after coming to terms with it in a positive way, I
was reluctant to tell the story, mostly because I am not the sort who goes out
of his way to boast about my own actions, or toot my own horn -- this is also a
reason it took me years to become a blogger. It finally took the encouragement
of a dear friend of mine to finally help me find the strength to tell this
story.
Since that
time I've also tried to find proof that the story I am about to tell you
actually happened, but aside from some tire marks, some paint chips on my
baseball bat, and a tattered stick battle flag covered in oil spots and dirt, I
cannot provide any other physical evidence, or police reports, or eyewitness
accounts. I was told that a friend of mine wrote out the details of the
incident to the local papers, but none of them were interested in telling the
story. Therefore I have to rely on your trust in my sense of honor and honesty
as a heritage defender to tell you the whole
truth as it happened.
I was
driving home on Interstate 77 south bound from a short business trip to
Pineville, North Carolina. At the time I was listening to music -- a Scottish
pipe band named Albannach that I
absolutely love -- and I had my driver's side window rolled down, letting the
wind blow in. When summer afternoons are not so hot I tend to just shut off the
air conditioning and enjoy the semi-warm breeze from the window.
I
had just crossed the Catawba River bridge in the middle lane when a blue
four-door Toyota passed by me in the lane to my left. I got a brief smile from
the somewhat attractive young black woman in the passenger's seat. I gave a
friendly smile and nod back. I noticed the car had a Clemson University bumper
sticker. Being a USC Gamecock fan, I gave it the evil eye a moment, and briefly
reflected on what was then the upcoming college football season.
Eventually,
the Toyota got ahead of me in the same lane and I was behind them as we entered
Rock Hill, South Carolina's city limits. I also noticed that the car was
getting ready to turn off at the same exit I was planning to leave as well.
Just as I was turning my signal on, a tan and white Ford pickup came flying out
of nowhere to my right, clearly going well above the 60 MPH I was traveling. I
also noticed that the moron driving was likewise cutting in front of the Toyota
-- and not using a turn signal! For a brief moment I was certain there would be
a wreck, and that I might be a part of it, because the Toyota did not plan to
back off for the moron driving it. The Ford driver must have realized this
because he quickly altered course, and ended up going into the grass briefly
before righting himself. (Later I would learn that the driver of the Toyota did
not even see the Ford until the driver swerved away blaring his horn.)
By
this time, the Ford pulled up at the left turn lane at the end of the ramp and
the Toyota on the right. I pulled up behind the Toyota, my heart going about a
mile a minute over what just happened. Certainly I'd seen plenty of NASCAR
wannabes on I-77 over the course of the last several years -- not to mention
the unfortunate results of some mishaps -- but never any that came close to
wiping me and others out. I took a long gulp of my Dr. Pepper in an effort to
clear my dry throat and calm myself.
The
blast of a horn made me look up. The passenger of the Ford was flipping the
bird at the Toyota. Hey it was y'all's
fault, assholes, was my thought. I blew my own horn at the fools and was
just about to lean out the window to offer a few choice four-letter words, when
I saw the hand retreat and next -- to my shock -- the contents of a cup flew
out the window and splashed into the Toyota's driver window. I heard a woman
shriek with surprise.
Needless
to say, I was outraged. Without thinking, I opened my car door and started to
step out, ready to make my presence known. In doing so I also grabbed the
wooden tee ball bat that I keep behind my passenger seat to check my tire
pressure. I really had no plan to use the bat, merely to brandish it in what I
hoped would be a threatening manner and shout at the hooligans to get the hell
out of there.
In
retrospect, I never considered the idea that the two offenders in the Ford
might have had a firearm, or that I was putting myself in a life-threatening
situation. Certainly they seemed irate, and possibly (though I can't confirm
this) intoxicated, but those thought did not occur to me. I saw a pair of
bullies assaulting a female driver and my response was to try and put a stop to
it. I also never occurred to me to get the license plate number of the truck.
To tell the truth it happened so fast, I was operating on autopilot and
completely mad.
I
started to go around my open door to shot a warning, when I saw a sight that
almost brought me to a complete stop. The passenger of the truck pulled out and
waved a battle flag -- one of the rectangular stick flags -- right at the
window of Toyota driver. This same person shouted: "F-you bitch!"
Folks,
if I had been running on autopilot before, that act caused me to go into
complete overdrive. It also completely pissed me the hell off.
I
ran at the passenger, raised my bat and brought it down hard. I caught the flag
by the stick, it got tangled and ripped out of the man's hand. Good shot? No, I
missed completely. I was actually aiming for the guy's hand. But then
again I was never much of an athlete and my skills at hitting anything smaller
than a beach ball with a wooden bat are next to nil. Probably a good thing I
hadn't since the act would have no doubt landed me in jail on an assault and
battery charge. At the time all I saw was a red haze in my vision, a desire to
deal out some real punishment on these punks.
The
passenger pulled his hand back quickly, yelling at the top of his lungs. I
kicked at the door and then swung the bat down again on the top of the hood
near the window. I did no damage to the truck, instead jarred my arm from the
impact -- which would go on to cause an ache in my elbow that lasted several
days. Regardless, my out of nowhere assault had the desired effect. The two
road-ragers, confronted by a 278 lb. guy in a Dixie Outfitters T-shirt and jeans,
shouting for them to get the hell out of here hit the gas, left a couple of
tire marks and drove away quickly. I had to jump aside to avoid having the back
end of the truck bump me. The driver flipped me the bird...the bravest act
either of them managed against someone who wasn't female and was ready to
rumble.
Behind
me a female voice asked, "You OK?" I turned and saw the driver, a young
black woman who looked a bit anxious. The liquid that the thug threw apparently
mostly hit her back driver's side window, but obviously the experience shook
her. I had no breath to answer, just nodded and thumbed up.
At
that point someone else got off the interstate and was honking their horn
because we blocked traffic. I waved the woman in the Toyota off and she nodded
and pulled out. The driver of the car behind us drove around my car, gave me a
look and then took off without asking what happened. Southern hospitality in the 21st century, I thought. God help us.
I
started to go to my car when I remembered the flag. It lay in the road beside
one of the tire marks. The stick was broken in two. I picked up the pieces, and
put it and my bat in the backseat before driving to the nearest place to park.
The Toyota passengers were long gone, and so was the Ford and its pair of
lowlifes. I was still catching my breath and took another swig of Dr. Pepper. I
became aware of little things like the seatbelt light going off -- I'd
forgotten to buckle when I got away from the intersection.
Sitting
there I thought about what happened, how surreal the entire scene had been and
then retrieved the broken stick and flag from the back. The flag was weather
worn, frayed at the ends, and had a few oil smears on it. Apparently the guys
who had it didn't take care where they laid it because they were old stains. It
was looking at those stains though that I noticed something that stopped
everything for me. Something that just hit me like a punch in the gut.
Written
on the stick in worn black in was the inscription: To Our Honored Dead. The
stick itself showed signs that it had been buried near the bottom for a length
of time.
They'd
stolen the flag off a grave!
I
remember feeling lost at first, like nothing seemed real at that moment. Then I
remember feeling the tears coming, angry ones. I could not remember the faces
of the two men in detail, just a pair of young-looking grungy white males. I
also remember the look of fear on the face of the young woman in the Toyota. I
remember very well that first sense of true hatred for other human beings. Then
I cried. I admit this without shame and without hesitation. I completely lost my composure and I sobbed like a kid.
I
thought about picking up cans at sixteen just to earn the money to put similar
flags on the graves of Unknown soldiers. I thought about all the stuff I've
seen and experienced fighting against acts of hate through the misuse of that
flag, all the times I spoke out against it over the years.
I
don't remember the drive home, other than wiping my eyes a couple times and
then walking in the door. I went to facebook and started to write about what
happened, but I just couldn't find the words to explain at the time. The
emotions that I was feeling, the jumble of thought was too much.
How
could they have done it?
How
any anyone steal a flag from the grave of a man or child who died in a war to
defend their homes and use it to taunt someone who did them no wrong?
How
can anyone possibly misuse a symbol so many suffered and died under, suffered
loss of limbs and possibly their minds after seeing the ugliness of war -- men
and boys who did their duty to protect their land and families and never made
it home, who probably lay in unknown graves all over America -- simply to throw
around ugly names and show their hatred of other people?
How
can anyone possibly feel pleasure, or find amusement in such a mindless act of
cruelty and live with themselves after they do it?
Where
is the empathy, to simple respect for those who came before us, for those
living today?
How
can anyone who commits such a disrespectful at to both the living and the dead
possibly justify calling themselves Southern, or American?
I
am thankful to say that I still don't
understand that sort of mentality even now, and pray to the Good Lord that I never do. I would
never want to know what kind of twisted pleasure comes from a deliberate act of
racial hatred.
Still,
was this what I and others who defend
that honored flag and the heritage of those men and their service have to show
for all out efforts? How was it that scum like that have any sort of
credibility when they misuse that flag to show their hatred of others; yet when
those of us who honor that flag as a symbol of identity, of heritage, to show
respect for our ancestors who wore the gray of Dixie dare to speak out against
it, those who call themselves "tolerant" can continue to try and
marginalize and mock those efforts to take that flag back from unworthy hands?
To show their hatred and disdain of us? To tell us that we are the racists? That we
care for nothing for the feelings of others, but only for our own view of the world? That we were the one without empathy?
Once
the anger drained out of me, that was the moment I felt completely burned out.
Drained of all emotion. Ready to simply concede. What is the point of doing the
honorable and decent thing as we see it for others if apathy seems to be the
new normal in America?
Obviously
I didn't. Maybe because I am too stubborn, or just too set in my beliefs to
really given them up. Still, for a time there, I lost my passion for the fight.
Worse,
despite the fact that I did the right thing -- something the few people I
talked to in depth about this issue stressed to me -- I felt as if I somehow
betrayed my principles by giving into my anger and actually committing an act
of violence, even one in defense of another person. Even now, I can't help but think: was that really me?
Anyone
who knows me can attest to the fact I am by no means a violent person and take
no joy in seeing violence committed against another person. However, despite
years of advocating against violence and speaking out for reason, when faced
with a situation that I only read about and had abstract knowledge of, I
surrendered to the passions of the moment and committed violence.
Yet,
I also know that I could not have simply stood there and watched someone being
attacked and done nothing. For years I have also spoken out against looking the
other way. When good people do nothing, that is when evil triumphs. When you
don't act, you are acting. You are telling that person doing the wrong they
have your approval, and telling the victim that they deserve it.
When
those two principles conflicted, I just acted as my conscience at the time dictated.
Looking back now, I would have done the same thing all over again -- though I
would not have tried to break another man's hand. I would have simply snatched
the flag out of his hands and then dared him to get out of the truck. I doubt
he would have, bullies in my experience tend to slink off when confronted.
All
the same, I hope y'all will now understand why it was so hard for me to tell
this story. Even now I am uncertain I completely conveyed the depth of my
feelings on the matter, but I hope I did well enough for y'all to get the gist.
Faith Restored
Following
the incident, for the next few months, I continued to fight in defense of that
flag and Southern heritage on facebook and other social media sites, though I was
mostly going through the motions. I had not posted anything serious, mostly
quick posts and opinions. I felt I had to get back into the debate, relight
that inner fire. I managed to have some good ones with a few members of the
opposition on a facebook page called The
Blue and the Gray -- mostly pro-Union, but otherwise not a bad group of
people.
I
still found myself unable to tell the story of what happened, except to a few
close friends who helped put my actions into perspective. I certainly tried
after the fact to find evidence of the incident, but aside from some tire marks
and the flag itself, there was nothing. The witnesses in the Honda were long
gone. I doubt that the guy who honked afterwards saw much, except for a fat guy
with a bat picking up a flag. No help there.
A
couple of times, I visited the graves at Evergreen Cemetery, once to replace
the flag at the main monument in front of the graves with a new one. The flag
that I took from the men in the Ford I removed from its broken stick, washed as
well as I could, sewed up, and replaced on a new stick. That flag replaced
another at a gravesite, restored to its original and proper purpose.
Still,
I felt like something was unresolved. That I lost hope in the idea of the
inevitable success of those fighting to restore the honor of that flag to the
general American public. It just seemed like there was so much against that
success. But the only thing that prevented me from giving up was the memory of
the face of the young woman in the Toyota. The desire to continue to fight with
everything I have to defeat those who would use that flag to inflict fear in
another person....or at the very lease end the credibility of those who would
do it.
My
faith was restored about noon on December 10, 2014. The following conversation
is how I best remember it. Perhaps not entirely word for word, but the gist at
any rate.
I
was Christmas shopping in the Pineville Mall and looking through the book
titles in Barnes and Noble. Anyone who knows me knows I cannot pass a bookstore
without looking through it.
I
was checking out the young adult novels, looking for a good read, and just
about to give up when someone nearby asked, "Excuse me, sir?" I
turned and at first thought the young woman was an employee. I was waiting for
her to ask if I needed help when she instead said, "Um, do you remember
me?" I looked at her a moment. She was young, had to be about half my age,
or a bit older and dark skinned.
I
told her, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't recall. Not very good with
faces." I smiled. "Usually its faces that I remember but names that
escape me."
She
smiled a little uncertainly and said, "A couple months back I was in a car
and some guys were harassing my friend and me."
That
was when it hit me and I got goosebumps. "We're you the one driving?"
She
shook her head but smiling, "I was in the passenger's seat."
Then
I remembered the young woman who smiled when the car passed by. "Yes, I
remember you."
She
seemed relieved. "I thought it was you. I wanted to thank you for what you
did that day. Those guys were high and I thought one of them would have come
after us."
I
just shook my head and told her she had no reason to thank me. I only did what
anyone decent would have done. I also told her that I was not usually such a
violent person, and I hope that I didn't scare her or her friend. She informed
me that was not the case. Sure they were surprised, but the guys in the car
scared them more. She then introduced herself to me as Dorothy* and asked me if
I would like lunch in the food court on her as a token of thanks. I must admit
that I didn't entirely try to talk her out of it, though I assured her that I
would pay for mine, but the company was welcome.
*(I use a fictitious name here because I don't
have permission to use her real name on my blog...and if that young lady
happens to read this, I want her to know that I respect her sense or privacy,
and hope she understands why I feel the need to share this story with
everyone.)
It
was over pizza and bread sticks that the two of us chatted about Christmas
shopping, family, and what happened after the incident. Dorothy told me her
friend Trisha (also a fictitious name for the blog post -- that and I don't
really recall the name given at any rate) had been more angry than scared by
the whole thing. Had I not come along, she might have gotten into a fistfight
with the two road-ragers and possibly been hurt. Dorothy told me that I was a
hero.
I
thought about it a moment, then I shook my head. I told her I was no hero. I
just did what I did to stand up for another person. Something I feel anyone
would have done -- okay maybe they wouldn't have gone berserker with a tee ball
bat, but still...
Dorothy
also told me something else. She said her friend noticed that I wore a shirt
with the Dixie Cross battle flag on it. The Dixie Outfitter t-shirt I wore that
day at the end of August has a replica battle flag on the back with the
caption: "260,000 Southern Men, Women and Children Died For This Flag."
She asked me about it. I told her I was a supporter of that flag, told her
about the graves I care for, about my work with the SCV and other groups to
educate people about the flag and the men who fought under it, about the
preservation of monuments and graves.
I
also found myself telling her how I reacted when I saw that the flag the two
men in the truck used against them was taken from a grave, and I ended by
telling her how very sorry I was that the two of them had to endure that. I
felt those damn tears coming again, but managed to wipe away the first misty
ones. (Folk's I admit I can be a bit emotional, especially over certain
animated movies. Pixar -- forget it. I always have a tissue handy.)
The
young woman looked at me when I told her all this intently. I wondered what she
was thinking. When she saw me wipe my eyes, she blinked and seemed to be
thinking about something too. Then she reached over, took my hand and told me
something I will never forget:
"Sir, I can see how that bothered you, and I'm really sorry you
went though that too."
My
friends, that was probably, the single most profound moment I have ever experience since the day I thought about those Unknown graves and no flags on
them, and decided I would stand for my Confederate heritage.
Me
and Dorothy chatted a bit more, I then thanked her for the company, we said our
goodbyes and then I went back to Christmas shopping with a bit better outlook
on life. That young woman and her words of understanding was probably the best
example of why I keep fighting on. That she took the time to listen, to understand why what happened affected me just as much as the rest of it affected her and her friend. It wasn't the only example where I have sat down with someone and explained why I honor that flag and that aspect of my Southern heritage, that I've done about a hundred times in the last 20 years. But it was the one time where an incident affected me and another on a personal level.
It
was also one of the main reasons that a week later I posted my very first blog
post here at Southern Fried Common Sense. Though this blog is not specifically
about the fight over the Dixie Cross -- in fact it's about Southern heritage in
all its aspects, and about some of my other favorite topics -- I will bring up
the subject from time to time, and now y'all understand why it's important for
me to do so.
I
will continue to fight for those flags still flying proudly at the monuments of
the honored dead who carried them. I will continue to place those same flags on
those monuments and graves. I will continue to speak out and speak up for anyone who honorably displays that flag properly as the living symbol of Southern identity and heritage. I will keep moving forward, and so will every other
defender of that flag and Southern heritage and Confederate identity.
In my
hands, the Dixie Cross will never be used in anger against another human being,
and I will continue to work for and pray for the day that flag will never have
the power to inflict fear in the wrong hands. Till that day, I will continue to
speak out against the misuse and wrongful labeling of people who honor that flag. I will continue to set a positive example....although hopefully in the future I
won't need to use a wooden bat to do it.
Still,
it does remains a good back up --
just in case.
Dum Spiro Spero.
 |
| Speak softly....but keep an equalizer close by. |
