In Defense of Rachel Dolezal

I did not have an easy childhood, far from it.  I vividly recall entering our little backyard in Jersey City one evening, gazing up at the heavens.  I don't remember what made me feel so sad as night was falling after a difficult day over sixty years ago; it is safe to assume that it was one of those moments when a frequently dysfunctional family was behaving in a more dysfunctional way than usual.  The little boy that is now an old man just had to get away.  He stood on the lawn staring at the brightest star in the darkening sky.  I am from there, he told himself.  My real parents live on that star.  This is not my home.  I wish I could go back home where I belong.

I was convinced I was an alien for a while, but my childish fantasy didn't last long.

I don't want to give the impression that I had it that hard, because I didn't.  My point is that frequent trauma can lead one to escape into an inner world where one is happier.  Sometimes this includes assuming a new identity; even when facts collide with fiction, the inner necessity of assuming the fiction as part of an unconscious survival strategy can be so strong that, in one's mind, fact and fiction change places.   When this happens, the following inner dialogue takes place:  Inside I am x.  Outside I am y.  The real me is x.  The fictive me is y.

I think that this inner transformation probably did occur in the psyche of Rachel Dolezal. the woman who is ethnically white but psychologically black.  Ms. Dolezal said, after she was outed, that she lived the black experience.  This is no exaggeration.  She had been, until the time of the scandal, president of the Spokane branch of the NAACP.  She married an African American and has two adopted sons.  All four of her adopted siblings are black. She taught black studies at a local college.  She was completely immersed in her black identity and worked tirelessly and effectively for the black community.

When it became known that she had apparently been masquerading as black--I say "apparently" because her inner reality is convinced that she is black, many members of the black community reacted with fury.

Jonathan Capehart, a reporter from the Washington Post wrote a piece on June 12th entitled, "The damage Rachel Doezal has done," Mr. Capehart is a "double minority member" being both black and gay.  I have seen him on TV a few times, and was struck by his kind face and gentle demeanor.  On those few occasions I remember being in total agreement with what he said.  He said what he had to say without a trace of anger.

This time he was furious.  Here is how he ends his column: "Blackface remains highly racist, no matter how down with the cause a white person is." But Dolezal's mother nailed it when she told the Spokane-Review newspaper, "Her effectiveness in the causes of the African-American community would have been so much more viable, and she would have been more effective if she had just been honest with everybody.'  Instead Dolezal is a laughingstock and has made a mockery of the work she said she cared about."

This, I think, is downright vicious.

Blackface?  Thomas D. Rice invented his Jim Crow routine before 1830.  He wore blackface and acted out gross caricatures of black people.  This occurred in the North; such routines became very popular.  "Thanks" to him, minstrel shows were performed, especially in the North.  To accuse Ms. Dolezal of being a racist because she darkened her skin to make her outer identify more like her inner one is preposterous.  There was, of course, not a shred of caricature in her adopted appearance. She just wanted to fit in; she wanted to serve the black community, which she did with distinction.  

Certainly, Mr. Capehart, you must realize that James Dix's use of blackface and Rachel Dolezal's transformation into an attractive light-skinned black are categorically different.

Charles M. Blow, a black op-ed columnist of the New York Times was just as unforgiving.  Here's what he had to say:

"This is about privilege, a deceitful performance and a tortured attempt to avoid truth and confession by co-opting the language of struggle, infusing labyrinthine logic with the authority of the academy, and coat-tailing very real struggles of transgender people and transracial adoptees to defend one's deception.  This is a spectacular exercise in hubris, narcissism and deflection."

Pre-outing she was a role model, post-outing, in Mr. Blow's view, she has become a monster. A quote from Jesus of Nazareth is very apropos here:  Ye shall know them by their fruits.  It seems to me that the fruit Ms. Dolezal grew during her career, very good fruit indeed, didn't suddenly turn rotten because she pretended to be a black farmer rather than a white one.

I half-agree with something Mr. Blow wrote, however.  He refers to Dolezal's deception, as many others have.  This is half-right.  What it seems to me is self-deception, which is something quite different.

There is indeed something--maybe this is too harsh a word--pathological about Dolezal--which should elicit compassion rather than rage. She has, I think, assumed a black identify for such deep-seated psychological reasons that she actually believes she is African-American.

There is obviously more to her rejection of her parents--she refers to them by their first names only--than fearing that they would destroy her fantasy by their very existence as whites.  The parents certainly gave a strange interview.  They claimed that they love her, but they appeared more angry and hurt than loving.  If my daughter was living a fantasy that enabled her to do good work, I doubt if I would have outed her.  I certainly would not use the word "deception" the way her parents did, indicating that Dolezal, despite her achievements, is little more than a liar.  Even though I might feel angry and hurt, I wouldn't want to humiliate my daughter on national TV, fearing that it might destroy her.

But it didn't destroy her.  The interviews Dolezal gave are, I think, quite strange.  She never came even close to admitting that she had been lying.  Her view of herself apparently remains unchanged, despite the scandal.  Yes, on the outside I'm white, but on the inside I'm black and that's all that matters. This is indeed a peculiar stance.  It's ok for a little kid to believe in a world of his own creation for a while, but an adult who consistently flouts reality is indeed behaving strangely.

Yes, it's all a bit pathological, but if this self-deception somehow enabled her to be a productive adult, who am I to judge?  She views her inner truths to be objective reality with a persistence more characteristic of an insane person rather than of a mature adult. Blackness isn't her only fantasy.  She claims that her black adopted brother, whom she is raising, is her son.  Confronted with reality, she still insists she is his mother.  She also asserts that her fantasy father, a black man, is her real father,  even when faced with  the truth.

The most revealing moment of all her interviews is when a reporter laid a trap for her.  He asked her to talk about her African-American "father".  Then he asked, "Is your dad really African-American?"  followed by, "Are you African American?"  Dolezal replied that she didn't understand the question; she stared in confusion, stating that she didn't know what the interviewer meant.  Then, obviously overwhelmed, she walked off.

Capehart wrote about this incident as follows: "Chil', please!  Dolezal most definitely understood the question, which is why she took flight 16 seconds after Humphrey's query."

This is true, but I see it somewhat differently.  Dolezal's distress occurred because the bubble of her fantasy life, which to her was a self-deception, not a deception, burst.

Her interviews bear out this interpretation.  Not once did she deny that she was black; she adamantly stated, despite biological evidence to the contrary, that she was not white.  I believe she felt that an "outside lie" was destroying her inner truth, and would have none of it.

Another telling part of the interview is when she said that she called her "so-called" parents by their fist names and stated that her birth certificate became available a significant period after her birth.  This indicates to me that she concocted a fantasy that her birth parents were not her parents at an early age and convinced herself that this was true.

There is more pathology than prejudice in Dolezal.  She says she adopted a black identity early on as a matter of survival.  I think she might be telling the truth here.  The truth, if this is the truth, is indeed strange, but the human mind is certainly capable of doing strange things.  Her lie enabled her to function very well.  That the foundation of her personality is a fantasy deserves more compassion than censure.  She also deserves our praise, since the impressive house she built on this foundation remains.

She stated that she understands the rage many blacks feel because of her (self) deception.  That rage is indeed understandable. Racism is still very much prevalent.  Due to the history of truly horrible oppression of African Americans, they have assumed a group identity as a means of defense.  They are justifiably outraged when a white woman pretends to be one of them.  Some have called this the ultimate example of white privilege; a black woman does not have the option of passing for white.

This is true, but, perhaps only in a superficial sense.  If I'm right that her assumption of blackness was a survival mechanism, she was not pretending at all.  I do think she really believes that she is black, since assuming a black identity would be quite reckless unless supported by a fantasy that was stronger than reality.  The truth, that she is white, was known to her brothers, to her estranged family, and to many others.  Her bubble had to burst, even though  for her it was more real than the world.

Not all African-American were enraged. Kareem Abdul Jabbar, while acknowledging her "character deficit" wrote a piece in support of her in The Times; others wrote similar things as well.

"The damage Rachel Dolezal has done"??  Mr. Capehart, Rachel Dolezal is not the enemy.  Both of us could come up with a long list of politicians who pander to racists; compared to them, Dolezal is a saint--one who needs to see a psychiatrist perhaps, but one who has acted in a selfless and empathetic manner nevertheless.

Music is Music! Part IV: der Schmied by Brahms

1.
Consciousness, I will never understand you!  Awareness is like a snorkeler, swimming a few feet below the surface.  He looks down into the deep, into the vast ocean of his own unconscious world.  Why does he see a bouquet of coral with clown fish darting to and fro among the orange blooms, and not see, say, a sunken ship?  Why does the image of a luminous jellyfish appear unbidden and not, say, a shark?  Why does he look and sometimes see nothing at all, unaware of even himself?  Consciousness, I will never understand you!

2.
My wife, Nirmala, my son, Philip, and I spent February 2015 in Chennai, India, visiting my wife's relatives.  Almost every morning, just before dawn, Nirmala and I would take a walk to the beach.  Soon after we arrived at the beach, about three-quarters of a mile from my sister-in-law's  place, we would watch the sun rise over the Bay of Bengal.  The dawns experienced on a Chennai beach are always spectacular.  Watching the  dark silhouette of a passing kattumaram slowly brighten as it approached shimmering  light spreading out from the horizon like an old-fashioned tie, my wife and I held hands in silence--This was the memorable beginning of February 10th.   Returning home, I was lost in thought; my wife went ahead.  As I absentmindedly hopped over a little wall that separated sand from sidewalk, I fell.  I did not hit my head, I am sure of that.  Uninjured except for a minor scratch, something strange occurred as I got up.  A very regular rhythm in three-quarter time began playing in my head: ONE two three, ONE to three.  My gait assumed the cadence of the music.  When the melody came, I recognized it right away: it was a lied by Brahms, der Schmied.  I hadn't heard that song for over thirty years--why did it returnr to me now, in India, of all places?  Consciousness, I will never understand you!

Mridula, my wife's sister, lives in a comfortable condominium with her husband Jose on a relatively quiet street opposite the gardens of the international center of the Theosophical Society, a syncretic religious organization that was quite popular at the beginning of the last century.  Right after we arrived from our walk, I went straight to the computer while Mridula brewed tea.  All the words came back to me after I clicked on the link to the poem by Ludwig Uhland:

DER SCHMIED
                           von Ludwig Uhland

Ich hör' meinen Schatz,
Den Hammer er schwnget,
Das rauschet, das klinget,
Das dringt in die Weite
Wie Glockengeläute
Durch Gassen und Platz.

Am schwarzen Kamin,
Da sitzet mein Lieber,
Doch geh' ich vorüber,
Die Bälge dann sausen,
Die Flammen aufbrausen
Und lodern um ihn.

With a cup of piping-hot tea in my hand, I gazed admiringly at the screen--What a nice poem!  The accompanying English translation, however, was atrocious.  (Example: "Das dringt in die Weite" was translated as "That penetrates into the distance"--whoever translated that has no sense for poetry. In addition, the English version didn't rhyme.) I had no choice but to translate it myself:

THE BLACKSMITH

I hear him, my sweetie,
the hammer he's swinging,
the clanking, the clinking
echoes and swells
like pealing bells
through streets of the city.

Used to the din,
he sits at the furnace;
yet when I pass,
the bellows sough more
and the flames soar
and roar around him.

Not bad, I thought to myself, as I picked up the cup for another sip.  Yuck!  The tea was cold.

3.
After a few weeks, we returned to Baltimore.  Der Schmied returned with me, stowed away in my head; the song made its presence known on many, often unexpected, occasions.  The imagined performance  inside me, I thought, was first-rate.  I wondered if any recording matched my ideal version--Connected to YouTube, I proceeded to find out.

What follows is the result of that search. I invite you now to listen and evaluate three performance of the piece I found on YouTube, including the Norman/Barenboim version I hadn't heard for decades.  After a brief discussion of the lied itself, we will focus on the pianist in each case; functioning as the bass to the soprano's treble, the piano, as is usual,  sets the rhythm--and, in my ideal version, the piano is prominent, paramount and, well, loud.

Der Schmied, (The Blacksmith), by Johannes Brahms, Op. 19, Nr. 4

Der Schmied is the fourth of five lieder of Brahms's opus 19.  It is an early work.  The art song brilliantly evokes a nineteenth century genre scene of a blacksmith at his forge.  The composer gave this rustic scene life and vitality by emphasizing the sound of the hammer pounding on the anvil.  Brahms intended an effect more striking rather than subtle.  The music for each stanza of the poem is identical, further emphasizing the repetitive motif which is present without variation throughout the composition.  Brahms gets away with this regularity magnificently for one good reason: the lied is very short.  If there were a third stanza, this lack of variation would begin to be boring.  Brahms wanted to depict a brief, rural scene; if he varied the motif, this musical snapshot would lose its vivid, deliberately monotonous effect.  In this brief piece, the pounding is part of the charm.

As already mentioned, the music for each stanza is identical.  I am convinced that Brahms composed the second stanza first.  The way he composed the last line of the poem is a strong indication that this music came first.  He emphasizes the "soar" or in the German version, "lodern."  In each case, the word is put to music as a dotted quarter note, thus lasting a whole measure; the word then ends on a quarter note in the next measure at a pitch a quarter note a half-tone higher.  In other words: the flames SO (1,2,3)-AR (1) around him, or LO (1,2,3) DERN (1) um ihn.  No other notes are extended in the piece, which gives great emphasis on the "soar" or "lodern."  This works very well; it makes the image of the roaring flames all the more vivid.  The extra time designation lays great stress on the fire sweeping up around the blacksmith--We can almost feel the heat!  In the first stanza, the extended note falls on "Gassen," or "streets" in my translation.  A Gasse is a small Strasse, a minor street.  It is joined with "Platz," or village square.  The village square is, of course, more imposing than minor streets.  The emphasis on "Gasse" is thus out-of-place.  This is indeed a minor detail; I'm mentioning it only as an indication of the order of composition of the lied.


First Recording: Helen Watts, Geoffrey Parsons

Geoffrey Parsons, (1929-1995), was an outstanding Australian pianist, who had a prominent international career.  He was especially known as an accompanist, supporting vocalists and instrumentalists as well.  I admire this recording.  The duration of this short piece is one minute and three seconds. The pianist's  tempo is slow, as it should be in order to call to mind the regular beats of a powerful blacksmith's hammer.  (Recall the tempo of the Anvil Chorus from Verdi's Il Travatore.)  It is played forte, that is, played loudly throughout, as Brahms indicated.  Parsons emphasizes the downbeat of measure one, and the first beat of measure three, five, etc. and plays the first beat of measures two, four, etc slightly softer, providing an acceptable degree nuance to the "monotonous charm" which the piece demands.

I do have one objection.  In the second stanza, he begins the line, "Doch geh' ich vorüber," ("Yet when I pass,") softly and works up to a crescendo at the end of the piece, which is played fortissimo.  This was not what  I heard in my mind.  I don't think the lines, "the bellows sough more/ and the flames roar" should be played any softer than the first three lines of that stanza.  Parsons played it this way, presumably, for dramatic effect.  (The only action in the poem, other than the blacksmith's pounding, is when his sweetheart passes by, which occurs at this point.) My mind's version of this lied emphasizes a mechanical rhythm of just about unvarying intensity throughout.  Some dynamic variation is, of course, important, but I think the one Parsons adopted here is a bit more exaggerated than I'd like. This is a minor criticism; others might find Parson's interpretation to be just right.

Second Recording: Jessye Norman/Daniel Barenboim

)

This is the version I heard decades ago.  (The recording was released in 1983, the year that I bought my copy.  I listened to it a few times, then stored it away in a closet where it remains to this day.)  Daniel Barenboim is certainly a great pianist; this version of the lied, however, is far from my ideal version.  It's too fast, taking only forty-seven seconds, compared to the minute and three seconds of the previous version. The fast tempo evokes a blacksmith that is too light and perky, rather than being burly and powerful. Not the image of a blacksmith that usually comes to mind, at least to my mind.

Barenboim begins a crescendo with the fourth line of the first stanza, which I think is quite inappropriate.  There's nothing quiet about "Das dringt in die Weite."  I think I understand what Barenboim is doing.  In music, to avoid boredom, you tend to vary the dynamics when something is repeated; the second version often is softer, an echo of the first, as it were.  But this is a short, fast--but not too fast--piece; thus, playing it more uniformly conjures up an ideal blacksmith without giving the listener time to be bored.  (If there were a third stanza, there would be a problem.)

The performance is too fast, too refined, too precious; the rustic "snapshot" effect of this genre scene is thus greatly diminished.

The Third Recording: Christa Ludwig/Gerald Moore

This is it!  Although I never had heard it before, this was the version that played in my mind.  Gerald Moore, (1899-1967), was known as the greatest accompanist of his generation, and, listening to this performance, one can understand why.  Without a doubt he had the deepest understanding of the poem and the music.  This is the slowest version; it takes one minute and twenty seconds, seventeen seconds longer than Parsons's version and a full thirty-four seconds longer than Barenboim's.  The slow tempo makes the hammer sound heavier and the hand wielding it seem stronger. Now we fully understand why the sound of the hammer is so loud.  The poem is narrated by the blacksmith's sweetheart who is undoubtedly more taken in by his masculinity here than in Barenboim's wimpier version. The dynamics are basically even throughout; the fortissimo is saved for the last line of each stanza--which begins, in each case, as noted earlier, on a prolonged note--just where the change in dynamics should be. The rustic nature of the piece comes across perfectly--We can see the scene with our mind's eye much more effectively here.  Bravo, Gerald Moore!.

4.
The subtleties of great art evoke different responses and interpretations.  I would like to conclude with an interpretation of the poem that might have shocked his contemporaries.  Brahms's version is innocent; a different, defensible view of the poem is much less so.  Before we present this interpretation, let us quote the poem in its entirety once more:

THE BLACKSMITH

I hear him, my sweetie,
the hammer he's swinging,
the clanking, the clinking
echoes and swells
like pealing bells
through streets of the city.

Used to the din,
he sits at the furnace;
yet when I pass,
the bellows sough more
and the flames soar
and roar around him.

This poem is more sexually suggestive than meets the ear.  The change in tone begins with the third line of the second stanza.  I translated "Doch geh' ich vorüber" with "Yet when I pass"--the German word "doch" often translated as "yet" is much more emphatic.  It indicates something out of the ordinary, in other words: when others pass by, nothing happens; yet when I pass by, the bellows sough more, etc. (The bellows imagery occurs while the piano continues to depict the blacksmith at his anvil.  Obviously, he can't hammer and work the bellows at the same time.  The music pictures him in one position simultaneously as the poem depicts him in another--this I half-jokingly refer to as an example of cubism in music.) In my interpretation, when the blacksmith is working the bellows and sees his girlfriend pass, he pumps faster, causing the flames to leap and soar around him.  The sexual imagery is obvious; the blacksmith fancies that he is making love to his girlfriend, and, well, pumps harder.  The flames of passion follow.

If the poet, Ludwig Uhland, wanted to indicate love-making for a nineteenth century audience, the imagery would have to be merely suggestive and well hidden.  There is not even a hint of this interpretation in Brahms's version.  His more innocent version undoubtedly reflects how nearly everyone reads this poem.  One's conscious awareness is prone to read it one way, one's unconscious awareness another. That Uhland was able to depict sexuality in an implicit,  nineteenth century way while hinting at its expression in a more explicit,  twenty-first century way simultaneously is a remarkable achievement.  All the more so since sexuality is hardly the first thing that comes to mind when one thinks of Ludwig Uhland, (1797-1862), a talented, folksy poet, several of whose poems remain quite popular today wherever German is spoken. Even if Uhland's conscious intentions had been  more modest, this "immodest" interpretation is quite consistent with the imagery of this poem.

It would be very difficult for a composer to do this interpretation justice. Brahms's delightful version is likely to remain the best musical rendering of Uhland's poem that we will ever have.  We all can live with that!

I hope you have enjoyed reading this essay; I welcome your comments. This is the last of a four-part series exploring various musical genres.  The other three are posted on my blog and can found by googling the title followed by my name, Thomas Dorsett:

Music is Music!  Part 1: Beautiful Hurts

Music is Music!  Part ll: Gospel

Music is Music! Part lll: Jazz (Throw It Away!)

How the New South Can Keep The Confederate Flag--Let Me Count the Ways. One.

1.
Approximately thirty years ago, my wife, son and I spent a week at Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, where I attended a pediatric conference.  Hilton Head Island, as many of you know, is a well-to-do area, surrounded by poor, rural communities inland.  It is a pocket of the New South sewn with golden threads onto the tattered overalls of the Old South.

One evening, while we were returning to our rented town house on Hilton Head Island after a day spent in Savannah, Georgia--the evening was rapidly becoming night--I noticed something that made me uncomfortable.  We were passing some rather ramshackle houses, most of which had large yards with at least one rusted old car and other junk memorials to entropy.  I noticed that Confederate flags were flying from many porches; many of the mailboxes lined along the road were decorated with diminutive versions of the same banner.

I became nervous.  What if my car broke down here?  What would they think of a family that consisted of a white man, a brown wife and an adopted black child?  I didn't want to find out, and am thankful that I didn't. It might have turned out, however, that if I had had a car problem, someone, full of Southern hospitality, might have emerged from one of those houses to give me a helping hand.  With a fixed car and  a generous portion of fried chicken in a brown paper bag, I would have driven away, gazing thankfully into the rear view mirror as a poor but proud Southerner waved good-bye to us, and, especially, to my toddler.

That might have happened.  Our mixture of races, however, were much much more likely to have elicited a very different response than if we had been all white. The history of tortured race-relations in America repeats itself daily; I had reason to be scared.

2.
Some would consider my fear to have been unwarranted. Many Southerners argue that the confederate flag is merely a symbol of pride and nothing more.  Let us examine that view.

We would all agree that the Nazi flag is thoroughly tainted; the sight of this symbol of hate disgusts all decent human beings.   But what of another form of the swastika, the original one, still used in Buddhism today?

Svastika in Sanskrit means "all is well."  It is a symbol that has been used in Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism for centuries.  In all Eastern cultures it is a positive symbol.  In Buddhism it represents auspiciousness; it is also said to contain the whole mind of the Buddha.  The svastika can be seen on many Asian temples; it also is a decorative motif, found on clothing, among other items.

The Nazi and Eastern versions of the swastika are not identical; the difference between them is readily apparent.  The Nazi form of the figure is a forty-five degree counterclockwise rotation of the Buddhist svastika.  The moral difference between the two is, of course, obvious: the Nazi one is 100% indecent, and should never be used as a political symbol ever again. In contrast, the Buddhist one is 100% decent; its continued use in an Eastern context is unproblematic.  The use of the Confederate flag is, however, much less clear cut.

 For the majority of Americans, myself included, the flag represents the ideology of white supremacy; for others, it is a symbol of Southern culture and pride.  A brief history of the use of the confederate flag justifies the majority view.  Before the 1940s it was not in general use.  A Southern political party, the Dixiecrats, adopted it as a symbol in the 1940s.  That party, advocating white supremacy, was founded in order to resist President Truman's calls for integration.  The use of the flag declined when the Dixiecrat party, which lasted only a few years, disbanded.  The flag was a mere novelty until it was resurrected in the 1960s as a symbol of resistance to integration.  1962 was the first year it flew over a state capital in the South.  Other Southern states followed; private and public fondness for the flag soared all over the South. It is absolutely clear that the flag was almost exclusively used in a racial context as a symbol of white supremacy.

I am willing to concede, however, that the flag is, for some, primarily a symbol of Southern pride.  Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that the flag is only 70% tainted by racism, a low estimate in my opinion.  How do we tease out the good from the bad?

After President Obama called for banning the flag from all public places in reaction to the horrible, racially motivated murders in Charleston, I came across the following sentence from an article a conservative acquaintance of mine posted on Facebook:

 (Reverend Pinckney's death) was quickly used by the Mainstream Media and the Obama White House as a tool by which they could call for the outright banning of a historical image sacred to many who proudly declare their Southern heritage.

The widespread and despicable use of the Confederate flag as a symbol of white supremacy isn't even mentioned!  The quote miserably fails what I call the Moccasin Test--can anyone imagine that if a white man walked a mile in a black man's moccasins, he could ever gloss over the racial connotations of the confederate flag?  Failure of the Moccasin Test indicates an us vs them mentality, an attitude at the root of a good deal of our political and social dysfunction.  I view the above-quoted statement as reflective of a mindset that is both ludicrous and frightening.

There may be, however, more than a few Southerners who repudiate past racism, but would still like to use the confederate flag as a symbol of Southern pride.  Is there a way to remove the white-supremacy connotations from the flag?  Can the thirteen stars on a blue St. Andrew's cross upon a red field ever pass the Moccasin Test?  Is there a way for a non-racist to use the flag in good conscience?  Perhaps there is.

3.
On a day off from work many years ago, I listened to a radio discussion, the subject of which was the Confederate flag.  A group of Southerners argued for its continued use; an opposing group believed that the flag had no place in a non-racist society.  The two groups were at loggerheads.  After a debate that went no further than opposing statements from each side, listeners were invited to call in with questions or comments.  This was the first and last time I ever participated in a call-in segment of a broadcast.  I told the Southerners that I had a potential solution.  Insert into the confederate flag an icon of hands shaking each other in friendship, one belonging to a dark-skinned person and the other to a light-skinned one.  This icon must be prominent and clearly visible on the flag.  The Southern-pride aspect of the banner would remain intact, while the racist connotations would be repudiated.  Bearing an unmistakable marker of racial harmony, the Confederate flag would thus become a symbol of the New South, repudiating the terrible racial legacy of the Old.  It could thus be flown in good conscience anywhere.

Needless to say, the Southerners did not agree.  This was revisionism, I was told.  I replied that anything that brought something more in accord with the Great Commandment of loving one's neighbor as oneself should not be viewed as revisionism, but should be welcomed as a sign of moral progress. For the Southerners, the flag was something to be completely proud of and needed no improvement.  In other words, they miserably failed the Moccasin Test.

I thought I had had a good idea, and wrote to the governors of the states that still used the flag officially, proposing that they adopt the new version I suggested.  Needless to say, I received no response from them or from other groups to which I had written.  It is obvious to me now that the vast majority of those who advocated then and advocate now for the continued use of the Confederate flag would have to lie more than the most dishonest used-car salesman in order to get a passing grade on the Moccasin Test.

I am pleased to report that in the aftermath of the Charleston murders, the Confederate flag is no longer, as far as I know, in official use.  (It would be best, in my opinion, for us never to see that flag again, except in a historical context.) Furthermore, retailers have removed items decorated with the confederate flag from the shelves; many retailers, such as Amazon, no longer sell the flag online.

I think, however, that my solution to the problem can be  
a useful shibboleth. If you come across someone who is proud of the flag, suggest to them the addition of black and white hands.  If they like the idea, they pass the Moccasin Test, if they don't, they fail.  Perhaps Amazon and other companies could offer this New-South version of the flag.  It would strike many good Southerners as odd, no doubt; they would take time to get used to it.  With the new version of the flag flying in their faces, however, Americans of European descent would be forced to confront the terrible and ongoing legacy of racism and choose between the Old South and the New.  "My God!  What are we doing?  My God!  What have we done?"  

If a non-racist confederate flag results in honest discussions about race relations in the United States, resulting in renewed efforts to eliminate all forms of hatred, it will help provide much needed assurance that those nine lovely people did not die in vain.  With or without a new confederate flag, however, our country's task is the same.  Pass the Moccasin Test, America, and move on!