Sounds Like Me

Well I’ve been writing my blog for a couple of years now. Thank you all for reading. I find it interesting that people who read my blog, who actually know me in person, always say,” It sounds JUST like you!” Well, duh. It IS me. I write the same way that I talk. Fragmented. Stream of Consciousness. Incomplete Sentences. Lots of Interjections.  Sentences Ending with Prepositions. Colloquial. I wouldn’t know how to put my thoughts out there any other way. I wonder about people who write in a different style than they speak, or than they think. How do they do that? I’ll have to sit on that a little while to think about it.

But, the whole subject of Presentation vs Authenticity (Ha! I just made that up) reminds me of a story that involves my dad. Let’s roll the calendar back a few decades.

When I was growing up in a small town in South Carolina in the 1960s & 70s, my dad was the minister at a downtown church that was associated with the Presbyterian faith. Our community was small, and people from all walks of life attended church together. Bankers, Doctors, Farmers, Factory Workers, Business Owners, Lawyers, Teachers, Waitresses, etc. The church contained a solid cross-section of the community.

Being as it was the 60s and 70s, the one thing that it did not include was racial diversity. Schools were integrated in South Carolina in the 1960s, and it took a few years for all the changes to trickle down. Apparently, many in South Carolina adopted the policy of "Separate but Equal" for a while. I am not speaking on an official platform here, just describing how I remember it as a 10 year old kid. For the beginning of my educational years, there were no children of color in my classes.

Here is my 2nd grade class picture. See me on the front row, 4th from the left?

Once schools became integrated, the "Separate but Equal" schools were repurposed. As I recall, in our town, there was a “Black” high school and a “Regular” high school. When I was preparing to enter 6^th grade Junior High School, the crumbling Junior High School building, which was down the street from my house, was torn down and the “Black” high school was converted into an integrated Junior High School for all the students in town. This was happening within the framework of 1970, give or take a few years. When I started Junior High School, therefore, there was one public Junior High School (grades 6-8) and one public High School (grades 9-12) for all students. Our schools were fully integrated.

I imagine it was a tumultuous time for the adults in town. As a child, I just worried about getting my schoolwork done and finding out when I would get to play.

As far as church went, there was no pronouncement Fer OR Agin’ accepting persons of color. People tended to go to church where they felt most comfortable. And everybody in town went to church, one church or another. As far as I knew, most African-American people in town, including friends that I made, did not attend what would be considered “White” churches. They attended what was thought of as “Black” churches. It’s just how it was in the 1960s and 70s.

Fast forward a few years to 1990. That’s my best guess for when this story happened. I was off, married, living in a different city. My dad was still the minister of the same small church. He was very active in the Ministerial Board, in which ministers from all of the town’s churches met to discuss issues, divide up radio broadcast hours, provide aid, arrange hospital visitations, and keep general tabs on what was going on around town. At this time, there was concern in the town because America appeared to be on the brink of war—pretty sure it would have been the Persian Gulf War. The chairperson of the Ministerial Board, who was an African-American woman, called my dad to say that they were setting up a “Prayer for Peace” rally at the local college auditorium. They were contacting all the ministers in town to see if they would participate and present a united front. Without collecting any further information, my dad agreed to be a part of the program.

As the time drew near, my mom pestered my dad to find out what exactly this rally was going to be. But, he brushed it off, noting that the chairperson who contacted him was always reliable and he figured everything was in good hands. He would show up at the designated time, probably have a moment to lead the people in prayer, then be attentive to the other speakers during the rest of the program.

Just so you know, my dad was a seasoned speaker. When he delivered sermons, he often spoke formally. He pronounced words flawlessly, enunciated perfectly, rolled his R’s. His messages were intellectual. There was little passion. He presented facts, illuminated stories, dissected cause and effect, laid out the faith message so it was easy to understand and hard to argue against. He was pragmatic and rational. There wasn't a lot of emotion. He was the opposite of fiery.

When my dad arrived at the college auditorium, the chairperson met him and guided him to the stage, showing him where he would sit among the other speakers. She gave him a quick rundown of who would be there, then she handed him the program. As he glanced at the program, he suddenly began to panic. After the list of songs and prayers and comments by other speakers, there was the spot for the Keynote Address. With HIS NAME. HE was the main speaker. He almost fell over from shock. He looked at his watch and realized that the program would start in 5 minutes. He quickly pulled out his pocket Bible and started thumbing through the pages as fast as he could. He scribbled notes on a small notepad. As he looked around the room, he quickly realized that he was the only white person on the stage of a dozen speakers. Looking into the audience of several hundred people..…nary a white person there.  As the music started, he felt the vibe turn on. The room became lively.  This was not the type of service that he was normally involved with.

Aside from the shock of finding out that you were, in fact, the main speaker, I realize this would be nothing new if the tables were turned. An African-American dignitary would consider it Same-ole Same-ole, Been There Done That, being the only person of color in an auditorium full of people. But, this was a new experience for my dad. Besides my dad being a buttoned-up speaker, he had spent his whole career of ministry in traditional Southern churches with slow-ish organ music and under-inspired singing. The music had been pleasant enough, but the spirit didn’t move much. He routinely delivered messages to people who would sit quietly in the pews, attentive, but occasionally nodding off. The Frozen Chosen.

Well, things got rockin’ at the peace rally. There was energy. There was a sense of urgency. There was electricity. When it came time for the Keynote Speaker, my dad was primed and ready to go. With vigor, he read out the Bible verse he had chosen. He spoke out with passion, even in singsong style. He pounded the podium with his fist as he said, “We cannot get right with one another, until we are right with God!”  He spoke with fire and conviction for 15 minutes. The audience was engaged.  “Amens” were flying. Then, the final songs broke out and the rally came to a close.

It was weeks later when my dad told me that story. Of course, my mom chastised him for agreeing to do something without ironing out the specifics. But, he took it all in stride, laughing at himself. I wish I had been there to see him scramble, to see him reinvent himself to speak to the gathering, to make his message relevant. This story still cracks me up.

See? Sometimes we can speak with a different voice, if we think that our message might fall flat otherwise. I don’t think that’s being inauthentic, I think that is just trying to relate to the audience and carry the tone of the moment. Who hasn’t tweaked their delivery when speaking to an older relative vs a teenager? Or a work colleague vs a best buddy? Or a teammate vs a police officer? We speak in terms that we think people will relate to.

Hence, I pronounce forthwith that I shall aggrandize my disquisitions by fabricating resplendent verse for your regalement.

Uh………..no………..I can’t do that. That doesn't sound like me. That takes too much effort. I can’t use that much brain power all at one time.

It’s just gonna be little ole me talkin and typin, talkin and typin. That’s what ya get.

Yall stay with me, K?