Riot Reflections, 50 years later

Had the riots at Dixie M. Hollins High School in St. Petersburg, Florida happened today, I would probably be writing about a body count, who the shooter was, and what weapons he used.

But it was 1971, and what happened at Dixie M. Hollins High School resulted in fighting, injuries, multiple arrests, and at least one stabbing.

I was seven years old in September of 1971, the first school year when court-ordered busing went into effect in an effort to achieve racial integration. One of the school districting lines went down my street. Had I lived on the other side of the street, I would have gone to Northwest Elementary. Instead, I was able to walk four blocks to Westgate Elementary. 

I didn't understand the controversy about busing.  That first year, I mainly remember the "bus students" listed on the roll in my third grade class.  They were Tonetta, Rita, Lolita, and Valarie, they were placed at the end of the roll and called out separately. 

But during September and October of 1971, Dixie M. Hollins High School was embroiled in controversy, a controversy that would end up making national news.  

In December, 2015, Tampa Bay Times reporter John Romano looked back on those days. He described the students who lived through them as "kids who fought with fists and wounded with words . . . who saw cops on the school's rooftop with rifles and saw adults inciting violence from across the street . . . who saw football games and school days canceled for fear of race riots."

It started a week after the school year began, when Dixie Hollins' principal got on the intercom and announced that the Confederate battle flag, the "Stars and Bars", would no longer be permitted on campus.  

For a school whose fight song was "Dixie" and whose athletic teams were called the "Rebels," this spelled trouble. 

The next day, angry adults, Confederate battle flags in hand, stood across the street, protesting.

For the next couple of weeks, they drove up and down the street, the Stars and Bars protruding from the backs of their cars, flapping in the breeze, as Black students arrived on campus. 

Tension built.  Fights broke out.  Students were sent home early due to fears of violence. 

The week of October 11, 1971, all hell broke loose. 

On October 12, 1971, the school had to be closed after what the St. Petersburg Times described as a "fist-swinging, rock-throwing, slogan-shouting melee." Afterwards, the school superintendent was quoted as saying, "God, I'm tired. They didn't have any courses like this in school administration." 

The next day, a 16-year-old girl brought a steak knife to school and stabbed a deputy in the chest.  Fortunately, the wound was minor.

Eventually, things settled down, though not without simmering unrest under the surface.

In 2020, although the official name of the school remains Dixie M. Hollins High School, the school decided to brand themselves as "Hollins High", and gave themselves a new nickname, the "Royals."

The irony here is that Dixie Martin Hollins, the first superintendent of schools for Pinellas County, supported education for all students, no matter what race, and he often hired people from Black colleges and universities. 

But with the first name "Dixie", the nickname "Rebels", and a mascot resembling a Confederate colonel, "we'd still be tied to a past that we needed to break free from," according to principal Bob Florio.  

This school year marks 50 years since those days of tension and rioting. I remember little about it except reading bits about it in the paper and seeing bits of it on the news. Two of the people arrested during that October week of violence were the father and sister of a girl in my sister's Girl Scout troop.

That Friday, I went with my mother and sister to drop my sister off at weekend camp. The father was there, and he and my mother had a long discussion. I heard none of it. Instead, as a seven-year-old going on eight, all I wondered were two things:  1. Why was he here and not in jail, since he'd been arrested (he was probably out on bail), and 2. Where were the marks of the handcuffs on his wrists? 

Such is the innocence of a little girl. 

I'd love to say that we've progressed in 50 years. 

But school violence? Confederate flag controversies? Racial tensions? 

Little, if anything, has changed.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tales from the Sickroom, Days 5-10 . . .

 I will just make it short and sweet:  

QUARANTINE IS DONE! 

I still have a mild amount of nausea but I can eat and nothing's coming back up.

And I will still wear a mask and wash/sanitize my hands.

But I can get out of the house.

Tomorrow I celebrate with a haircut!!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tales from the Sickroom, Days 2-5

 Both my son and I have now tested positive for COVID, and I’m having a hard time explaining why he tested positive when he got his shots. 

We are now all on quarantine, because my husband has also been told he can’t go back to work until I test negative. 

The biggest enemy of quarantine is boredom. While I have more advantages than my grandparents had when/if they were in quarantine, boredom is a universal problem. There are only so many games of solitaire you can play on an iPad, only so many websites you can visit. I fried my brain on too many solitaire games a couple of days ago. 

Tomorrow none of us will be at church.  We will go back to the days of online church, where I will make communion bread and we will dig out the last of the grape juice to drink. 

Quarantine also totally throws off an internal clock. I’ve lost a sense of what day it actually is and even had to check my phone to see what today’s date was. 

Fortunately, I fall into the category of “not that sick” and my husband took advantage of that . . . By having us go and do yard work in the back yard this afternoon. He mowed, I ran the edger. 

Tonight I got a nice infusion of courage from the movie “Darkest Hour”, the story of the first weeks of Winston Churchill’s term as prime minister in 1940.

None of us are lying in bed feverish and coughing. 

My release date should come on September 29th, barring another positive COVID test.  The test has already been scheduled.  

And I took advantage of Instacart to restock necessary supplies of apples, bananas and chocolate. 

Unfortunately, I had to settle for dark chocolate Reese’s cups rather than milk chocolate ones. :: places hand dramatically to forehead :: Oh, the humanity! Life is so unfair! 

On the other hand, if the lack of milk chocolate Reese’s Cups is an indication of how unfair life is, I think that is something I can put up with. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tales from the Sickroom, Day 1

 I have been ill off and on since around Labor Day. The worst of it was around the beginning of September, when I had a bad sore throat and it hurt to swallow.

I felt better right after Labor Day. Then I relapsed.

Finally, I did what I probably should have done when this whole thing started.

I signed up for a COVID test. 

The process took about five minutes and involved swishing a long-handled Q Tip in one nostril while the person counted to 12, then repeating the process in the other nostril. For those of you that had a COVID test where the swab was shoved up your nose almost to your brain, no, this was not like that. You just had to get enough to be tested.

After said swishing was completed, I broke off the cotton portion of the Q Tip into a vial filled with liquid, sealed it in plastic which contained the ominous orange and black warning "BIOHAZARD", then dropped it into the collection box. All of this was done at our pharmacy's drive thru. 

The test said "one to two days" and I had mine done Sunday, so I didn't expect to hear until Tuesday what my results were.

Last night my phone dinged with my results.

I tested positive.

First off, I was shocked but not really surprised. It's a shock when you see "positive" on a test where you wanted a "negative." Second, even though I've been vaccinated, I've heard about breakthrough COVID and I figure this is what it is. Third, I'm grateful I did have the vaccine because I would have been much sicker without it. 

Today I called my doctor's office.  I am to quarantine for the next 10 days. And my husband and son need to get tested.

When I told my son, he didn't get why he needed to be tested because he'd already had his shots. But I got him tested anyway. And my husband is scheduled for tomorrow. 

I am not really that sick. I just have lagging congestion, the occasional cough, and residual fatigue.

Last year, I would have been terrified at a positive COVID diagnosis. 

This year, I'm just annoyed because this morning, I was on either phone, e-mail or text notifying everyone who needed to be notified and changing appointments that needed to be changed. (I'm reminded of my mother in law's comment after she had a seizure -- probably due to a lack of magnesium -- a number of years ago. Her complaint was, it's in the middle of a busy week!) 

But, I'll take annoyance over hospitalization any day of the week. 

I can't use "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" as my theme song in this particular snarkfest because I don't "feel fine". If anyone can find a funny song about illness, send it my way. In the meantime, I will be waving from the sick room.  Cheers! 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Getting on with it, 20 years later

What more can I say about 9/11 that hasn't already been said, twenty years later?

We who are old enough to remember where we were, we've talked about where we were when we found out and how we felt. 

We've been through a 20-year war that began as a direct result of 9/11 and just ended in chaos a few weeks ago, and that's left everyone wondering, was it worth it? 

"Homeland Security" is now a regular phrase in the nation's vocabulary. 

We've grown used to the TSA's pat-downs, to taking off our shoes before we go through security screening, to buying 3 oz. bottles for our liquids.

This year's graduating seniors weren't even born when 9/11 happened. They learn about it in history class. 

Too many of us are too suspicious of anyone that doesn't look like us. 

And every September 11th, for too many, the bandage gets ripped off the wound, leaving it raw and exposed. We hear the reading of the names at Ground Zero, see the tears, see the photos of lost loved ones. 

Some want to remember. Some want to move on. 

Today, one of the "name readers" at Ground Zero specifically remembered her sister. I think the sister's name was Cathy.  

Cathy's sister said that one of Cathy's phrases was, "Get over it."

And then she said, "We've never gotten over it, but we've gotten on with it."

Getting on with it.

Maybe that is what should sum up these 20 years since 9/11. We have gotten on with it. 

But how well have we gotten on with it? 

Sixty-five children of 9/11 victims grew up to be first responders. 

Others enlisted in the military, wanting to serve and defend their country. 

And others looked for meaning in this tragedy. Some found a way to "get on with it" by serving others. 

Others have not.

They have "gotten on with it" by pointing fingers of blame at people who were not to blame, and encouraging hatred of people that should never be hated.

They have "gotten on with it" by using the phrase "America First" to excuse their hatred towards people and ideologies they do not like. 

Which leads to the question:  How am I "getting on with it"?

I'm remembering a personal loss today, in addition to the losses on 9/11:  my father died on September 11th, 1993, after fighting with Lou Gehrig's disease. He would probably be the type of person to say, "Get over it."

I also lost my mother in 2017. 

Like everyone, I am navigating a world dealing with a pandemic. 

I've spent nearly 20 years dealing with the reality of autism, the losses that it sometimes brings and the many gains it has brought.

There are days I seethe in anger and frustration at the finger-pointing and blaming going on in today's society. I fear that another 9/11 will not unite us. Instead, it will break us. 

My heart is especially broken over Christians fighting Christians over how to handle the pandemic, how to respond to racial issues, how to deal with the current political climate, and other subjects. 

So where do I go?  How do I "get on with it"? How do we all "get on with it"? 

Well, the longer I live, the fewer answers I have. 

But for me, I have to look to who is outside myself, and that is God. I know Him as someone who knows and understands my anger and pain, and my questions, and who can take it. I don't understand Him at times, and I don't understand at times why He continues to allow pain and evil in this world. 

And yet, I believe, in spite of my anger, in spite of my pain, in spite of the many times I have shaken my fist at God and demanded to know, why are you allowing this to happen?  I still believe He loves me, I still believe He is a God of love, I still believe He exists, and I still believe He is there.  

So how do I get on with it?

I reach up, put my hand in His, and together, we move forward.

Today is a day to stop and remember. For some, it's a day to stop and grieve. 

For all of us, tomorrow will be another day to get on with it. 

So, to combine the words of Cathy's sister and the last words of Todd Beamer, one of the heroic passengers of United Flight 93 . . . Get on with it. Are you ready? Let's roll.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Anyone have a hobbit hole for rent?

Okay, guys, I need a hobbit hole. Preferably in New Zealand, although they are back in lockdown after one case of COVID. 

It all started on Tuesday, when I went to a new skin doctor and was told that I needed, among other things, to wear a pair of compression stockings. After hearing that, I feel like I should also be shopping for a walker and/or cane. (The stockings are for a good reason; to improve blood circulation, but I still can’t shake the feeling that these are for people older than I am! I will be 58 in October.) 

Yesterday, I measured my leg to get a proper fit for said stockings. My thigh circumference is bigger than Scarlett O’Hara’s waistline in Gone With the Wind! (No, I will not reveal my thigh measurements.) No wonder Southern women were always getting the vapors and fainting.  They couldn’t breathe! 

Next, I spent thirteen hours over two days proofreading a transcript littered with inaudibles, mistranscriptions, dropped words, dropped portions of sentences, and sentences that were completely dropped from the transcript.  This was not the court reporter’s fault; she was working under difficult circumstances. Nor is it my employer’s fault.  They work to meet deadlines from above.  The person who did the transcription . . . I’ll be charitable and say that they probably need plenty of practice.

Then yesterday, I started seeing reports about a truck parked near the US Capitol which allegedly had explosives.  After January 6th, that would be frightening enough.  

When I heard where the truck was, my eyes nearly popped.  

It would halfway make sense if that truck was parked outside of the Capitol, the White House, the Supreme Court, or even the Jefferson Memorial.

But the place where this nutcase chose to park his truck and air his complaints was . . . The Library of Congress.

I’m a former librarian. What this guy did was not just unlawful and dangerous. It amounts to blasphemy!

I was left shaking my head and thinking, The Library of Congress? Of all places? 

****

My above comments should be read with an appropriate amount of snark. These below comments are meant to be read without snark. 

When the nutcase parked his truck, employees at the Library of Congress and surrounding buildings had to be evacuated. I wonder how many people had flashbacks to January 6th, especially the Capitol Police. When you hear the word “bomb” you have to take it seriously. Especially in this day and age. 

I snark about wearing compression stockings, but they’re for a good health reason. At least I know where I can get them. And I hope it will help my skin problems (I have stasis dermatitis on my left leg.)

My job can be stressful at times, but I’m employed. Many are not. 

I told my husband that my experience proofing that particular transcript was a new definition of hell . . . but Afghani refugees, and Afghanis who can’t get out — especially women and girls — are living their own hell which is much worse than me having to proofread a difficult transcript. 

But yeah, I’d still like to have a hobbit hole to hide out in, if for no other reason than to have an excuse for a second breakfast. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"I'm too young for this!"

Several years ago, a young man in the youth ministry replied, "Yes, ma'am," when I asked him a question.

Later, I said to his mother, "I appreciated his manners, but I'm too young to be a ma'am!"

We both laughed as I said that. 

Today, I had another episode of, "I'm too young for this!" 

It all began with a trip to the dermatologist's office. I've been having serious discoloration and itching on my left leg for some time; have had two biopsies, both showing "spongiotic dermatitis", and finally decided to try a new dermatologist.  When I made the appointment, I said "eczema" was my problem.

The dermatologist came into the examining room, took one look at my leg, and said, it's not eczema, you've got some fluid buildup there.  The official name for my condition is stasis dermatitis.  

He's prescribed me a skin cream and also told me that there's a skin cream that can help with the itching. 

He's also told me to get a pair of . . . wait for it . . . compression stockings.  

He explained that it was supposed to help with the fluid . . . but all I could think was, "Compression stockings?  Those are for old people. I'll be 58 in October.  I'm too young for this!"

I am also supposed to keep the left leg elevated above the heart when possible.   

I told the doc, "Gee, thanks," sarcastically.  Later, I apologized for my snarkiness and said that what I hoped was healthy snark was one of the ways I dealt with things.  I think the doc understood.  I did tell  him, in all seriousness, that at least this was something that I could do (and told the nurse afterwards that it's better than hearing, there's nothing you can do.) 

On the way out of the building where the doc's office is, I stopped at their pharmacy and got a bottle of the over the counter stuff to help with the itching. 

So, I will be off to the Internet, that purveyor of all things necessary (and most things unnecessary) to find myself a pair of compression stockings. 

And since I'm supposed to be keeping my leg elevated, I am sorely tempted to call my insurance company and ask if they would be willing to pay for a La-z-Boy recliner because I need it for medical purposes.

I am sure, however, that their answer -- delivered with the appropriate snark, of course -- will be, "No."

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.