Jam Session —  History Rhymes:  Black Lives Lost, PT. 4

Jam Session — History Rhymes: Black Lives Lost, PT. 4

When we asked Cornelius Eady about Black History Month, he responded by sending us a cycle of songs / poems. Eight in all, Eady named the cycle “History Rhymes,” after the famous Mark Twain quote, “History never repeats itself, but it rhymes.”

Performed by the Cornelius Eady Trio, this cycle commemorates the injustices and wrongful deaths of many Black Americans. Riff has shared CE Trio’s songs dedicated to Emmett Till, Korynn Gaines, Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, many others unfairly incarcerated, and millions ignored and forgotten by America looking the other way. Today’s post, “Turpentine,” looks at the many folks killed during the Tulsa Massacre of 1921 along “Black Wall Street.” Learn more here.

“In addition to being a major poet, Eady is among the most prolific and important contemporary American songwriters. Whether he is working with his eponymous trio, featuring top-rate guitarists Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu, or accompanying himself on guitar or dulcimer, Eady is incessantly writing memorable songs that are tailored to our troubling times.” —  John Freeman, The Museum of Americana.

Cornelius Eady TRIO

National Book Award-winner and Pulitzer Prize-nominated poet Cornelius Eady has set his poetry to song with the Cornelius Eady Trio. Eady’s songs tell the story of passing time, the Black-American experience and the Blues in the style of Folk & Americana music. Guitarists Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu join Eady to create layered and graceful arrangements to bolster Eady’s adept craftsmanship as a songwriter, lyricist, and poet. Cornelius Eady Trio has performed at Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery, AWP Conference, Peabody Essex Museum, and Hill-Stead Museum and recorded at Sun Studio in Memphis, TN.

Cornelius Eady so well captures the spirit of RIFF–and especially the topic of “Jam Session”–taking us beyond poetry, beyond music, and into that hallowed place of meaning.

(Eady’s music is) in the vein of Taj Mahal when he’s at his metaphysical best, Keb’ Mo’ when he’s most squarely located at the crossroads of tradition and innovation, or Eric Bibb when he’s at his most soulfully transcendent.” — Joe Francis Doerr

Says Cornelius Eady:

“on old maps, all of the places left unexplored were often marked as ‘parts unknown’ (or ‘here be monsters’). A song for a year [2020] where the term ‘Never seen this before’ has been said far too often…”

Turpentine

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

I could see planes
Circling in mid-air
They hummed, darted
And dipped low

I could hear something
Falling down like hail
Falling down on the roofs

The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls
The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls

Down East Archer St
The Old Mid-way Hotel
Was burning,
Burning from its top

I saw a dozen planes
Maybe more
Darting here and there
Like a crazy flock of birds

The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls
The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls

The flames rose and
Licked its lips
Black Tulsa
Burned down from the top

Greenwood folks was running
With a hell hound on its trail
Had a bark like a
Tommy gun

The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls
The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls

Here’s a postcard
Of a black corpse on fire
Of a black church
Charred to
Pennies.

Black folk shouldn’t get rich
Shouldn’t talk back
Shouldn’t brush
A white woman’s hand

The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls
The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls

I could see planes
Circling in mid air
I knew too well
Where they came from

I wondered, where is the fire dept ?
Why won’t they let the Red Cross in?
Why are the cops standing
With the mob?

The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls
The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls
I paused and waited
For a chance to run
As flames around me
Belched and roared

The planes kept raining
Greenwood straight to hell
And hell was icy cold.

The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls
The sidewalks were burning
With Turpentine balls.

 

Listen to “turpentine” here.

Twilig(so

parts unknown

 Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

Hide yourself
‘hind the Misery Tree.
Milishy man looking
For you and me.

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

Like a poem
That can’t find a rhyme
Like a murder
That ain’t a crime

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

President called up his Goons
Said their time
Is coming soon

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

Up jumped Karen to
Call the Police
Shoot the protestors
Give ‘em peace

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

Hush now, baby,
Hear that sound?
New Jim Crow flying
From Town to town

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

Virus come
To sweep you away
Boss man says
That’s OK.

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

Meet me by
The misery tree
Wave good bye
To what used to be

Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown
Parts Unknown, People
Parts Unknown.
Hey

 

Listen to “parts unknown” here.

 

Cornelius Eady Trio

Cornelius Eady: Vocal;

Charlie Rauh: Acoustic Guitar & Electric Bass;

Lisa Liu: Electric Piano & Guitar.

Arranged by Rauh & Liu.

“Turpentine” — Engineer & Mix: Tom Gardner.

“Parts Unknown” mixed by Charlie Rau.

 

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady 

Jam Session —  History Rhymes:  Black Lives Lost, PT. 3

Jam Session — History Rhymes: Black Lives Lost, PT. 3

When we asked Cornelius Eady about Black History Month, he responded by sending us a cycle of songs / poems. Eight in all, Eady named the cycle “History Rhymes,” after the famous Mark Twain quote, “History never repeats itself, but it rhymes.”

Performed by the Cornelius Eady Trio, this cycle commemorates the injustices and wrongful deaths of many Black Americans. We have been sharing two a week the entire month of February. This, our third installment, begins with a song dedicated to the memory of Sandra Bland; the second recalls the “scary,” but transformational year of 2020 in America.

“In addition to being a major poet, Eady is among the most prolific and important contemporary American songwriters. Whether he is working with his eponymous trio, featuring top-rate guitarists Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu, or accompanying himself on guitar or dulcimer, Eady is incessantly writing memorable songs that are tailored to our troubling times.” —  John Freeman, The Museum of Americana.

Cornelius Eady TRIO

National Book Award-winner and Pulitzer Prize-nominated poet Cornelius Eady has set his poetry to song with the Cornelius Eady Trio. Eady’s songs tell the story of passing time, the Black-American experience and the Blues in the style of Folk & Americana music. Guitarists Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu join Eady to create layered and graceful arrangements to bolster Eady’s adept craftsmanship as a songwriter, lyricist, and poet. Cornelius Eady Trio has performed at Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery, AWP Conference, Peabody Essex Museum, and Hill-Stead Museum and recorded at Sun Studio in Memphis, TN.

Cornelius Eady so well captures the spirit of RIFF–and especially the topic of “Jam Session”–taking us beyond poetry, beyond music, and into that hallowed place of meaning.

(Eady’s music is) in the vein of Taj Mahal when he’s at his metaphysical best, Keb’ Mo’ when he’s most squarely located at the crossroads of tradition and innovation, or Eric Bibb when he’s at his most soulfully transcendent.” — Joe Francis Doerr  

Says Cornelius Eady:

“[Haint is] A re-recording of a single first recorded with Rough Magic. Sandra Bland, a black woman, was stopped for a broken tail light in Texas. She died three days later, hanged in her cell. She was arrested for asking ‘Why should I?’ when the cop ordered her to put out her cigarette while still sitting in her car. Another cop, commenting on the story on a cable news show, said while the story was sad, her arrest was justified, since talking back to the cop proved she was arrogant.”

      Learn more about Sandra Bland here. 

“Walt Whitman was lying on his sick bed in Camden, NJ, and a biographer, about to leave, and noticing this hoped he’d be feeling better soon. Whitman replied, ‘It is clouded now, hopefully, it’ll pass by.’ A good way, I think, to wind up 2020, a very scary year.”

Haint  (TRIO VERSION)

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

 

I got this ache in my heart

The state of Texas is my host

I got this hole in my soul

The State of Texas made me a ghost

 

And my ghost howls

Woe

 

Now I’m a wandering spirit

My body swings in my cell

When they cut this poor gal down

Who’ll know how I got here?

 

And my ghost howls

Woe

 

Maybe I died by my own hand

Maybe I died by hands unknown

Maybe I was dead

The moment I talked back

Maybe I was dead

‘fore I was born

 

And my ghost howls

Woe

 

Damn the cop

Who damned my black skin

Damn the judge

Who agreed with him

My name’s Sandra Bland

I should be alive

Sass back in Texas

You commit “suicide”

 

And my ghost howls

Woe.

  

Listen to “Haint” here.

Twilig(so

It’ll Pass By

 Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

 “It is clouded now, possibly, it’ll pass by”

                        -Walt Whitman’s last words

                         To biographer Sadakichi Hartmann

 

 

It’s clouded now, but it’ll pass by

All those years

All that blood and tears

It’s clouded now, but it’ll pass by

 

You think you’re down

You’re tougher than the dirt

You think you’re out

You’re stronger than the hurt.

 

You think you’re lost

But your feet’s on the ground

That fog they taught you

Won’t stick around

 

Tried to shoot you down

The buckshot missed your wing

They ain’t got nothing

Can stop the song you sing

 

Hey, America

We’re waiting on you

Say, America

What you gonna do?

 

All those years

All that blood and tears.

 

 

 

Listen to “It’ll Pass by” here.

 

Cornelius Eady Trio

Cornelius Eady: Vocal;

Charlie Rauh: Acoustic Guitar, Electric Bass, Drums, & Percussion;

Lisa Liu: Electric Piano, Electric Organ, Elect & Acoustic Guitar;

Concetta Abbate: Violin.

Arranged by Rauh & Liu.

“Haint” mixed by Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu. 

Concetta Abbate, String Arrangement.

“It’ll Pass By” mixed by Lisa Liu.

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady 

Jam Session —  History Rhymes:  Black Lives Lost, PT. 2

Jam Session — History Rhymes: Black Lives Lost, PT. 2

When we asked Cornelius Eady about Black History Month, he responded by sending us a cycle of songs / poems. Eight in all, Eady named the cycle “History Rhymes,” after the famous Mark Twain quote, “History never repeats itself, but it rhymes.”

Performed by the Cornelius Eady Trio, this cycle commemorates the injustices and wrongful deaths of many Black Americans. We will share two a week over the month of February. This is our second installment.

“In addition to being a major poet, Eady is among the most prolific and important contemporary American songwriters. Whether he is working with his eponymous trio, featuring top-rate guitarists Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu, or accompanying himself on guitar or dulcimer, Eady is incessantly writing memorable songs that are tailored to our troubling times.” —  John Freeman, The Museum of Americana.

Cornelius Eady TRIO

National Book Award-winner and Pulitzer Prize-nominated poet Cornelius Eady has set his poetry to song with the Cornelius Eady Trio. Eady’s songs tell the story of passing time, the Black-American experience and the Blues in the style of Folk & Americana music. Guitarists Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu join Eady to create layered and graceful arrangements to bolster Eady’s adept craftsmanship as a songwriter, lyricist, and poet. Cornelius Eady Trio has performed at Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery, AWP Conference, Peabody Essex Museum, and Hill-Stead Museum and recorded at Sun Studio in Memphis, TN.

Cornelius Eady so well captures the spirit of RIFF–and especially the topic of “Jam Session”–taking us beyond poetry, beyond music, and into that hallowed place of meaning.

(Eady’s music is) in the vein of Taj Mahal when he’s at his metaphysical best, Keb’ Mo’ when he’s most squarely located at the crossroads of tradition and innovation, or Eric Bibb when he’s at his most soulfully transcendent.” — Joe Francis Doerr

Says Cornelius Eady:

“[‘TWILIGHT IS THE HOUR’ is] A re-recording of a song first recorded by my old band, Rough Magic. Soon after Trayvon’s murder I attended a poetry reading in Bryant Park; all the poets who read there had a poem about him, or the world that allowed this to happen. It was dusk, and the slow glow of the mercury lamps reminded me of fireflies . . . “

(Read the tragic story of Trayvon Martin’s shooting here.)

About ‘Razor Blade’: “A song that started out as my version of a prison work song, until we found out Lisa Liu once spent a summer playing keyboards in a funk band . . . “

Twilight Is The Hour

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

The lamps in Bryant Park glow like fireflies

Duende floats under the trees.

A group of poets sing the blues

To fill in the space where you ought to be

 

Twilight is the hour of the Motherless Child

Another man gone, gone down that lonesome mile.

Twilight is the hour.

 

There’s a tongue we use to let things go

There’s a song that we shake at danger.

There’s a way to wash a body down,

Even if he’s a stranger.

 

Twilight is the hour of the Motherless Child

Another man gone, gone down that lonesome mile

Twilight is the hour.

 

There are words we use to follow a hearse,

A prayer to un-jumble the mad universe.

The poets breathe Trayvon into the wind.

It could happen to you like it happened to him.

 

 It could happen to you like it happened to him.

Listen to “Twilight is the hour” here.

Twilig(so

Razor Blade 

 Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

Capt. tossed me in a box car

Filled it with razor blades

Capt. locked me in a box car

Filled with razor blades

Walked out the next morning

 With a trim and a shave.

 

 Capt. took the fever blanket

 Laid out my dying bed

 Capt. took the fever blanket

 Laid out my dying bed

 Looked so disappointed

 When I raised my vaccinated head.

 

 Nothing ever seem to go

 The Capt.’s way

 Nothing ever seem to go

 The Capt.’s way

 Every time he close the book

 I write another page.

 

Please don’t tell the Capt.

He ain’t ever gonna win

Please don’t tell the Capt.

He ain’t ever gonna win

 

Gets tall as a wall

Look at him fall in the wind.

 

 

 

Listen to “Razor blade” here.

 

Cornelius Eady Trio

Cornelius Eady: Vocal;

Charlie Rauh: Acoustic Guitar & Electric Bass;

Lisa Liu: Electric Piano & Guitar.

Arranged by Rauh & Liu.

“Twilight is the Hour” mixed by Charlie Rauh.

“Razor Blade” mixed by Lisa Liu.

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady 

Jam Session —  History Rhymes:  Black Lives Lost, PT. 1

Jam Session — History Rhymes: Black Lives Lost, PT. 1

When we asked Cornelius Eady about Black History Month, he responded by sending us a cycle of songs / poems. Eight in all, Eady named the cycle “History Rhymes,” after the famous Mark Twain quote, “History never repeats itself, but it rhymes.”

Performed by the Cornelius Eady Trio, this cycle commemorates the injustices and wrongful deaths of many Black Americans. We will share two a week over the month of February.

Cornelius Eady TRIO

National Book Award-winner and Pulitzer Prize-nominated poet Cornelius Eady has set his poetry to song with the Cornelius Eady Trio. Eady’s songs tell the story of passing time, the Black-American experience and the Blues in the style of Folk & Americana music. Guitarists Charlie Rauh and Lisa Liu join Eady to create layered and graceful arrangements to bolster Eady’s adept craftsmanship as a songwriter, lyricist, and poet. Cornelius Eady Trio has performed at Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery, AWP Conference, Peabody Essex Museum, and Hill-Stead Museum and recorded at Sun Studio in Memphis, TN.

Cornelius Eady so well captures the spirit of RIFF–and especially the topic of “Jam Session”–taking us beyond poetry, beyond music, and into that hallowed place of meaning.

(Eady’s music is) in the vein of Taj Mahal when he’s at his metaphysical best, Keb’ Mo’ when he’s most squarely located at the crossroads of tradition and innovation, or Eric Bibb when he’s at his most soulfully transcendent.” — Joe Francis Doerr

As Cornelius says, the first song, “Mississippi Summer,” came into being as “An imagining of the last car ride of Emmett TilL.” 

(Read the tragic story of Emmett Till’s murder here.)

The next song, “The dead mother,” is dedicated to korryn gaines.

(Read about the shooting of korryn gaines and her son in her home here.)

MISSISSIPPI SUMMER

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

You don’t think it’ll happen

til it happens to you.

You thought what you said meant nothin,

But those tires are comin’ for you.

Mississippi Summer

Chicago boy wakes up in surprise

Mississippi Summer

Now you’re the apple of these old boys eyes.

 

This is the way we make a point

This is how a point gets made

They pull you out a nice, warm bed

And toss you in a watery grave.

Mississippi Summer

They’ve been searching for you for days

Mississippi Summer

Cash you out as the debt gets paid.

 

Now they got you in

The back of the car

They’re laughing and you know you’re the joke

Won’t stop as you start to cry

Won’t stop as your bones get broke

Mississippi Summer

One-way trip under a murderous sky

Mississippi Summer

Rattler’s hunt and the hoot owls fly.

 

This is the way we make a point

When a White gal takes offense

Dirty Negro thinks he’s white

Dirty Negro ain’t got no sense

Mississippi Summer

Emmitt Till won’t see the sun

Mississippi Summer

On the bus to see the way things’ done.

 

Headlights spears on an empty road

Whiskey and hate on their breath

How many miles til the deal goes down?

How many minutes til a dead boy drowns?

Mississippi Summer

Off to meet

Who you’re ’posed to be

The last Mississippi Summer

In D-I-X-I-E.


Listen to “Mississippi Summer” here.

The Dead Mother

 Words and Music: Cornelius Eady

 

They shot me

For a question

While I held

My child

 

Like a dog

That you put down

When she barks

Too wild

 

My black skin

Was resisting

In a cop’s mad eye

 

They shot me

For impatience

While I held my kid

 

Like a monster

From a swamp

Rising from the Id

 

Surrounded

Defiant

Look at what they did

 

My soul and

Gunpowder

Rising in the air

 

My assumptions

And my boy

Lying wounded there

 

My black skin

Was poison

Was a losing hand

 

Oh people

Good people

See what they have done

 

Smashed my home

And took my breath

And stole me from my son

 

Took my name

And misspelled it

As the crazy one

 

Bring a sharp axe

To the mountain

Tear that mountain down

 

Scream my name out

Like a siren

Though every street in town

 

Don’t bury me

Plant my story

Like a seed in the ground. 

 

Listen to “The Dead Mother” here.

Cornelius Eady Trio

Cornelius Eady: Vocal;

Charlie Rauh: Acoustic Guitar & Electric Bass;

Lisa Liu: Electric Piano & Guitar.

Arranged by Rauh & Liu.

Mixed by Charlie Rauh.

Words and Music: Cornelius Eady 

Opinion and Truth Are Not Synonyms

Opinion and Truth Are Not Synonyms

Yesterday, a friend asked me what I thought of the participation of veterans in the events at the Capital Building in Washington, D.C. this past week beginning on January 6. He knows I am a veteran of the Vietnam war wounded in combat and that I was also active in the anti-war movement upon being discharged from the Marine Corps in 1969. He felt that made my opinion valuable. Maybe it does, or maybe not so much. But it is also worth a disclaimer, hence the title of this post.

Truth

What I write after this paragraph is my opinion. It may contain truth, but life is a big picture, a panoramic movie screen. It’s complex and nuanced and comprised of almost as many realities as individuals. That is my way of saying I don’t know everything and don’t pretend to understand all the intricate motivations that drove veterans into their actions.

First, let me interject something here. I’m bothered by comparisons of this event to Black Lives Matter and Antifa protests the past summer. Yes, looting and violence occurred during them. It has on the periphery of every major protest in this country that I know of, including when Indiana University fired Bobby Knight and when the University of Kentucky won its last NCAA championship. But the looters and the criminals this summer comprised a very tiny percentage of the whole, were most always outside the movements themselves, and some have been proven to be right-wing agitators.

More importantly, these protests and marches were held to correct injustice and discrimination, as were the civil rights and antiwar protests of the sixties. They were not initiated with violence in mind and with a desire to create an injustice, the overturning of a legal and proper democratic election.

The fact that Donald Trump lost the presidential election by more than seven million votes is not an opinion. It’s the unavoidable fucking truth. Let’s not compare apples to oranges or Jesus to Charley Manson.

That said, there were two groups of veterans active in D.C. during and immediately after the violent insurrection on January 6, 2021. One group of veterans, along with other deranged and mostly white people, intended malice and an undermining of the American government simply because they didn’t get their way in the recent election.

You don’t come, as one veteran did, with 500 rounds of ammo, several Molotov cocktails, and two pipe bombs to peacefully protest anything. You come to violently bend everyone else to your will. You come to kill, maim, and torture. Yes, that happens in wars every day, but read the soldier’s oath. When it happens, a soldier is supposed to be engaged in defending his government, not destroying it.

“Let’s not compare apples to oranges

or Jesus to Charley Manson.”

And, yes, you can peacefully protest as a veteran after the fact if you feel betrayed by the mission itself. Thousands of us did upon returning from an unjust war in Vietnam and thousands have continued in voicing their concerns in America’s pre-emptive wars to protect corporate interests in third world countries. I know because I traveled to D.C. myself in 2008 to march with Veterans for Peace to end the war in Iraq, one that we knew by then was being fought under false pretenses. No one brought any weapons, and nothing was damaged. We never broke formation. We made our voices heard and left.

This was not that on January 6th. If you’re honest and halfway sane, you know that. As a Marine my motto was and is “Semper Fidelis” always faithful to my oath, to my country, to the Constitution and to Marine Corps values—Honor, Courage, Commitment. That faithfulness also dictates a responsibility to criticize the humans who comprise the government and hold them legally accountable for their actions. What we, as veterans, remain faithful to are the ideals that create this government, not demagogues who seek to pervert those ideals for personal benefit.

The other motto that I tried to live by as a non-commissioned officer in combat was also from the Latin “Ductus Exemplo” or lead by example.

 

 

I took my son to that anti-war march in D.C. because I wanted him to see one of the tools our democracy gives us to help correct it when politicians lead it astray for personal agendas. Used correctly and peacefully, protest is a strong and viable means for change—see Mahatma Gandhi, see Martin Luther King. Again, this was not that.

Wiping shit on hallowed walls, killing police officers, breaking windows, threatening to hang a vice-president, and assaulting the very bedrock symbols of our nation in a mob riot because your favorite white guy didn’t win a legal election is actually the opposite of a legitimate protest.

 

 

 

The word for this is also treason. I repeat, veterans involved in the insurrection of January 6th betrayed their solemn oath to this nation.

On January 7th another group of veterans made themselves known in and around the Capital Building. These vets spent the day cleaning up trash, fixing broken things, and helping to restore order to a damaged democracy. I can say without hesitation that these are the brothers-in-arms whose company I prefer and who exhibit that quality of Ductus Exemplo that is so needed now in our government and our country. 

Will I stop my activism personally because of the stench and stain left by riotous fools on the ideals that I once fought and bled for more than fifty years ago? Will I stop criticizing with words and with my vote those corrupt and self-serving politicians who betray the same ideals as these deluded rioters? No.

My last venture into peaceful activity came in 2016. I was 68 years old and drove over a thousand miles to link arms peacefully with the Great Sioux Nation at Standing Rock reservation. Yes, there was violence there. People long abused by the politicians and corporations were attempting to stop a dangerous oil pipeline. Its only existence was for more profit from foreign buyers. However, the violence came from local law enforcement thugs and corporate mercenaries as they sprayed Native Americans with water cannons in sub-zero weather, shot them with rubber bullets, and crippled them with flash grenades while they stood in line quietly praying to their ancestors for guidance. After years of peaceful protests and sacrifice and after years of legal court battles, the Dakota Access pipeline was shut done.

I’m getting too old and physically damaged for that type of action now, but as long as my mind works, I will continue on the front lines figuratively, if not literally. But I will act in accordance with my values of Honor, Courage, and Commitment and remember that my actions should always be in harmony with the goal of maintaining the ideals that so many of my brothers have died to protect.

Semper Fidelis.

Eight Minutes. Forty-Six Seconds.

Eight Minutes. Forty-Six Seconds.

Ask anyone who has ever had cops for friends, and they will tell you the reason they all stick together is because so few understand or appreciate what they do, what they see, how they cope. 

I do. 

I worked city desk of The St. Louis Post-Dispatch for several years before I begged off and went to features. Hard news is where you can meet, date and marry either a cop, firefighter, lawyer, doctor or judgethe people you run into when there’s a fire, homicide, major court case, or you’re cited for contempt for not surrendering notes at trial.  

They also become “reliable sources” who provide off-the-record information that makes the difference between Page 1, and being buried inside, among ads for used cars and vacuum cleaners. 

I learned this when I was assigned to cover a general alarm fire at a senior complex where firefighters brought out so many charred bodies they had to take turns going in. One guy threw up on the grass, walked away a few feet and just stared into space, while another sat down on the curb and sobbed. 

I scribbled frantically in my reporter’s notebook, capturing the scene until I could no longer stand it. I remembered how my mother cautioned years ago to always wear clean underwear and take Kleenex in case there’s no toilet paper wherever. 

Mother’s first admonition didn’t seem relevant at the fire, but I could offer the guy something to blow his nose on other than his shirt sleeve. I sat down beside him and probably said something stupid, like “Are you okay?” as I handed him the last of my tissues. 

We dated a few times and just drifted apart, but in that time, I learned about what firefighters have to endure, including people more concerned about saving their stash than their partners; the neighbors who want to save their house next door and try to commandeer the hose; scantily clad women who offer to show their appreciation later. 

The homicide guy was pretty darned special. At 6’6” he towered over my 5’1”. Our paths crossed at a triple homicide. It doesn’t get more romantic than that. Two men and a woman had been shot in a flat above a store.  

The building was old and the floor slanted so that blood from the two male victims trailed from the kitchen into a narrow hallway. Blood-spattered scales sat still where the deceased had been measuring and bagging heroin.  

“Our paths crossed at a triple homicide. It doesn’t get more romantic than that.”

At the other end of the hallway was a bedroom where the third victim, a woman who had been nursing her newborn, lay. She had been shot in the face at close range. When a cop pulled back the covers to see if there were other woundsthe baby woke up bawling. It scared the daylights out of everyone. 

It was then that everyone seemed to notice me and handed me the swaddled infant, thinking I was a social worker. At that point I had to own up to being a reporter.  

The lead homicide detective was apoplectic. He chewed me out. He yelled, he cursed, he threatened me with arrest for impeding an investigation. I let him vent, at which point he made the mistake of asking me who the hell did I think I was. 

I looked up into his very red face and replied, “A working stiff, just like you, trying to do my job.”  He was so angry he couldn’t decide which was worse: my quiet response or the fact that I called him a working stiff. He escorted me down and out of the crime scene, by which time the actual social worker was arriving. He escorted her up, completely ignoring me. That, I thought, was that.  

But no. He called the next day to apologize for his street-cop language and offered to take me to dinner. The story ran above the fold in page 1. The next year or so was exciting and informative. 

Some time after that romance ran its course, I got another assignment that drew me into a relationship with a command rank lieutenant, who in the course of our four years together, became a captain.  

He was an extraordinary man. We liked the same music; we did museums, dinner parties, and concerts. We took walks along the riverfront and just plain enjoyed each other. Even my friends liked him, once they recovered from the fact that I lived with a cop. 

Upon his promotion, he was assigned to one of the city’s more problematic districts— half black, half white, half wealthy A quarter were upwardly mobile blacks and whites, and a quarter were poor blacks. He also got the uniformed cops nobody else knew what to do with. 

Day after day we swapped horror stories. It was easy for me to move on to a less stressful job, and I did. All I really cared about was raising my daughter who, until I met him, was my responsibility. She was bused to and from school. The bus dropped her at the police station where she napped in his office until one of us brought her home. 

The men and women under the captain’s command flourished. He promoted based on merit, not political connection. He insisted that officers who needed therapy get it, with the understanding they had a job waiting once they made it through. 

He organized community fish fries with spaghetti, slaw, and cornbread. The guys let kids sit in squad cars and turn on lights and sirens. Kids could do homework at the station. Crime plummeted. Community policing worked. 

I write all this because I know what cops go through. They see and experience stuff I don’t ever want to see again. Only the men and women in blue know what it’s like. 

Some make it through just fine. My homicide guy who was white (and probably still is) was extraordinary. He was tough if he had to be, but not if he didn’t. He was smart, decent, and kind. We talked honestly and openly about race and about some of the bone-chilling cases he had to handle.  

The lieutenant who became a captain was only the fourth or fifth black captain in the St. Louis Police Department. The pressure on them all was horrendous. They couldn’t afford to make a mistake. In turn they had to manage uniformed officers who did. 

I am delighted that the massive demonstrations over the summer resulted in a long, hard look at how law enforcement works — or sadly, how it often fails to work.  

With a new administration we’re possibly closer than we’ve been in my lifetime to getting something akin to positive change in policing. I know my limited experience with men and women in blue is not representative of anything other than my personal experience. I also know the impact of what bad cops do too often outweighs the good.  

If we can just get the good ones to speak out against the bad ones — and get the bad ones out altogether, the light at the end of the tunnel will no longer look like an oncoming train.

How providential that a courageous young woman with a cell phone camera made change happen.

How fortuitous that eight minutes and forty-six seconds can change the world. 

George Floyd.
Say his name.   
Say all their names.