Luis Ramirez's Murderers Walk

Last August I wrote about the murder of Luis Ramirez. Today I read that his murderers, local football heroes in the small town of Shenandoah Pennsylvania, have been officially deemed not guilty of murder by an all-white jury. Apparently they are merely guilty of "simple assault".

I am sickened, but not surprised.

My original post was called Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football, because it was as much about the particular dynamic between small rural communities and their football heroes as it was about the brutal murder of Luis Ramirez. When I read the details last summer, my first thought was, these boys are going to walk.

Shenandoah is a small town of 5,000 in Pennsylvania. I went to high school in a town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. When I read the quotes from local police, the histories of the accused boys, and the comments of some of the townspeople, it was familiar territory. Not the murder, but that certain feel within an insulated community of "born 'n raised" folks and the relationship they have with their football team. It's not something that can be found or understood in cities, or even the suburbs. It's not something easily explained. But it is real. Real enough that I knew - and I bet the people of Shenandoah knew - that in the end, these boys would walk.

What message does this verdict send, as our country becomes more and more polarized, the anti-immigration crowd becomes more strident, and Swine Flu is associated with a nationality, a skin color? What message? Will the next drunken mob of high school heroes, amped up on testosterone and hate, take heed from this verdict, or will they feel righteous and invincible?

Last August I hoped justice would win out in the end. I hoped I would be surprised by the verdict. In the end, those boys walked. And I am not surprised.


Photo: Joe Spring, New York Times, Sep-07

Pay No Mind to That Earlier Unpleasantness.

Why hello, darlings. Feeling much better now, thank you. It's a wonder what that extra three hours of sleep can do for a body! Of course, three hours of exercise and housecleaning would've done it more good, but then I'd still be bitchy. It's a trade off.

I wrote about wrestling here last season, the son's first season ever, how brave these kids are to grapple around in shiny, spandex suits in public while in the throes of puberty, the intricacies of wrestling a female opponent, and how much I respect these young people. It ain't for sissies, and I don't mean just physically either. There's something about the way team connects and looks out for each other, too.

Looking for the link, I realized I missed my first blogiversary, or whatever you call it, which was this insightful, erudite post:

So, this is my fancy blog. Testing, 1 2 3...

Not even kidding. Lame.

Anyway, this is the son's first year of high school wrestling. There are two other guys in his weight class. They challenge each other for the right to wrestle in the one varsity slot for each weight class. There's an older guy who's pretty good, and if the son does manage to get past him, guess who he ultimately has to challenge for that varsity slot?

That would be the team captain. He's a senior.

The son, no fool, said, "Well, I'll just challenge for the experience then," Smart kid. I would not want to be a freshman on varsity anyway. You'd get your ass kicked all the damn time.

Last week, Mr. Team Captain couldn't wrestle for some reason. I get this phone call:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Male Offspring: Um, Anyu? I have some news that's going to sound good, but ... it's really not.

Me: [bracing myself] Okay, buddy, what's up?

MO: So, apparently, I'm wrestling varsity tonight. Michael can't wrestle.

Me: That's great! Good for you, buddy!

MO: Um, not really. All the older guys know my opponent. He's like, a beast or something!

Me: Well, okay, this is high school, you expect that, right? Besides, wasn't your nickname The Beast last year?

MO: That was middle school. This guy is seriously a beast. I think he has a beard. All the guys look sorry for me. They told me my goal is just to try not to get pinned. What the heck does that mean?

Me: Oh.

MO: This guy went to State last year! He's like a senior.

Me: Oh!

MO: .........

Me: Well ... okay then, honey! Try not to get pinned, then! See you tonight! Good luck!

Poor kid. Okay, in wrestling, your team scores higher if you win by pinning your opponent instead of just getting more points than your opponent. That's why the son's teammates were asking him not to get pinned -- they're basically telling him, he's going to beat you, but don't give up that pin. Even though you're wrestling a beast in spandex. With a beard.

The son was right. This guy WAS a beast. I mean, like a 152-pound Tasmanian devil. But the son held on for his six minutes. He was tired as hell by the end, staggering a bit, but the guy could not pin him. I told the son that he may have just experienced his most respectable loss ever. His team mates cheered pretty loud for him. Hell, yeah.

The son, getting ready to throw Beast Boy
(That's Teen Demon cheering on the left, the one w/ the hair ribbon)

And he throws him!
(This pretty much set Beast Boy off. He went into Tasmanian Devil mode after that.)

But today is a new day. The son sent me a text message that he won his first match of the day -- got a pin in 47 seconds! Hell. yeah. I'm sure he's feeling pretty beastly about that.

Bonfire of the Vanities

So, Male Offspring got back from football camp last night. Teen Demon had to pick him up, as I am still ensconced in my new cubicle with my colleagues, dealing with our recent relocation. Whole'nuther meaning to "close quarters". I thought one colleague was readying to give me a lap dance, but she just wanted to use the printer.

I put my dollar away.

Anyway, my daughter picks up her brother from school. Now, he'd told me he had a surprise for us once he got back. I was curious, as he could not be persuaded to spill the beanage. My phone rings:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Perky Female Friend of Male Offspring: Hi! Is ____ there!?

Me: No, I'm still at work, he's not with me.

Perky Friend: Oh. Wait! Okay! Can you please tell him that Perky Friend said, "Ohmygod, I sooo can't believe you got a mohawk!"

Me: ... (a mohawk?!) ... Sure. I certainly will. Thanks for calling, Perky Friend.

Perky Friend: OK!! Byeee!!

Oh, this was going to be fun. I live for these times. Doesn't quite make up for the stretch marks, but hey, what can, really?

I pick up the phone:

Male Offspring: Hello?

Me: You got a mohawk?

MO: ...

Me: Mmm-hmm. That's right. You can run, but you can't hide.

MO:  How do you ...

Me: Those eyes in the back of my head? Yeah. Maybe think about that next time. When were you going to tell me about this little styling adventure?

MO:  That was the surprise! That's what I was going to show you! Who told you? Did TeenDemon call you? Man! I can't believe she to--

Me: She didn't tell me.

MO: But ... you're still at work! How do you kn--

Me: How I know doesn't concern you.

MO:  Did Coach call you!? Crap! Coach didn't call you did h--

Me:  I can't believe you did this. You're grounded.

MO:  What?!? But, why -- grounded?! Are you serious?! But ... it's my hair! What about the beach bonfire tonight? You said I could go! It's my own hai--

Me: Gotta go, things are crazy here.

MO: What? No! Wait, I need to --

Me: *click*

Of course, later he claimed he knew I'd been joking all along. Hey, whatever you have to tell yourself.  The mohawk is pretty cool.  He calls it his 'frohawk.

So I end up chaperoning the beach bonfire. The idea is to burn the last vestiges of middle school in a blaze of glory before moving on to the vaunted halls of high school.

Kind of an adolescent cleansing ritual involving fire, marshmallows, and illegal fireworks.

All week I'd tried to get the lowdown on this bonfire business. I thought he called from camp because he missed me. Or at least because he knew I'd miss him. He called to ask permission to go the bonfire. I, of course, had questions about an event involving darkness, fire, hormones, high tide and a bunch of boys fresh from football camp, pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone. (This was before I even knew about the fireworks.) I had questions like,

• Who's sponsoring the bonfire? (I don't know)
• Is it a school event? (I don't think so)
• Well, is it a city event, or just a private party? (I don't know)
• What time does it end? (Um, probably after dark?)
• Who will be there? (My friends)
• Do your friends have names? (You know. Just my friends!)
• Who is supervising? Are parents going? (Probably. I don't know)

Finally, half an hour before the big event, I am put on the phone with someone named Rachel's Mom. (None of us have names. We are all ______'s Mom.) We parents decide to pull together and start this high school thing off with a strong united front. In short, we're chaperoning.

I saw one firework go off a few inches from someone's hand. I saw a kid throw a firework into the fire, and then (get this) reach into the fire pit with his bare hand to retrieve it when it didn't go off. I saw another kid balance on the edge of the fire pit on one foot, while he kicked some logs around with his other foot to "rearrange things". I saw kids pushing each other while precariously bent over to roast marshmallows with what looked like a toothpick.

One kid shot a firework through a buddy's legs. Hello! I mean, seriously, I'm all for fun, but do they not know they could lose a hand? Or an equally useful appendage?  Yeah, Junior, you might want to hang onto that for later.  Just sayin'.

At least they weren't spraying Silly String into the fire, which can ignite the string and blow up the can, just like the warning on the side of the can says. (That, apparently, once happened when another parent foolishly left the room during a birthday party. Amazing what tidbits of information surface when parents compare notes.)

The fact that there aren't more grown men walking around with eye patches and bionic parts amazes me. I didn't see a single girl doing these things. A little testosterone is a dangerous thing, people.

Male Offspring missed all these pyromaniacal goings on, as he and New Girlfriend were sitting on a piece of driftwood, the 'frohawk silhouetted against the sky, watching the sunset. Well, they would've been, had the sun been visible. They were actually sitting on a piece of driftwood watching the various and sundry shades of grey swirl around. Pacific Northwest, people. I was actually proud -- okay, fine, smug -- that he didn't get sucked into the frenzied drama.

Next up, high school.

Naked Bikers or Drag Queen Softball?

I have a conflict this weekend.

This Saturday is the Fremont Solstice Parade, part of the annual Fremont Festival.

1) It is a Solstice celebration. Enough said.
2) Awesome food
3) Car art competition -- handpainted crazyass cars.
4) Bikers costumed only with paint.
5) Republicans usually won't get within 2 miles of it.










Also scheduled for this Saturday is the Bat-n-Rouge softball game, to kick off Pride.

Drag Queens v. the Dykes. Enough said.


How the hell is a person supposed to choose? What the hell were the softball teams thinking? The Solstice Parade? Are you kidding me? What group would play opposite that, other than the Young Republicans?


Dammit.

Some Serious Shit About Coaches

(In which I bow down to coaches and use the word "blessing")

This is important, even if you aren't into the whole sports thing. This is about coaches, and how important they are to kids growing up in this country.


Young people need role models. What with Dubya, Paris, R. Kelly, movies and MTV, the future leaders of this country need some real-life folks to point them in the right direction.

Coaches are bringing it, every day. I can literally see a difference in the way my son carries himself this year. Much of that came directly from sports. Good coaches are a blessing, y'all.

Those of you who know me just now choked to see me use the word "blessing", didn't you? (Please, I could hear the what-the-hells from here.) Well, the only other word I could come up with on the fly that conveyed what I'm thinking was "godsend". So yeah, coaches are a blessing. Goddamn right.

They don't get paid much, and some are straight up volunteers. They give so much more than just instruction. They are mentors for these young folks. They are modeling good sportsmanship, responsibility, commitment, and teamwork.

Life skills, here, people. Skills we actually use day to day, unlike sophomore algebra.


I appreciate that several of my son's coaches in particular have been wonderful models for healthy male-to-male interaction. For those who think sports coaches must be big into that stereotypical, macho bullshit, I have not seen it here. These guys have been hands-on with the kids; they hug these kids, put their arms around them, hold their faces and look them straight in the eye while telling what they've done right and what they can work on. They say things like,

I love you man; you pulled it out today!

I couldn't ask for any more from you.

I am so proud of you!

That's okay; you know you're still my boy. You'll get it.

You gave your best; that's what we do.

Way to apply what you learned!

You had good form out there today.

Things that build a kid up. I see my son and his teammates hug each other, and walk with an arm over the other's shoulders. I see them stick together off the field, help each other out.

Female athletes are still working on equal sports status with the men. They still have to deal with being called "The Lady Muskrats/Wildcats/Pelicans". They don't get cheerleaders or assemblies. Coaches don't give a damn about that; they're coaching athletes, not girls. I see the difference in my daughter, because they actually have a high jump coach this year, one who really cares about the kids. It means a lot to her. I hope he's here again next year. (Cross your fingers that he gets that teaching job ...)


And may I also add, while I'm at it, that I especially appreciate the African American men who are stepping up to mentor these kids. Kids of color in our district do not have many mentors who look like them. The images they see in the media and in their own school environment are mostly White.  Well, the positive images are, anyway. African American males face a lot of issues unique to them. That's a whole'nother post, but suffice it to say that when puberty hits and these kids don't look like little boys anymore, people react to them differently. They need positive role models who look like them and who have an awareness of what they're experiencing. The White kids need to see positive Black role models too. Again, another post. Anyway, to the African American men in our community who take time out of their lives to purposefully guide these kids, I appreciate that. Very, very much.

Coaches make a difference.

They show up.

As a single mom, I appreciate the hell out of that.

Up and Over!

(In which I contemplate the sports gene, and Teen Demon kicks high jump ass)

TeenDemon nails 5'1" at the high jump bar.

Up and OVER, hell yeah!

Track season is over. And I'm like, "What? Already?" I should be relieved -- it's a hell of a schedule. I never thought I'd be one of those "sports parents." I always thought I was lacking the sports gene. My sister and I didn't do organized sports growing up. Neither did my parents as kids. Neither did my ex.

The Bohemian's sport is the piano. Girl has some buff fingers.

I remember playing H-O-R-S-E with my dad. That was fun. It was also the extent of my sports experience. Let's just say the Army was a rudeass awakening for my behind. In hindsight, my sister and I really missed out. I think I probably would've been some crazy sports chick, had it been encouraged as a kid. I have discovered a wildass competitive inner bitch, even while just spectating. (Yes, watching the Seahawks is a sport in and of itself.) I guess I had latent sports genes.

Who knows, I could've been an Olympic Curling Champion.

Anyway, track season is over for the two younger offspring, and I'm sorry to see it end. There's something about seeing your kid accomplish something physical, seeing them interact with their teammates, seeing the coaches interact with your kid.  Seeing them feel proud of themselves.

There's also something about seeing your kid friggin' trample every other kid out there, and come out The Champ, The Beast, Yeeaah, GoGoGo, It's All Yours Baby, You've Got This, YES, HellYeah, What Now, Bitches, WHAT NOW ....... oh. So, anyway, yeah, great for a kid's self esteem and responsibility and all that.

Kickassery at the high jump bar:  the 5'0" & 5'1" jump sequences:

5'0" run up

5'0" jump

5'0" landing

5'1" run up

Up & Over, 5'1"

5'1" landing (What now, bitches?!)

Did I say she kicked ass? She was so happy! Her smile was brilliant. So she ended the season as 1st in District, 2nd in League South, and came close to qualifying for State, which is her goal for next year. Her coach says she'll do it, too. (Watch her.) Hell yeah!

She was selected for one of the team's Athlete of the Year awards, which was a very cool surprise for her, and she'll be a Captain for next year's team. You go, baby!

And (rubbing hands gleefully), she got her first letter from a college actively recruiting her based on "recent athletic achievements"! Now that's what I'm talking about, that's where it pays off. She's writing her own ticket, right there. Combined with the letters she's already getting for her grades, she'll hopefully snag a nice scholarship package.

Damn right I'm proud of that shit -- kid works her ass off.

Jump your way right into university, baby, hell yeah.

Okay, that's enough parental bragging for now. Next installment: Dear Son's 400-meter-relay photo finish.

Gatorade A.M. and The Smiling Milkman

Am I the only one wondering what the hell is up with the new Gatorade A.M. commercial?

So last night, I look up to catch a commercial featuring a smiling Black milkman à la 1930, resplendent in his spotless white uniform, cheerfully delivering bottles of new Gatorade A.M. to customers in a manicured subdivision, all to a jolly tune reminiscent of ice-cream-truck-sounding jingles.
(watch it here.)

I quickly unmute the TV, causing Firstborn Daughter to look up, annoyed at the sound of a dreaded commercial.

Me: Are they kidding? What is this?
FBD: Wow ... what the hell?
Me: Is it just me?
FBD: Um ... seriously, what the hell?

The final line of the commercial goes like this:

Gatorade A.M. -- same science, different time.

And how, Spanky!

The milkman is the very talented (not to mention good-looking) NBA star Kevin Garnett. I don't much follow basketball, being a football kind of gal, but evidently Kevin is the shit on the court.

Gatorade A.M is a new line created for the perky morning athlete. It comes in morning-friendly flavors, like Strawberry-Orange or Mango, that supposedly won't make you upchuck its sugary sweetness while still bleary eyed and half-asleep.

Coffee is a normal morning drink. Orange sugar-water is not.

Anyway, The milkman's customers are other sports stars -- three female soccer players (one of whom looks to be Mia Hamm), and Colts quarterback Peyton Manning -- all White, all rushing out to their morning workouts.  There is one Black neighbor (Kareem Abdul-Jabbar), out watering his lawn, who nods to the milkman.

So ... the only African Americans in this idyllic production are the only two athletes not portrayed as athletes, but rather as an iconic 1930s milkman and the only guy in the neighborhood doing yardwork.  The white athletes are portrayed as the superstars they are.

So the milkman comes up the walk with his syrupy wares as Peyton Manning rushes out the door for his morning workout. The milkman calmly throws him a Gatorade A.M. while saying, "Playbook."

Oops! Peyton's forgotten his playbook! As he rushes back for it, The milkman gives a satisfied nod, knowing he's helped keep the star quarterback on track. WTF?

Now, I'm thinking, Kevin Garnett is an NBA superstar, on the same level as these happy, suburban athletes, right? He is their peer, their equal. Given that, I'm wondering...

• Why is he playing the milkman?
• Why is he serving the other sports stars?
• Why are he and the Black neighbor the only athletes not being portrayed as athletes?
• And while we're at it, what's up with the lone Black neighbor doing yardwork, instead of heading for a workout with the other athletes and some Gatorade A.M.?

Am I the only one thinking this ad is just a little too close to the ads of yore? Something a little like this, maybe?

Why did this commercial immediately put me in mind of those days when success for Kevin would've likely meant a dapper chauffeur's uniform?  Or maybe a snappy bellhop or porter's uniform.

Or a pristine milkman's uniform.

Success for Kevin in those times would not have come packaged in an NBA uniform, trust.

I did not live in those times. My daughter sure didn't. My mom barely has memories of the milkman leaving glass jugs in the secret little door at the side of my grandma's house.

Why then, did that scene immediately bring a "WTF?" reaction? Why did that scene cause my 19-year-old daughter's jaw to drop?

Because ... those images are part of American culture, and we have absorbed them in a million little ways over the course of our lives. Even now.

The earliest posters and advertising purposely depicted Black folks in ways that made White folks feel superior and safe. From the wide-eyed pickaninny, the broadly smiling mammy, and the harmless old uncle, up to the first "positive" images of the "successful" Black man: smartly attired to happily pump your gas, tote your luggage, or wait on your table.

"Different Time" indeed, Gatoraide.

I know lots of people are going to roll their eyes and say this commercial isn't racist. Golly, how some people sure do look for racism around every corner! I'm sure folks will say, "Hey, good for Kevin, do that commercial, make some bank, baby."  And of course, the usual, "If it were a white guy in the truck, you wouldn't be bitching -- you're the racist!"  Well, guess what, it wasn't a white guy in the truck. And it wasn't a non-athlete serving a diverse group of athletes. So, whatever.  

I don't know Kevin's reasons for doing this commercial, and I guess it's his business. I'd be interested in his thoughts about it. I do plan to write to Gatorade. I am really bothered by seeing this in the media in 2007 like it's nothing.

I have a 14-year-old son who's into sports. It's enough of an issue that our media loves to present athletes as the main role models for African American kids. (Yes, great role models, but they're not the only ones, okay?) Now Gatorade has gone one step farther in presenting this fine athlete not as the successful basketball player he IS, but as a friggin' milkman, in a position of servitude to his fellow athletes, complete with all the trappings from those Happy Days Gone By.

This is what my son is supposed to see as the role of a successful Black athlete? Are you fucking kidding me?

You suck, Gatorade.

I just wanted to point this out, say something, because this is not okay. Rant over.

Are You Ready to RUUMMMBBLLE?

So, the Male Offspring got a busted lip at his last match. The boy kept wrestling, too! They disinfected the the mat, and WrestlerBoy had to go stand over the "blood bucket", which is considered amazingly cool in the wrestling world. The boy got back in and wrestled two more rounds. He did not win, because the referee did not know a pin from his ass.

No, seriously, he didn't.

I know, I know what you're thinking. I thought it too: I was turning into one of those sports parents. So, before I lost my mind and pulled a Flying Insane Wrestling Dad move on the ref, I remembered that I don't actually know that much about the finer points of wrestling. Looked like a pin to me, but what do I know? The ref is the expert, right? Actually, no. My suspicion about the ref and his lack of familiarity with said ass was confirmed by the coaching staff and two wrestling parents who are Freakishly Knowledgeable About Wrestling.

Apparently, it was not the only bad call, judging by the barely suppressed outrage of the coaches and those parents freakishly in the know. Fortunately, this was a middle school match, and good sportsmanship prevailed. One coach did have a burning question for Bumbling Ref, after WrestlerBoy's match:

Coach: No disrespect intended Sir, but how long have you been at this?
Bumbling Ref: Actually, this is my first match ... please bear with me.

WTF?

What's that? You say it's only middle school? Please. Obviously you have never witnessed two young athletes battling for the title of King (or Queen) of the Mat. It's brutal. I thought football was bad. They may plow into each other on the football field, break a bone or two, but this is a whole'nuther level of brutal.

This is hand-to-hand combat, people, this is some serious shit. No shoulder pads or helmets on the mat, just your shiny spandex singlet between you and your grunting opponent.

And I'll tell you something else, these young athletes have already stepped up to the mat just by putting that singlet on.

Think about it, these are adolescents fresh in the throes of puberty. They're either smack in the middle of a growth spurt, trying to figure out their new body and how to hold the damn razor, or they haven't hit the growth spurt yet, and are feeling self-conscious around the guys who already have leg hair, an Adam's apple, and a six-pack. And you want to wrap all that up in some spandex and send them to grapple around with -- omg -- another guy? In front of an audience?

Please. These are some tough motherfuckers before they even hit the mat. You put that singlet on and grab another guy's ass while your face is buried in his sweaty armpit. Now try it at age 14 and do it in front of a screaming crowd.

And that does not even address the possibility of wrestling a girl.

Yes, I am all for girls kicking ass on the sports field. Or mat. Three years ago, Teen Demon was the first girl to play on the middle school's football team. She was on the line, people, not kicking field goals. The next year, two more girls followed her. Way to break barriers, baby. Now she cheers for her high school wrestling team and kicks ass on the track team. It gives guys pause to know she can likely kick their ass. While in her cheerleader skirt. So yes, Title IX all the way.

That said, coed wrestling brings different issues. Again: 14, puberty, shiny spandex, grappling around together on the ground in front of an audience. Try these scenarios on for size at that age:

• You get beat by a girl.


• You beat a girl.


• You wonder where it's okay to grab.


• You have a physical reaction to being wrapped around a real live chick. In front of your parents. In a spandex suit.


• The reality of straddling a girl and physically forcing her into submission, when she's desperately fighting to get away freaks you out and just feels wrong.


• The idea of letting her up just because you can't handle her girlness seems disrespectful to her as an athlete.

You see what I'm saying? These are some tough young men and women. We don't have any girls on the middle school team, but there is a young woman at the high school who absolutely rocks. She went to State this year. Hell, yeah!

Anyway, Male Offspring's lip is still looking mighty rough, but he didn't need stitches. He's still drooling a bit. There was much grumbling about Bumbling Ref, but the coaches coached, did the post-meet locker room talk, modeled good sportsmanship. The guys know how they wrestled.

As for the parents, I did hear tell of a covert take-down plot, but that was just a baseless rumor.