We Love, We Die, We Still Hope...

Brothers who never worried walking alone at night.
We were protected by an illness which has long festered
as we remained ignorant of our privilege.

I hear the anguish... the torment
I feel the pain
How can we come t’geither
And kill the strain?

It dwells deep within us
Even in those who wish it not
It kills the spirit, the flesh, the soul
The wish for peace is all but naught

Man is beastly, always through time
Olive branches offered, yet stomped upon
We slither through slime
Muck, shit and hatred, wishing it gone

But here we are. Sigh.
Again, always and enduring it still
My, oh my, oh my.
When, I ask, will we have had our fill?

--Patrick Coomer
June 1, 2020


On vacation, at last. I set the brake in the yard, my bus left running for those who take it through its last journey after 20 hours on the road. Fill the tanks, a run through the wash rack, a scrubbing of COVID-19 proportions. Before I let go of my wondrous steed of glass and metal, I bowed my head in thanks. Once again, safely returned and off for a week.

Before, I would have glorified in this moment. This time, exhaustion reigned. I just sighed in relief. It had been a ghastly several weeks since my COVID-19 self-quarantine early on during this global nightmare. Thankful to be free of (that I'm aware of) infection, survival to that point was a victory, shallow nonetheless. I could revel in nine days of freedom from the shackles of my "essential job". That was truly... enough.

Myplans for vacation, albeit altered, were ambitious. I would write further in my novel, take time to do domestic chores and revel in the presence of this forever love we have shared for 26 years. COVID be damned, I was going to enjoy my time off. Then that bastard Murphy took over.

Halfway through my freedom, a bothersome molar took control. An abscess formed within its depths. It's a feeling I've known several times, one not to be ignored. Having nowhere to travel on this blessed vacation week, I resigned myself to fight infection. The dentist surveyed the damage and gave me two options: a root canal upon a tooth that has been heavily-filled and re-visited earlier this year, or extraction. A decision under duress, it was. Lose a tooth that helps masticate my favorite meal of steak, or lose it? My parents spent a fortune to straighten my teeth during my teens. I felt guilty for having smoked cigarettes so long I ruined my chewers. Once upon a time, my smile was a testament to my working-class parents' devotion to my odd looks, especially my mouth. They worked hard to ensure I could simply walk and talk, let alone succeed (that, they told me, was MY job).

Lying in the dentist's chair, I debated the loss of yet another tooth. It had been with me over half a century. I remembered it forcing its way upward after sacrificing its baby tooth to the quarter-bearing Fairy. Faithful to me for 50 years plus it was, yet my early lack of dental insurance had doomed several of my precious chewers to destiny, which was not kind to this mouth. A front tooth was subject to a root canal nearly 30 years ago, yet hovers still... discolored but still there.

As I sat there contemplating my choice, I thought of George Floyd. His photos showed a perfect rack of teeth. He died last week, pleading for his life pinned beneath the knee of an unforgiving "authority". He had not injured anyone, nor had he threatened anyone's life. Still, his beautiful teeth will no longer serve him. They'll outlast the rest of his dead body. His honor and dignity will likely be assailed in defense of the cops who refused to give him breath. Yet here I was, mourning the loss of one tooth while this man's family and friends sobbed over Mr. Floyd's needless death. As I thought of this man, the choice was simple. Lose the tooth. Given its horrid condition, I feared the next battle it would surely offer down the road. At least, as a white man, I need not fear death at the crouched knee of a thoughtless individual. My tooth was of little consequence, given the state our nation's battle against oppression and racism which killed that poor man.

Yes, I am a "bleeding heart". Whenever someone dies needlessly, I am reduced to tears. It's something I'm proud of, this belief of mine that we're all in this life together. I have shed many a tear witnessing the outpouring of anger and grief over yet another black man killed for no reason. I'm white, yet I don't fear walking at night with my hood covering my head from the rain or elements. Once my face reveals itself, I'm just another guy. Do I fear the hooded head of a black man? No. Why should I? We're all human. I simply nod and smile in greeting. It's how I was taught long ago by parents who valued the souls of all we share this world with.

When Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered in 1968 I asked my mother: why? She had no answer, but cradled my head as I wept. The daughter of wealth and privilege, she was reared by "nannies" whose skin was darker than hers. This taught her an inherent respect for all, as decency instructed. My father was once a poor Illinois farmer, whose own dad died at 39, leaving Dad to become "man of the house" at the ripe old age of 13. He escaped generations of farming when World War II came calling. Still, he returned to raise a family of four sons taught to value "a man's character, rather than looking down on the color of his skin". I clearly remember him telling me, "We all bleed the same color, so what's the difference?" It's a lesson I've treasured in my dealings with the public. My love for all is hopefully displayed as I drive a city bus.

Watching the past week unfold from the comfort of home, mourning a lost tooth, I felt guilty. My brothers and sisters were driving through a riot-torn downtown, witnessing yet another Portland protest against the inhumanities of humanity. Safe in the sanctity of my far-removed home, I watched in horror the FaceBooked laments of my fellow operators and supervisors. I ignored the protests, and took solace in my vacation-bound safety. I simply could not bear the pain they felt, and it didn't take long before I was ashamed of ignoring it.

A large amount of guilt notwithstanding, I had already endured weeks of exposure to the unwashed, the carriers of this virus we cannot yet defeat. I couldn't be spiritually absent any longer. Was my blatant absence a form of cowardice? No. I firmly believe I am duty-bound to earn my living throughout any natural disaster, and I had done my part. I will still, in the months to come. This moment in time was my rightful respite, a vacation I had originally planned to visit Victoria, British Columbia with my Beloved. Only the pandemic at hand dictated I stay at home like millions of fellow Nor'westerners. No need to feel guilty, yet still I reveled in a "lucky pick".

Today, however, I finally allowed myself to watch a live feed of a news team which fearlessly covered thousands of protesters who descended upon Downtown Portland to once again voice its collective anger. Months of unemployment, untold stories of abuse at home and domestic fear, and the fierce, justified fury of the neglected and scorned shook me out of my self-induced solace. Decent, hard-working people who have everything to fear and intensely-magnified as being reported as "suspicious". For what? The color of their skin. Period.

I have felt more fear from those of my own race than from those whose skin differs from mine. It's outrageous, after hundreds of years, that our country which declares itself "land of the free" still  considers a chosen few to be worthy of such dignity. We're taught to believe America is a beacon of hope to the world, yet we're languishing in shame for our blatant mistreatment of those we call our own.

It is heartening to see police officers "taking a knee" in solidarity with peaceful protesters. They are who we should celebrate for they are not like those who kneeled upon Mr. Floyd's neck until he was no longer with us. Many simply take the job to be arbiters of peace within their communities. They take bullets that they may keep us safe. Only the few, those buoyed by the hatred of bigoted centuries, are to blame. These few rotten apples fuel the righteous anger of a citizenry which pays the same taxes, works hard to provide for their families, loves each other and prays in the same churches as those who might glorify in their pain. Have our soldiers fought in vain so that only the few may benefit from their sacrifices? These brave souls care NOT about the color of skin when fighting for our country: soldiers come from all walks of our society, and they are brothers and sisters whenever bullets fly in the face of "freedom". Why should that be any different when we're supposedly at peace?

This nightmare we live today could have been remedied long ago, if hatred had been cast aside in this "land of the free". We spend too much blood ignoring injustice, our collective silence enabling callous racism to run rampant while supposedly "good" people turn their heads because it doesn't affect them. Just because your skin is lighter, does that truly make you "good"? Not in my book.

My childhood was blessed because people of ALL colors helped raise me within a tiny desert village of decency. I remember Mama Lucas, who cradled me in her arms when I asked her why others treated her differently than my own mother. Her words: "Because dear boy, they haven't yet learned how to truly love." I can still feel the caress of her worn hands upon this white boy's scalp, trying to soothe the pain I still feel for those outside America's revered words of our Founders, that "all men are created equal".

Will we ever learn to love one another, as God asks of us? It's not about religion here, but humanity's destiny. Without true respect for one another, there is no compromise. Nor hope. He gave us free will, but we're wasting it when we could be fostering a dream where all are included. John Lennon asked us to "Imagine", but we're still fighting hope rather than fostering it.

We're doomed if we allow this state of horror to continue. The rich have a hold upon us they will not easily let loose of. We're slaves to money rather than beacons of hope to one another. We fight ourselves rather than the masters who control our emotions. Republicans, Democrats... they're all puppet masters. When we finally find the ONE who can bring us together, it will likely be too late. It probably already is. However, there is always hope. There is love. I see it every day as a bus operator. It's there, lurking in the shadows. My goal is to shine a light whenever I see even the slightest shine.

Dear Lord, please. Through your mercy, bring us together to find the way forward... together. That's my only prayer.

Peace be with you, RIP all who have been unjustly torn from this life, and love to you all...
Deke