I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

storytelling for truth lovers

  • The Charleston Massacre: Ten Years Anniversary

    The Charleston Massacre: Ten Years Anniversary


    Ten years ago today the mass murder of nine individuals gathered in their church for a bible study and prayer meeting struck closer to our home than prior atrocities. A twenty-one-year-old young man from Columbia, South Carolina, where Pretty and I live, drove 115 miles to Charleston, South Carolina, attended the prayer meeting in the Mother Emanuel AME Church, and proceeded to slay nine people who meant no harm to him. Lest we forget I’m reminding myself and you with my original post on June 17, 2015.

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    The Sandy Hook Elementary School, Newtown, Connecticut. An army training center in Fort Hood, Texas.  The Washington, DC Navy Yard. A movie theater in Aurora, Colorado.  The Sikh Temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin. Tucson, Arizona, and the resilience of Rep. Gabby Giffords. An immigration center in Binghamton, New York. Geneva County, Alabama. Seal Beach in Orange County, California.  Mother Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, Charleston, South Carolina.

    Massacre. Mass slaughter, indiscriminate killing, mass murder, mass execution – all of these are words that define massacre according to the Oxford American Thesaurus.

    Today as President Barack Obama addressed the country on national television, he did so for the fourteenth time in his presidency to try to offer words of comfort to a bereaved community and a bewildered country in the midst of the horrors of massacres within our own borders. To borrow a phrase from a former American President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was speaking one day after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1945, today is a “date which will live in infamy.” Yesterday in a sister city in the lowcountry of our state, the unspeakable happened; and we joined the names that will live in infamy in this country and around the world for years to come.

    I have watched President Obama in these televised messages to the nation on too many occasions, and I was usually struck by the powerful personal images of hope and comfort that he offered. Today, however, I witnessed an additional layer of anger and frustration as he once again spoke about our lack of ability as a nation to give up our guns. I saw a President whose hair is almost totally snow-white and a man whose face looks much older than his years. I wondered if this president’s legacy was going to be Paul Newman’s Cool Hand Luke’s character’s classic lines: What we have here is a failure to communicate.

    We have a President who rode into town as a new sheriff committed to compromise who found a posse determined to derail him. They just never mixed. And gun control? Well, that has always been just some people talking.

    We grieved for the massacres in the east and the west and states in-between. We truly grieved for these losses and for the families and friends that lost people they loved…people they never even had an opportunity to say goodbye to. But the closer the tragedies are – and this one couldn’t be much closer since the suspect is from the greater Columbia metropolitan area – the deeper the anguish and the anger.

    The world continues to rotate on its axis, but it seems slightly tilted to me. We are off track somehow. We have taught falsehoods to our children through our messages at home in the words we speak and the silences we allow. For example, it’s okay to hate people who are different from us. Nelson Mandela said we are not born hating, and he was right. We learn to hate as surely as we learn to ride a tricycle. Our parents teach us to hate. Our friends encourage us to be bullies. Our heroes send us conflicting images of who the good guys and bad guys are. We have national leaders in highly visible positions who don’t play well together in their houses of Congress. Shame on you. Shame on me for re-electing you year after year to continue cycles of contention and confrontation.

    And so tonight I am in mourning for the survivors of The Charleston Massacre, and I find no words to adequately express my sorrow for them, for their church family, for the city of Charleston, for my state and for my nation.

    Like my President, I fear for our future.

     

    say their names: The Charleston Nine

  • Thanks to Harriet Hancock Community Center, the Nick, and the 19th* for Breaking the News Documentary

    Thanks to Harriet Hancock Community Center, the Nick, and the 19th* for Breaking the News Documentary


    what is the 19th*

    “We’re an independent, nonprofit newsroom reporting on gender, politics and policy.” The documentary Breaking the News was shown at The Nickelodeon theater in Columbia, South Carolina, on June 10th. Shout out to our friend Francie Kleckley for making sure Pretty and I were there to watch. She does her best to support both the Nick and women in politics!

    The Nick promo promised “A powerful documentary about the women and LGBTQ+ journalists behind The 19th*, a newsroom rewriting the rules of who holds the mic in media.” Sisters and brothers, I’m here to tell you this film didn’t disappoint. If you missed the screening of Breaking the News this week, search PBS Documentaries to watch at home.

    In a national atmosphere of authoritarian histrionics, blatant mendacity in the media, corruption ignored by blind eyes unwilling to see – I have embraced despair as a coping mechanism. Despair is not productive, and I have longed for hope that would inspire me to have faith in the future for my family, my community, my country.

    As we exited the Nick Tuesday night, I told Pretty these young people of the 19th* cracked my personal glass ceiling with their collective brain power dedicated to truth telling. Hallelujah! I have been redeemed and am a believer again.

    Onward.

  • In the Beginning were the Frogs

    In the Beginning were the Frogs


    Whenever we have a big rain, I have to check our swimming pool skimmer at night and early in the morning to make sure none of the frogs that come out to talk to each other and to us get caught in it. I call it my Frog Rescue program. The following is from a post I wrote five years ago, but the frogs are as noisy as ever.

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    You can blame this on the frogs

    While Pretty and I talked on our porch last night, I tried to explain to her what was going through my head on this first day of my 74th. summer. The sounds from our porch were connected to the sounds of my earliest memories of summer when I slept in a small double bed with my maternal grandmother while a cheap oscillating fan turned slowly from side to side as it valiantly tried to cool us in the hot humidity of an East Texas heat a thousand miles away from South Carolina, a heat that would not be relieved by opening every window on the porch where we slept or the random whisper of cool air from the small oscillating fan made by Westinghouse. The sheets were always clean but never actually cool.

    I never trusted the sheets anyway after discovering a scorpion hiding between them one night.

    But it was the sound of the frogs around our pool here on Cardinal Drive – particularly after a rain – that drew me to those hot muggy nights of Grimes County, Texas where I was raised. My grandmother’s wooden house made from a retail catalog blueprint had many design flaws, but its one awesome feature which had nothing to do with the design really, was the magical pond (or tank, as we called it in East Texas) behind her house.

    The tank was the focal point of my only-child imagination play stories during the day, but it was the tank’s music of those summer nights I hope will never be erased from my memory. Specifically, it was the frogs, or bull frogs as my grandmother used to call them  just before we drifted off to sleep. The low guttural sounds were always behind the house and were somewhat subdued until every light was turned off at night. But then, those frogs got louder and louder until they hit a mighty crescendo. My grandmother and I laughed out loud when we heard them.

    The frogs who live in our backyard on Cardinal Drive are rarely as raucous as the bull frogs in my tank in Richards – I think they are smaller frogs. But occasionally I hear one of those loud guttural sounds looking for something, probably safer water supplies, and I am transported to different days. To a grandmother who guided me with her wisdom – now to a woman who loves sharing another summer solstice with me.

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    I was blessed with a loving, eccentric (translate close to dysfunctional), family who in the end gave me what they could – so much more than I realized. What I wouldn’t give to see them all again, but Lawdy, Lawdy, I sure am thankful for our air conditioning. Frogs or no frogs.

     

  • it’s a simple matter of justice – Happy PRIDE!

    it’s a simple matter of justice – Happy PRIDE!


    The 1993 March on Washington gave me courage to change the things I could within a community of believers who had hope and faith in a future where everyone had equal rights. I was 47 years old; it had been a long, mostly solitary, journey from Richards, Texas, (pop.500) to marching with hundreds of thousands in the nation’s capitol. Free at last, thank God, free at last.

    June is Pride Month so celebrate!

    Onward.

    I

  • Old Plantersville Road

    Old Plantersville Road


    Old Plantersville Road