Dyke in the Heart of Texas

My mother, Jewel, and I shared a love of movies. My childhood memories that were not played out on  the softball field or in a gym somewhere were most certainly recalled in theaters. We enjoyed the actual act of going into a theater, with a big bag of popcorn, planting our butts down and watching everything from the classics of the golden years  to what Hollywood was serving up in the mid to late-seventies.

Jewel’s favorite actress was Katherine Hepburn. She liked to tell the story of being at a big movie premiere in downtown Fort Worth in 1940.  She was at the old Worth Theater and the local newspaper had put the word out Hepburn would be  there to promote her film,  The Philadelphia Story.   Jewel recounted the story that after waiting for two hours in the lobby, she ducked into the restroom.  She was 19 at the time and recalled exiting one of the stalls to wash her hands.  A woman walked up to the sink beside her and Jewel heard the legendary voice directed at her.  ”Please be a dear and hand me a towel.” said Kate.  My mother obliged, smiled and watched the only person to ever win four Academy Awards walk out of the restroom and her life, just as quickly as she had entered it.  Jewel’s favorite actor was John Garfield, so much so, that’s what she named my brother.

My mother introduced me to James Dean and Elizabeth Taylor at the old Jerry Lewis Theater in Euless, Texas in 1974.  A re-release of Giant was my first movie ever to have an intermission.  Giant’s running time was about four hours, but I can remember being mesmerized by the actors and the incredible cinematography of that film….never once tiring of the rigid seat covered in red  vinyl.

Jewel took me to see my first “R” rated movie in 1975, JAWS.  We walked up the street from my house to the Bellaire Theater in my hometown, Hurst.  I was petrified and wouldn’t even get into a swimming pool for a month after I saw Robert Shaw devoured by that huge mechanical shark.

In 1976 we saw, “A Star is Born,” with Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson at the Plantation Theater off of University Drive in Fort Worth.  That theater had a reputation in the 70s at being “artsy” and “fancy.”  The seats rocked, actual rocking chairs like you were sitting on your old plantation porch.  They also had killer lemonade.  I had fallen in love with Streisand several years before when I first saw Funny Girl, but this film sent my pubescent heart into arrest.  I was madly in love with Babs after 1976 and remain so to this day.

In 1976 we also saw “The Omen” at the Ridglea Theater on Camp Bowie, also in Fort Worth.  That movie starred Lee Remick and Gregory Peck, a classic horror movie about a kid that is the son of the devil.  Remember, 666 on his head?  Jewel didn’t care for that one, but sat in the balcony with me, eating her smuggled McDonald’s cheese burger and fries.

The Ridglea Theater was bigger and better than any other theater I had seen.  It had beautiful murals and rugs in the lobby.  Fantastic snack bar and restrooms…and a sweeping staircase to my beloved balcony.  There was something about sitting on the first row of the balcony, overlooking the crowd and coming eye to eye with your favorite movie stars.

These movie house weekends were not just about the theaters mind you, they were about me and Jewel.  After my father died in 1976, we hung close on the weekends.  I still participated in sports, but I also made sure not to run too far off from the house….lest mother shouted, “Hit the Cadillac, it’s time for a movie!”  If we went to the twilight showing, the adult ticket was $2.25, and the child ticket was $1.75.  A “child” was 14 and under and I was 14 in 1976….and in 1977…..and in 1978.

I wasn’t kidding about the smuggled burgers.  If something could fit into Jewel’s purse, it was going into the Ridglea.  She drank Tab soft drink like it was  going out of style and had two cans in the side pocket.  Jewel’s purse was bigger than the suitcase I took on vacation.  She liked popcorn, but really enjoyed dinner and a movie.  Jewel was a pioneer it seems, eating full meals long before the movie taverns of today.

Jewel is gone, as are most of the classic theaters in town; long since vanishing into rubble.  The Ridglea Theater though has been beautifully remodeled by its new owner.  It doesn’t look quite like it used to look, but it is darn close.  The first floor of the theater has tables spread throughout, films and live music acts frequent the historical venue.  The balcony is very similar to the snapshots of my youth.  I went to the Ridglea after the grand re-opening to participate in a “sing-along” showing of The Sound of Music.  As I stood singing along with the Von Traps….I wished my mother was with me to see the place return in all its grandeur.  I wished my mother was eating a chicken leg in the seat beside me, looking for the salt in her coin purse.

I am a nostalgic person, if you read this blog, …well, yeah.  Nostalgia doesn’t envelop me, but it is a part of my every day life.  My partner is sick of channel 7 on my satellite radio/sounds of the 1970s.  I still dress like I did when I was an awkward 14 year old…15…..okay 16, t-shirts, shorts and sneakers.  I still enjoy films, and when I say the word “film” I mean movies prior to 1990 or so.  The crap that is released today is out on DVD the next week and on your TV the week after that.  Channing Tatum or Robert DeNiro?  Jessica Chastain or Katherine Hepburn?  Case closed.

I live in a lovely, historical townhouse, right in the center of everything here in Fort Worth.  I love that it was built in 1942 and has the hardwood floors and architectural touches and design that quite simply cannot be beat anywhere in north Texas.  I sit out on my balcony and wonder about residents and the good times that have come before my occupancy.  I think of Jewel and all the wonderful theaters that were all shining brightly when the townhouse smelled of new paint for the very first time.

I think of Jewel.  You know how it is when you heart aches so you don’t feel that you can catch your next breath?  Even after eight years I have that reaction still quite often.  But for some reason, sitting on my balcony makes me happy and fills me with peace.  I watch the trees sway side to side in the Spring air and imagine the long branches to be Jewel’s arms reaching out to hug me….or is that a cheeseburger she is handing me?  A wry smile crosses my face as I look further beyond the trees and I see it.  ”Do you want the first floor or shall we go up to the balcony Julie?”  The view is perfect here Jewel.

Whether it is the Newtown shooter or the country singer, Mindy McCready, mental illness is a growth industry in the United States.  I was watching the Today Show a couple of weeks ago when McCready was interviewed after the death of her boyfriend.  Police officials were still trying to figure out if his death was a suicide or homicide.  McCready, a drug addict and mentally ill person, stated she did not kill him.  She stated, “he was my life.”  At that moment I thought to myself that she was going to kill herself, you could see it on her face.

When she killed herself yesterday at 37, I wondered what the rest of America thought.  Where was the mental health treatment?  Where was the support?  Why was a grieving, addict, mentally ill person in possession of a gun 3 weeks after the death of her lover?  It sickened me; we, as a nation, need to do better.  Laws need to change so that we can get people like McCready in a mental health facility and hold her there for treatment longer than a 72 hour evaluation.

Conventional wisdom suggests that the reduction of funding for social welfare policies during the 1980s was the result of a conservative backlash against the welfare state. With such a backlash, it was expected that changes in the policies toward involuntary commitment of the mentally ill reflected a generally conservative approach to social policy more generally. In this case, however, the complex of social forces that led to less restrictive guidelines for involuntary commitment are not the result of conservative politics per se, but rather a coalition of fiscal conservatives, law and order Republicans, relatives of mentally ill patients, and the practitioners working with those patients. Combined with a sharp rise in homelessness during the 1980s, Ronald Reagan pursued a policy toward the treatment of mental illness that satisfied special interest groups and the demands of the business community, but failed to address the issue: the treatment of mental illness.  (Alexandar R Thomas  Department of Sociology and Anthropology Northeastern University, Electronic Journal of Sociology 1998).

Yeah, sorry…I am blaming a Republican.  My argument is enforced every time I go downtown and am approached by a mentally ill, homeless person begging for money.  You would think that us liberals would be against holding people against their will for psychological treatment, but for this liberal…it has always been my stance.  Mentally ill people are incapable of making determinant decisions regarding their healthcare.  We, the people, have to help them and set safe guidelines, through legislation for the housing and treatment of mental illness.

I was at dinner last night when old cop friends of mine started lighting up my cell phone with texts.  A man that I supervised as a police sergeant, 20 years ago, was on the brink of death after being shot by other police officers.

It is a hot story in North Texas as I write this blog.  This guy shot and killed his ex-girlfriend, the mother of three, and her date was seriously injured.  He then led police on a 45 minute chase that ended in a shoot-out.  He is currently in Parkland Hospital fighting for his life and facing one count of murder and one count of attempted murder.

I worked for a local police department 20 years ago before I became a defense attorney.  I left my last department after abruptly quitting one afternoon when they decided to listen to this same guy over me, his supervisor.  It was the good old boy system and I knew I would not win.  I wrote this guy up over 20 times for disciplinary issues.  I begged my supervisors to listen to me.  I told them he was mental.  I told them he was on steroids and suffering from “roid rage” while carrying a gun in their city.  I wrote him up for having sex in patrol cars on duty with women he picked up.  I could go on and on….I could write a 30 page blog on this guy.

The department did not listen.  I quit and successfully sued them, settling out of court.  Most of the information I cannot blog about because of a court ordered gag that remains in effect.  I went to law school after that and have a successful practice in Fort Worth, Texas now.

This guy, who will remain nameless in this blog, but who you can Google, was fired the year after I quit.  He went on to be a constable and tactical team paramedic in Dallas County.

In 20 years I have never forgotten this guy.  I recently had a conversation about him with my intern.  I have regretted the way I walked away from my law enforcement career for all these years.  I walked in and took off my gun and badge and laid them on the desk of the interim chief.  I knew it was a sick department.  I knew my life was in danger as long as they chose this mentally ill guy over me.  I had suffered very slow back-ups when I was wrestling with an offender on the side of the highway.  I was harassed daily for daring to write someone up for getting a blow job in a patrol car.  It was ugly and for my own mental health, I walked away.    I got a check, but I never got an apology for the way that department treated me, their first ever female sergeant.

As my phone lit up last night at dinner, I was shocked but I never questioned the validity of the reports I was receiving.  This man was mentally ill back in the day, and there was no reason for me to believe he had ever received proper treatment and care.  This guy was a time-bomb and it took him to age 47 before he blew.

The trouble in our society is that no one listens when you call out a mentally ill person.  No one does anything…nor can most of them DO anything under our current laws.  There are going to be other Newtowns and other mass shootings.

I am for an assault weapons ban and for laws that ban high-capacity magazines.  I have a common sense approach to handguns however….you can’t control the millions that are already out in America.  The one part of this whole problem we can do better is to address the mental health issue.

We can also do better individually.  I had a client in my office last month.  He is involved in a messy divorce and there is an allegation of an assault.  I looked into his eyes and could tell he was having some difficulty.  I asked him where his gun was?  He responded, “How do you know I have a gun?”  The shotgun and shells were in his truck and yes, suicide was an option for him.  I took the shotgun and ammo away from him and secured them at a safe location.  My point being, you have to be proactive individually and as a populace.

We have to do something!!  We have to listen!!!  Don’t wait for other people to do things.  Get off your ass and be proactive.  Call your representatives, talk to people….do something!!!

My law enforcement career ended ugly and because of a guy that is laying in a hospital bed this morning, under arrest….a murderer.  I would like to think that police departments have changed in their treatment of women and minorities in the last 20 years…although the recent Dorner case tells me trouble is still in place.

Mental illness and access to weapons will continue to create high body counts in America if we do nothing.  Insanity  leads you to kill your ex-girlfriend and then to attempt “suicide by cop.”  Sanity leads you to place your 9mm gently on the Chief’s desk and to walk away from a career that you excelled at and  loved.  This morning I am thankful for that sanity…. tortured by the insanity.

The water from the fire hose stung on his skin and pounded him up against the brick wall. Each drop of water felt like a pebble of sand, moving about 900 miles per hour. Even above the blast of water and the cacophony of sound it created, Edgar could hear the two cops laughing. He lost his footing and fell face down in front of the cafe. Sprawled out on the steaming concrete, the water flow subsided. The Alabama sun and the crowd glared down upon him. The pressure on his back was of a different origin. A knee now, digging into his spine, 243 pounds of a cop behind it. “Cuff ‘em and stuff ‘em,” yelled the Sergeant, “I got me some pecan pie waiting inside!”

By the time he was tossed into the holding tank, Edgar was bleeding from a gash over his left eye. He had dared to look up, directly into the eyes of the white secretary, as he shuffled down the hall of the police department. His leg-chains had made peculiar sounds against the linoleum tile. A syncopated rhythm with the jangling of the keys hanging off his jailer’s belt.

“When will you people ever learn?” the jailer said as he went off to finish his book-in paperwork. Edgar was actually thinking that exact thing, when would he learn? It had all started with a group of his friends drinking out of the wrong water fountain. Peer pressure bravado that turned, in a matter of minutes, into a full-on street revolt. The hoses and dogs always seemed to come together on the same truck. He actually preferred the pain of the water sting to the incisors of a German Shepard latched onto his calf. Only a black man in 1963 Alabama could make that differential commentary he thought. That fucking jailer doesn’t even know the definition of “differential” Edgar thought…a smile eased across his bloodied face.

Two weeks later Edgar was standing approximately three hundred yards from Martin Luther King, Jr. in Washington D. C. Tears replaced blood and tracked down his cheeks. This man spoke his heart, this man was the narrator for his life.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

Jangling keys on the belt of the jailer….now transforming jangling discords of our nation. A lot can happen in two weeks of a person’s life. A local pastor, back home, had collected Edgar at jail after he had sat there for seven days and nights. There had been five people arrested for drinking out the “Whites Only” fountain that day at the cafe. All five were now standing shoulder to shoulder in a throng of over 200,000 people. The man to Edgar’s left was a white man. He turned to him and saw a mirrored, tear streaked face.   Edgar felt he may indeed be dreaming!

Local people had given up their seats on a bus headed to hear the Reverend, voluntarily given them up to the five brave people arrested that day. Edgar knew his bravado bordered on suicidal actions, but he was so very thankful. Thankful to witness this mass of humanity and to hear these words coming from this man. This world is bigger than that cafe, for sure bigger than that jail cell.

Edgar sat in his easy chair. His granddaughter rushed to the kitchen to get some chips during the TV commercial. The words coming out of the man had been the script of his life. They echoed back to his childhood. They whispered in his ear as he bent down to take that sip of cold water. They woke him as he lay on the floor of the jail cell. They invigorated him as he stood among a throng of many. They slipped lyrically in his good ear, as he walked his driveway every morning looking for his newspaper.

The racists stomped in fits and raised their fists. There were threats made, false allegations and ignorant people did ignorant things. The TV anchor announced that Barack Obama had just been re-elected as President of the United States.

Edgar was a retired civil engineer. He was a father of three and grandfather of seven. His life was one well lived and he was thankful. Thankful that he had lived through the bitterness of the twentieth century, to taste the sweet of the twenty-first.

The President was giving his acceptance speech to the world. Edgar saw his lips moving, but heard the booming voice of another.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.

Edgar had long ago, left the valley of despair. America was divided politically, but he knew change would come. Edgar had hope. Edgar always had hope. Hope and change were not just buzz words for a political campaign to him.

The narration that began that hot August 28, 1963 had maintained, steadfast encouragement to fight the good fight. Different people mouthed the words, but the origin could always be traced back to that one man…the narrator. Words can lift up a generation. Words can flow from one voice and lend grace through the decades.

Edgar asked his twenty-four year old granddaughter what she thought had been the hardest obstacle to Obama being re-elected? The young woman responded, “The unemployment rate?” Edgar felt a smile ease across his face…as it should be, he thought to himself, as it should be. She would never be a veteran of creative suffering.