Josh Magill wonders if we can overcome our basic wickedness for something better … friendship.
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So, for the first time (that I can remember) I’ve written about murder. I guess, really, I’m still writing about it as my story continues to grow, and it is more than one murder—adults, teens, and the elderly. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I think the writing is of a decent sort and plan to continue on with it. I think (because as a writer you never really know) it is more a story about how we deal with death and fear, how we deal with threats and violence.
I look at what’s happening around our world, in places like the Middle East, Ukraine, Africa, and even Ferguson, Missouri. I see humans tearing each other apart, separating body from spirit, and I know where the evil is—in us. This wickedness is not the doing of someone else, but the product of our own deep-seeded hatred and fear. We fear what we do not know, what we cannot see, what is different than us. Why does it continue? So we can learn from it. Some will say: “Why haven’t humans learned after centuries of this nonsense?” Because we weren’t here centuries ago. Heck, I wasn’t here half-a-century ago. We all must learn certain truths for ourselves and so this type of thing will continue until we all get our chance.
In the story I’m working on, I’ve killed a man, used a skill saw on him. Then I killed a 12-year-old boy, skinned him and hung him from his ankles in a tree. My great uncle will go next and maybe a college girl who was on the debate team. How should they go? In my story—in my head—they’ll all die, but it isn’t real, right? What keeps me from walking out the front door tonight and committing a heinous crime? What keeps these gruesome thoughts in my head from being more than words on simulated pieces of paper on my laptop? The cursor blinks, not moving, and I wonder: How am I different? Is it that I’ve learned to fight those urges, those desires, those weaknesses?
In Ferguson, Missouri, folks express their rage. A young boy has died. Murder or justifiable homicide? The media isn’t sure which side to take, but they tussle back-and-forth hoping to cash-in on both narratives, the pain and anger of both tribes. I can see both stories of this situation. Ha. A fat, middle-aged white guy that thinks he can see the pain and struggle of a large black man. Yeah, right! A cop’s son that believes he can put himself in the victim’s shoes. No way! These are the thoughts I think, too. These are the roadblocks that sometimes keep me from trying, that keep me from wanting to connect on a deeper level with other races. But then I remember Lou.
Lou is a guy I know. A black guy from New Orleans that’s a little older than me. He’s big and broad, short and loud. His dark skin contrasts with the bright white teeth of his constant smile. We used to work together late into the night and on weekends. We talked about things that had nothing to do with our jobs. Just the two of us, nobody else around, we’d talk about women and sex, blacks and whites, alcohol and drugs, and even religion. We talked about the relationships with our fathers—the good and the bad. We were boys in those moments, reliving childhood memories. I love Lou and it doesn’t matter that he’s black and I’m white. We weren’t all that different except our race. We were two guys trying to figure out life, trying to find our place in this world, trying to find out who our real friends were. Through the pain and insecurity we both had back then, Lou became my friend and taught me that life is about getting to know people, teaching each other how to overcome our wicked urges, our nasty desires, and our pitiful weaknesses. And remember, we’re all people no matter what we look like.
A couple years after we moved on from that job, I knelt beside a dying black man on the side of Interstate 20 just east of Atlanta. He’d flown from his SUV when he fell asleep and crossed the median. I was the first one on the scene, first one to find him, and he stared at me, his eyes pleading for a little more time. I thought of Lou, not because the man was black, but because he needed friendship, he needed to know it was okay, that he could let go, that his family would be fine and never forget him. I rubbed the man’s forehead and held his hand as he breathed for the last time. Knowing he was dead, but still not wanting to hurt him, I gently closed his eyes and cried. I wept for the loss of a man I didn’t even know, a new friend I hope to one day see again.
So how does Ferguson play out? I have no clue, but if we don’t work on our friendships it won’t matter. If we don’t teach each other, it won’t matter. We’ll write of murder and not feel a thing, not know the real emotions of death and fear. True, I don’t know what it’s like to be black or female or Jewish or anything other than white, but I know what it’s like to be afraid and to know death in many forms. We have to face those uncertainties head-on, walk right up to ‘em and punch ‘em square in the face. Just talk with each other, make a new friend and respect them. What are their perspectives? What are their experiences? What are their passions? It doesn’t matter what color they are, what nationality they are, what sexuality they are.
What matters is friendship.
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Originally posted on The Magill Review
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