My homestate gets the honor of putting Obama over the top... maybe.

Depending on how many superdelegates today and tomorrow announce their votes for Obama, it is quite possible that my homestate of Montana will be his margin to win the Democratic Nomination. He's expected to easily win Montana's majority, but that fact is dwarfed by what else he could win: The Nomination. The craziest year of primary politics ever ends tomorrow, June 3, with Montana the last state still voting (its polls close at 8pm while South Dakota's close at 7pm).

Kinda nice for this Chicagoan, who has watched Obama's rise from the git-go, to see him quite possibly cement the Democratic nomination for President in the place I spent my first eighteen years. Montana as of late has shown an increasing openness to the Democratic Party, currently with a Democratic Governor (whom some have talked up as a possible Vice-President for an Obama ticket) and two Democratic Senators. A once reliably red state has changed colors rather dramatically as the world of McBush alienated so many Montanans.

In celebration of Montana's unique role in this election -- where indeed it proves the biblical adage that "the last will be first" -- I offer a T-shirt link (eighteen bucks, but worth it!) for anyone hailing from my homestate and/or hometown (Fort Benton "The Birthplace of Montana"). Just click the link below the silly logo below. And no, I get NONE of the money involved here...

Fort Benton for Barack Obama Come help get him elected.

"They Got Him!" What I Learned Forty Years Ago Today

Forty years ago today, I was four days short of my eleventh birthday, a young boy in an unusually loving family growing up in Fort Benton, Montana. Fort Benton was a beautiful tiny microcosm of rugged individualism and American middle-class values. It was also virtually an all-white town, as were most towns in Montana then.

The day I remember was cool but not coat weather; I stood in our front yard near a Box Elder tree, shading my eyes against the sunlight. My child heart knew perfection.

I stood, at that moment, in the heart of the American dream. Everything around me had meaning, and all that meaning was good. It was Springtime, the fresh scent of pollen and mown lawns in the air. There was peace, order, tranquility, the quiet morning streets and bright houses mirroring back to me my own place in things. The bright sky spoke of a God who Loved me, loved me by default because I was me and existed in this throbbing good heart of my family, my town, my country.

And then I heard a door slam open, saw a man -- our neighbor -- run into his side yard. "They got him!" he screamed, hands upraised in obvious joy. "They shot that commie nigger Martin Luther King!"

My eyes took in this event, trying to understand it. Who was he talking to? He didn't even glance at me, it was as though he were in his own rapturous world. I stood, still as a deer in the woods, while he slowed his dance and then re-entered his home.

This was not a thing I could categorize. Why would Mr. Corman* be glad that someone had been shot? I was not shocked; I was puzzled. This was an odd event, I decided, and needed decoding.

I had heard of Dr. Martin Luther King, and I had picked up from my mother that she thought he was a good man, but a bit too extreme, perhaps even being used by forces less naive than he was. And I again went to her to discuss what I had seen. I do not remember what she said about Mr. Corman. I remember, though vaguely, her saying that what had happened was sad and wrong.

I felt nothing, but replayed over and over in my mind's eye the leaping, springing body of our neighbor, his mouth shrieking in joy. "They got him!" and "commie nigger" and the dance of ecstasy.

There was no sorrow for me then, only curiosity. I did not actually weep over this incident until over two decades later, while recounting it in a church service.

That day I was a child, on the verge of awakening to sex, death, and all the deep things that torment and break a human heart. And when I remember that day, April 4, 1968, I remember it as the day when I had my innocence taken away, the dangerous innocence of a child raised in a nation that denies its own tortured past and present.

I mourn the child, and mourn the racial hate and ignorance that wounded him that day. I mourn the man who was both purveyor and victim of his own hatred. And I mourn the man who, even in his death, started me on a journey into the complexities, horrors, and suffering of encountering the wounds and sins of America. Sins, I slowly discovered, that I shared in, benefited from, and helped maintain by my unexamined assumptions.

Today I honor Martin Luther King in my own heart not primarily for what he did for the nation or for black people or even for white people. I honor him for taking away my innocence and for becoming the catalyst of a quest that led me back in history and forward toward belief in a meaning beyond the American dream, which I discovered was terribly deficient at its heart. I discovered Christianity, and through King and others like him, also discovered (and am still discovering) how to untwine Christian belief from American mythology.

My innocence I began to lose that April day had been based upon the idea that America was God's Chosen Nation, and that God loved America by default and smiled upon the choices made by our leaders. All I had to do, I thought as a child, was to embrace the goodness of the world I had been gifted.

What I had not realized was that my white skin, my gender, even the language I happened to speak, served as tickets for me while simultaneously excluding Americans who did not have these characteristics. I had never seriously thought of race until that day; I did not have to think of it, because I was its beneficiary.

Today, I realize we all think about race. But I am less sure we really understand our racial history. To understand it, we need to study our history together, and for white people in particular it will break our hearts.

I personally do not believe that any white person can say they are free of racial naivety. I do not think I am free of it, after all these years and all the reading, praying, thinking, dialogging I have done.

I have wept over what happened that day, wept for the child I was and for the dreamer whose love was snuffed out in a moment. You see, I thought as a child that love was what we all wanted and that the world was a good, safe place. But what I learned that day was that love and suffering are bound together, while hate is always with us, always working its poisonous way, and always finding a way to destroy love's messengers. Though not love itself...

The Christian message is that love rises up again, just as it literally -- literally being very important! -- rose from the grave on that first Easter. Martin Luther King was a man, a suffering, imperfect, but called out by love man. He paid the price for daring to love a world which did not want to be confronted by love.

And I, the 10 year old going on 11, did not want to be confronted by the cost of love. I wanted love but did not comprehend the truth about love. A child that young could not have been expected to carry such a burden; it would have crushed me. (Yet thousands of black children had that burden forced upon them from the day of their birth! Think on that!) That day, I learned the truth. Each day, I must choose again whether or not I will embrace the cross of truth and do my tiny tasks on its behalf.

I most likely will never be used by God as Dr. King was. I will almost certainly not be shot because I loved. But I was injured that day, forty years ago. I am still bleeding from the injury. And I will continue bleeding until the day I die, and am healed at last in Love's Presence.

I stood in that yard, and I heard the hateful rantings of a demonic joy that was and is a part of America. And, also a part of me. There are sins we have sinned for which we cannot atone, cannot expect forgiveness as though it is a right or privilege. To think we can expect such forgiveness is to mock not only history, but also to mock Christian theology and the meaning of the Cross. As Kierkegaard reminds us in his "Training in Christianity," to embrace the Word of God is also to embrace the offense to others that Word embodies. That is why Martin Luther King died. His message of love carried the offense of the cross with it, the offense that making visible the oppressed, dispossessed, and marginalized always creates in an unjust society in an unjust world. Better for one man to die...

We are without excuse. The sooner we realize we are without excuse, the sooner healing can begin. Will we ever admit that the death of Martin Luther King was intrinsically part of the American Dream, that the two were woven together in a way that too many of us still want to hang onto?

I do not know the answer. All I know is that, as much as I loved that child, as much as I remember his cool and analytical reaction to what he experienced, I also know I cannot and would not return to the world from which he came. I am awake, and I am awakening. Love demands I stay vigilant. Tears are good; confession cleanses the soul. But deeply dwelling upon and considering these things is better. And acting on them is better yet. There is still so much work to be done, as the recent lack of comprehension over the Jeremiah Wright sermons illustrates.

I do not hate Mr. Corman. Rather, the older I get the more I realize just how hard it is for a single person to battle his or her culture's wisdom, its preconceptions and self-protective blindness. I do not hate myself for my naivety. But I do hate the naivety itself, and I pray that Love continues to strip it from me so that I might be at least a mildly adequate container for a drop or two of love in this broken and terrified world.

God bless you, Dr. Martin Luther King. I miss you every day of my life.


* Not his real name

tag: jon trott, martin luther king, civil rights, i have a dream, april 4 1968, Fort Benton, montana, racial issues, assassination, racism, healing race,

Violence: small town, urban neighborhood, or international event, it is always personal

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A strange congruence of events -- three murders in my own Chicago neighborhood, one shooting death in my childhood hometown of Fort Benton, Montana (a bit ironic in light of my blog yesterday), and the anniversary of 9/11/01 -- begs contextualizing.

In Fort Benton, one young man is dead of a gunshot wound to the head. Was he murdered, or was it an accident? Two others, one the daughter of Fort Benton's mayor, were implicated in an apparent attempted cover-up of the shooting. I have no idea what happened, but mourn the senseless death, the effects this will have on other family members as well as the shooter and his girlfriend. And I mourn a little town I hold with affection, a place that violence isn't supposed to happen because it is (I wrongly want to tell myself) not a place such things are possible.

In my own Chicago neighborhood, within eyesight of our front door, two men were shot on two seperate nights. One if not both were homeless. These shootings happened just two and three days ago. Meanwhile, again just days ago, a man staying at our Cornerstone Community Outreach (CCO) homeless shelter (his wife and children also are at CCO), was shot down right outside CCO's front door.

With at least two of the men being homeless, we wonder if this is a potential serial killer. Police aren't saying. Meanwhile, some rather nasty upwardly mobile folks speculated on their website that these deaths could be stopped if the homeless and poor were pushed out of our Uptown neighborhood. Others of us met together to help warn homeless women and men about the potential danger, and to attempt new ways of networking our social agencies and faith organizations / churches so that the homeless had greater visibility as individuals whatever group or agency they were being aided by. Last night, I walked with friends from EZRA, a Jewish-based community outreach with offices directly across the street from our 920 Wilson building, walked the area from 11 pm to midnight as a non-violent "neighborhood watch" presence. We wanted people to know we were there. It was nothing all that helpful, most likely, but it was one way of positive protest and unity against the darkness of violence.

Finally, 9/11 every year is a sad day. I remember that date's tears and outrage, my wife and I isolated away from our community for our anniversary, having only one radio, one another and One God to sort out our sorrow, rage, and anxiety. Since then, I've only felt further outrage at our own country's massive idiocy in attempting a response to the attacks, a response which in both its scale and lack of intelligence has linked the Prince of Peace with one nation's horrific acts of violence, acts against a nation which we falsely accused of aiding and abetting our enemies and hiding those infamously non-existent weapons of mass destruction.

Christ's name continues to be dragged through the mud by these worshippers of unreasoning violence as diplomacy. Are we Jesus followers done yet believing those who say they speak for us? Will we at last tire of their lies, their cynical manipulation of our beliefs, hopes, and dreams? I don't dare hope so. I'm tired, and out of patience. Yesterday's anniversary reminds me not only of the dark deed done to us by others, but just as depressingly of the invincible ignorance of those who continue their project of blending Christianity (a bastardized version) with nationalism. I don't trust Christian leaders any more. Everything -- except the Love of God through His Son -- is up for reassessment. Old heroes don't wear well these days. If this is where our collective presuppositions lead, we need a whole new set of presuppositions.

Below is the short speech / prayer (not a very good prayer, because I think I was too upset and preaching more than praying) I gave at EZRA's offices on the afternoon of Sept. 10, the day of the third local murder here:

Today, we are gathered here to share in the suffering of the families of those slain, and in the anxiety and anger of our community in the face of these deaths. We mourn Phillipi Larrnarri, a thirty two year old homeless man who was shot while he slept on a bench only feet from where we stand. We mourn twenty-nine year old James Lane, shot outside Cornerstone Community Outreach's homeless center. We mourn one Mr. Belle, twenty five, shot on this block this morning.

Dear Lord, we are sad. We are angry. And though we don't like to admit it, we are afraid. Three of our neighbors have been murdered. Two in this very place. Who were they? Many of us know one or more of them. They were men. They were individuals. They were people of color, and poor. They had children. They had parents. They had friends. All that was taken from them in seconds. Gun. Bullet. Life. gone.

We want our neighbors' killers caught. And in the midst of that wanting, Lord, we confess we'd like someone to blame. We itch to accuse. We would like to blame our political leaders, or blame the police, or blame the poor and homeless. Some, even today, have so blamed. Yet two of these men were homeless, Lord. Forgive us. We lift up our mayor and our alderwoman, as well as our police force. Give them wisdom, God, to not only catch this murderer or murders, but also to find solutions more far-reaching, solutions that bring us together in common cause against these evils.

And Lord, help us to surrender our fear before it poisons us. We remember a day in September 2001, a day in which our entire nation mourned senseless killing, killing done in the name of God. What we learned since that day is that fear and anger can mislead a people, and that it makes of one terrible tragedy many such tragedies. Help us not to live in fear, but rather to acknowledge one another's suffering and so find in that suffering a common humanity.

Help us to empower and embolden the good, the true, and create solidarity in Uptown rooted in our common desire to love and live in safety. Help us to love even our enemies, yet remain vigilant in stopping evil acts and the systemic forces which create room for such acts. Help us to love, dear Jesus, help us to love life so much that we forget to be afraid in the midst of our love for one another.

We know that you are the God of Love. If you are not, then we are without hope. But your son loved us enough to die for us. As you mourned for your Son, so we mourn in Him for those whom he loved.

Amen.

tag: EZRA, Fort Benton, homeless, Jesus People USA, jewish, uptown chicago, violence

A Plug for My Childhood Home: Fort Benton Montana

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This is one of those self-indulgent posts that those coming here for commentary on politics may not find interesting. Consider yourself warned (wink).

In 1975, I couldn't wait to escape Fort Benton. I was an angst-filled 18-year old when I went off to Gordon College near Wenham, Massachussetts, leaving my childhood life in Montana behind. I seemed designed for the big city, and found one: Chicago, which really is my kind of town. But time does change things.

This summer I returned to Fort Benton to celebrate my dear parents' sixtieth wedding anniversary. And in the midst of that fun, reaquainted myself with the little town I left behind. It is a gem of a place, dressed up for tourists (which frankly keep its economy ticking) and surrounded by natural beauty that lend to the charming effect.

History

Lewis and Clark's famous expedition west passed by and camped near the future Fort Benton (Montana's State Memorial to Lewis and Clark, above, is located on the levy where I as a child fished). The memorial captures the two men and their Native American guide, Sacagawea (who carries her baby with her). The expedition spent nine days near the future Fort Benton figuring out which was the way to the Pacific Ocean.

Founded in 1846 as an American Fur Company outpost called Fort Lewis, it went through another name change before being renamed after Senator Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri. And perhaps this was because it was St. Louis, Missouri that made the saying about successful businesses, "It's location, location, location" come true for Fort Benton. The Fort itself had begun disintegrating, but the town around it began to grow.

Fort Benton's historical significance exists for mainly one reason. Steamboats could navigate no further than Fort Benton from their starting point in Saint Louis, making Fort Benton "the world's innermost port" and also the "overland trail" distribution point for supplies over the entire northwest territory. The 1880s could be called the town's golden era.

This lasted, alas, only until the railroads came through, and overnight Fort Benton was reduced from being one of the wild west's most well-known and colorful towns to being an historical footnote. That wasn't until after, however, at least one Montana Governor (Meagher) either was pushed or jumped overboard from a steamboat offshore and was never seen again. For more on Fort Benton history, I suggest the town's homepage and also Ken Robison's blog (he touches on Meagher-related issues and also a very-little known aspect of African Americans in Fort Benton).

Childhood in Fort Benton

During my childhood Fort Benton was a town touched by that historical magic. My older brothers would go down to the remains of the old fort's adobe walls (today which are almost gone, except for one small portion preserved). They'd hunt for lead ball bullets, arrowheads, and the like, and it was rumored by them that they'd found some.

Fort Benton is nestled in a valley beside the Missouri River, and we often fished there for a strange, barely edible but astonishingly feisty fish called Goldeye. Various types of Pike could also be obtained, all with the most basic lures. We caught our share of snags as well, some of which were traveling the river bottom and ended up (at least once) emptying my entire reel as I vainly attempted to catch "a really big fish."

Sedementary rock formations in "the bluffs" across the river from town, and above the then-city dump (since moved elsewhere), provided some startlingly wonderful fossils. I once found a giant clam measuring about six or seven inches across...

The town's Cottonwood trees (they seem to be everywhere) would sometimes fill the gutters with piles of "cotton" which we firestarters would light with matches and delightedly observe the almost gunpowder-quick result down the entire length of the gutter.

Today

This summer, Fort Benton was at its most charming. The town has systematically finished what in my day had barely begun; its transformation from a quiet agriculturally-based economy to a self-concious tourist-attraction. Whereas in most cases, such a thing injects artificiality (the smell of plastic) into its subject, Fort Benton looks all the better and seems all the more interesting. On one level, I fear those involved in making Fort Benton a touristed place face a serious problem. It is just far enough from interstate highways (approx. 40 miles) to make the journey daunting for hurrying families. But if the trip is undertaken, the town rewards those who come.

My own favorite "new" attraction is the path for walkers, runners, and bikers running along the entire riverfront. I only got to run it once, but ran the entire thing round trip, making for a good three mile plus workout. Fort Benton planners look to lengthen this path, and I most strongly encourage that resolve. I'm mad for my Chicago bike and running path, but to find a miniature version of same in Fort Benton so well conceptualized and carried out is distinctly satisfying.

Various new businesses include a fabulous ice cream emporium, The Culbertson House, a quite "big city" alternative book store (which the name of escapes me and seems to have no web presence), and the most excellent Wake Cup coffee shop and deli. Their location, directly across the street from the afore-mentioned Lewis and Clark statue, makes them simple to find.

Wake Cup, I admit, is run by my niece and therefore has a special place in my heart. But good coffee is good coffee, and their coffee is generously provided and really yummy. (Below, my wife Carol Elaine and my niece, Amanda Bumgarner.)

Other great things to do in and around Fort Benton include traveling the Missouri River by canoe or even (for shorter one half day trips, inner tube). We've done the short trips; the longer ones reveal one of the longest pieces of "wild river" left in this country, with stunning rock formations and many camping spots throughout.

I hope for those visiting Montana that Fort Benton may figure into your plans. And for me, it feels this little plug is a sort of pay-back to a place that gave me a lot, that saw some of my darker moments but also saw the beginnings of my faith journey I still travel on. Going back to the path along the Missouri, I suppose it is a symbol of what Fort Benton itself was for me, a part of my way, and in retrospect a part more meaningful and memorable than I once thought it could be.

Perhaps one day I'll talk about Brother Van, the circuit-riding Methodist preacher who lived in Fort Benton during the town's heyday. For now, I'll end with one of his favorite and most-sung hymns, a strangely sad / joyful favorite of my father's and perhaps the entire Trott clan, and one which we sang in Fort Benton's Methodist Church even this summer.

The Songs of the Reaper

The seed I have scattered in springtime with weeping,

And watered with tears and with dews from on high;

Another may shout when the harvester’s reaping,

Shall gather my grain in the “sweet by and by.”

Refrain

Over and over, yes, deeper and deeper

My heart is pierced through with life’s sorrowing cry,

But the tears of the sower and songs of the reaper

Shall mingle together in joy by and by.

By and by, by and by,

By and by, by and by,

Yes, the tears of the sower and songs of the reaper

Shall mingle together in joy by and by.

Another may reap what in springtime I’ve planted,

Another rejoice in the fruit of my pain,

Not knowing my tears when in summer I fainted

While toiling sad-hearted in the sunshine and rain.
Refrain

The thorns will have choked and the summers suns blasted

The most of the seed which in springtime I’ve sown;

But the Lord Who has watched while my weary toil lasted

Will give me a harvest for what I have done.
Refrain

[Van Orsdel often sang this, but it apparently was written by one William A. Spencer, a fellow Methodist, in 1886.]

tag: Fort Benton, jon trott, lewis and clark, montana, steamboat, Thomas Hart Benton, william spencer, william van orsdel, Wake Up Coffee, Amanda Bumgarner