Category Archives: Social comment

The strange story of Gary Thomas Rowe Jr.

A great American died recently:  Sheldon Kennedy.  He infiltrated the third Ku Klux Klan in the WWII and post-WWII years, then wrote about them.  The Klan never forgave him, which made him my friend in spirit on some level.  That got me back to some re-reading in a subject that has long interested me:  the KKK and its kind.

In the mid-1970s (age 12 or so), I happened to pick up a book called My Undercover Years in the Ku Klux Klan, by Gary Thomas Rowe Jr.  In brief:  “Tommy” Rowe was a working-class Georgian who liked to fight, and who infiltrated Bobby Shelton’s Alabama branch of the KKK (at FBI instigation) during the civil rights movement.  He informed (how truthfully, we are uncertain) on the Klan until the 1965 day he was in a vehicle from which Michigan civil rights volunteer Viola Liuzzo was shot to oblivion near the Edmund Pettus Bridge, not far from Birmingham and Selma, AL. The jig was up, of course.  Rowe testified against the assassins (never quite shedding suspicion that he was among them), his cover was well beyond retrieval, and he went into Witness Protection.  He passed away in 1998Here is a brief catchup on his story from a biographer, a more reputable source than the NYT.

In a way, Rowe’s ghosted autobio was one of my first introductions to historiography:  how much of what he said could I believe? I wanted to believe as much of it as possible.  As the descendant of a Kansas Ku Klux Klansman (unless my grandfather lied to me in one of his last fully lucid moments, which I doubt), I have had a longtime antipathy toward their kind–and toward all such organizations.  With a little luck, they feel the same way about me.  Any time you start researching any intelligence matter–and anything to do with the FBI qualifies as such–your historiography and skepticism must kick into passing gear.  You must realize that any of your sources have axes to grind and would willingly lie like rugs, the G-Men as much as the racists.  It’s all up to what you believe credible.  The greatest handicap is to be so emotionally involved that there are sources from which you would believe nothing, and on this topic I leave some paint on that guardrail.

So, thinking of Sheldon Kennedy, I revisited The Informant.  This investigative bio of Rowe came out in 2005.  As one may imagine, so long as Rowe lived, information about him would be elusive; he had betrayed a terrorist organization whose propensity for violence and reprisal he knew as well as any man alive.  Even after his death, it wasn’t easy for Prof. May to find the full story of Tommy Rowe.  At the very least, I can re-read what he did find–and even that must be considered historiographically.  Two of Liuzzo’s living relatives call May a liar.  Whom do we believe? Now you see why history can get so fuzzy.  The sister says she didn’t talk to May.  May disagrees.  Even though the principals are still living, we still must decide who’s lying.

All right.  What do I now make of Tommy Rowe, FBI informant, known racist, thug and adrenaline junkie? There is zero doubt that he participated in violence against the civil rights movement (we’ve got pictures).  Was that justified in the name of maintaining cover? Not an easy ethical question.  Did he fire at Viola Liuzzo? He may have, in order to avoid being immediately next, which does not necessarily mean he fired accurately.  FBI agents with motive to lie said his pistol had not been fired, but that means nothing except that someone (with a motive to lie) told us that a given weapon hadn’t been used.  (His was not the only weapon in existence, of course.  Lots of Americans have more than one pistol.  Some have dozens.  Show them this .22, not that one.)  We cannot know if Rowe fired, nor how effectively. What is well documented:  whether Rowe fired effectively at Viola Liuzzo and her passenger Leroy Moton (a black civil rights volunteer), or shot to death the three other Klansman in the car as they overtook the Liuzzo vehicle, fatal violence was imminent. Someone was about to die, by his hand or another.  Rowe could not have doubted that.

One may argue that this is exactly what Lowe should have done:  three quick, calm shots, executions of backseat fellow, shotgun rider, driver.  Two seconds, three violent bigots erased.  All very well to say, except that neither I nor most of you have ever lived a double life for several years while infiltrating a hate organization.  At this remove, it isn’t so easy to lay fair judgment about Tommy Rowe; he was there, deciding on the spot, and I was not.  Blowing people away in a speeding vehicle (in which you too are riding), before they actually commit a crime, in cold blood, well…that’s asking a lot.  Rowe had no more desire to spend life in jail than anyone else, and up to the moment guns blazed, he was still in cover with a job to do.  When does the infiltrator decide that the game is over, and to change his life forever? Judging this is like judging combat veterans.  We weren’t there; they were.

To call Rowe a civil rights hero is unsupportable, but it is equally indefensible to call him a racist redneck out for only a few thrills, some government dollars and shielding for beating people up (preferably integrationists).  He did tremendous damage to the Ku Klux Klan; unless he murdered a baby doing it, that goal was valuable to any enemy of the KKK.  I don’t have to think him an admirable man to be glad he was where he was.  I think he was a moderate racist, the garden variety who knew the cant and could pass, rather than a virulent bigot who only showed up so that he could beat up blacks with Federal impunity. (You think there is no such thing as a moderate racist? Don’t let the desire to demonize racism make you forget to be careful what you wish for.  I know people who use racist language but aren’t ever going to blow up a church.  I can disapprove of their attitudes while being glad they aren’t going to commit murder.)  Meta-fact:  fear of informers was a leading paralytic to KKK violence in the civil rights era, and after Rowe, it wasn’t paranoia on the Klan’s part; the Feds truly were out to get them.  (Go Feds!)  In the end, Tommy Rowe probably prevented far more racist violence than he participated in, and did vast harm to the Ku Klux Klan.

Sometimes we have to take what we can get–unless we ourselves are willing to step up.  Who’s volunteering for such a thing? Had I not married, I might have done so–but that’s not a story I’ll ever tell in a blog.  Rowe was what the FBI could get.  I would have a very hard time constructing an argument that decency would have been better served had he told the FBI and KKK both to go to hell, or had he died before then in a car accident and we never known him.

Thought for the day

As long as you have a burning need to answer yahoos, you will always care what yahoos think, and yahoos will always impact you.  When you reach the point where you feel more satisfied giving yahoos absolutely zero to grasp and use to beat you with, life gets better.

I can think of some authors who still need to learn this. If someone sent one a ‘fan’ letter one found so stupid one was tempted to include its substance in the afterword of one’s next book, for example. I guess that’s when they are at the point where they are no longer paying attention to editing guidance.

Of course, I’m only talking about verbal retaliation.  If you have a chance to have some fun with them physically, I’m all for that part, obeying all relevant/enforceable statutes and inserting here all the necessary rear end covering.

Rereading: James Michener’s ‘Iberia’

I have come up with a recurring topic idea I’ll continue if people find it interesting:  re-reads.  I have a lot of books, enough that I could not re-read them all in five years, including many to which I later return.  I don’t like to post reviews on Amazon, unless I have a motive; I resent them shipping my content to affiliates.  (Yes, they have the legal right.  Not disputed.  Nor should they dispute my legal right to refrain from donating my content to them.)

When most of us think of Michener, we think of his great historical fiction novels that span great ranges of time.  They walk us through the development of a culture, and in so doing they help us see that culture’s modern residents in light of their forebears.  My personal favorites are The Covenant (South Africa), Centennial (Colorado), Alaska, Texas and The Source (Palestine).

Iberia differs.  It is a composite personal travelogue of the author’s experiences in Spain (Portugal is not really included).  This is that rare book for which hardcover is by far the best edition, because I own it in both hardback and paperback, and the hardback contains many more of Robert Vavra’s excellent photographs.  James Michener met Spain as a very young man, came to know it well, and its people showed him their country as thoroughly as a people can.  Spaniards can be sensitive about the world’s take on their world-shaping, gold-glittering, intensely religious past.  Said world has given them ample cause.  It follows that they considered Michener an honest broker worthy of hidden knowledge, frank debate and candid admission.

It reads differently from his fiction, as you would expect, because fiction and non-fiction narrative often differ slightly. In the editing world, we must take account of this. If this is his natural style, though, I like it. It is sophisticated yet word-economical.

What it means for you:  a trove of cultural enrichment.  Think of every social science and humanity discipline applied to a given nation, from history to fine arts.  That describes Iberia with respect to Spain and Spaniards.

What you will have to teach your kids if you let them play Grand Theft Auto

Most people realize that some games are rated ‘mature’ for a reason.  For those who don’t, and figure it’s fine if their kids play Grand Theft Auto series games, you will have to educate them thus:

  1. “You a mock-ass buster fool” is an unacceptable substitute for “I disagree, Dad.”
  2. They should not refer to a water pistol as their ‘strap.’
  3. No matter how hard they try, they will not be able to bunny-hop their bikes over houses.
  4. “Are you dissing my ho’?” is an unsuitable way to ask others to respect one’s girlfriend or sister.
  5. Putting Ammu-Nation gift cards on their Santa Christmas list is futile.
  6. Very, very few stunt jumps can be done on a Big Wheel, and most will not end well.
  7. Why you pull over when a fire truck passes, rather than shoot out its right rear tire and follow it around to watch the crazy maneuvering.
  8. Just because your family sees an Army tank does not mean you now have a Wanted Level of 6 stars.
  9. Sex does not consist of two motionless people in the front seats of a car, facing forward and not touching, magically causing the car to rock.
  10. They cannot escape ‘time out’ or grounding by finding a yellow star police bribe.
  11. It really would not be amusing to park a trash truck across a busy freeway and watch the fun.
  12. Red lights are not just for other people.
  13. Most of the world doesn’t leave its keys in the car at all times.
  14. We didn’t actually go to war with Australia.
  15. Community colleges will not award them an AA in Pay-N-Spray.
  16. They cannot become fireproof by stealing a fire truck and hosing down flaming cars and/or people.
  17. Most of the social comment in the game’s radio stations is a fair depiction of the nation they will inherit.

 

What not to do to heavily bearded people

This is a public service announcement from an owner of considerable facial shag (not that kind, jeez).

It is okay to stare at a heavy beard.  We are basically used to that.  Your kids will gawk up at us and even hide from us.  We’re used to that, too.

It’s not so okay to reach up and start playing with it without permission.  I have empathy for what pregnant women go through, with everyone rubbing the belly without leave.

It is okay to say you want to braid it.  However, it’s usually not very appealing when actually done.  And if you want to kill the chances of getting to braid it, don’t say ‘it would be so cuuuuuuute!’  Cuuuuuuute really isn’t the look bearded guys are going after.

It is dumb to ask ‘how long have you been growing that?’ Think about it.  Most of us eventually trim them off at the ends (may have done so for twenty years), so the question is pointless (and the first one everyone asks).  I’ve had mine thirteen years.  ‘How long does it take to get that long?’ is an intelligent question, use that one instead.

It is okay to ask if we play Santa at Christmas, especially if (like me) we look very much like a young Santa.

It is very helpful, at dining, to point out if something has gotten lodged in it.  Most of us want to keep our beards very clean.  It is, however, pretty dumb to ask ‘saving that for later?’ No, I really don’t want to slurp stale or decaying food scraps out of my beard.  I’m already embarrassed enough, like most people would be if they got marinara sauce on their white blouse’s cleavage.  If you let me know, I can go to the men’s room and straighten things out, and it was good of you.

It isn’t very polite to frankly remark, ‘I think you’d look better without the beard, I can’t stand beards on men.’  We would not generally say to you:  ‘You really need to put a lot more makeup on, your natural face looks pasty and old.’ I’m not trying to edit your face; be nice if you’d avoid offering editing guidance on mine.

It is okay to ask fairly thinking questions about it.  ‘Does it cause problems using power tools?’ Yep.  Have to be very careful.  ‘What’s the worst beard disaster you ever had?’  Got Gorilla Glue in it, had to cut a chunk out.

It is not okay to yank on it.  Surprising we have to mention this, but kids especially do it.  Please don’t let your child do this.

It’s a little intrusive to ask if it’s religious, though I don’t think it’s intrusive to ask the general question about why we grow it.  In my case it’s simple:  I dislike shaving, always did.

If you like it, it’s okay to tell us so.  If you don’t like the way we wear it, it’s not very polite to tell us what we should do to it to please you.  Not unless you’d be okay with us telling you that those jeans make your posterior look pudgy and you should get different ones.

I admit that I watch Big Brother

Yeah, it’s true.  Can’t try to deny it.  But I often ask myself:  why?

BB was about the trashiest ‘reality’ TV going until Jersey Shore came along (that I do not watch, although my nephew does, much to my nausea).  So, some partial answers:  why do I watch this crap?

  1. It’s on three times a week, which means at least sometimes, it’s something my wife and I can do together.  (Lest she sue for libel, I must add she is less interested in it than I am.)
  2. It confirms all my cherished stereotypes of Hollywood, always trying to ‘change it up’, always looking gaudy and overdone, never able to leave stuff be.
  3. It does amaze me to see what people will do on camera, how they will act.
  4. If I didn’t admit to a certain schadenfreude watching people (who volunteered out of avarice to) suffer, I’d be a liar.
  5. Most seasons, there is at least one contestant I can root for.  This season it’s Shelley, the middle-aged outdoor company executive.
  6. Julie Chen’s utter irrelevancy is pure comedy.  She tells them time’s up, they disobey her, nothing happens.  They award the prize and chaos ensues, making her look silly.

I don’t kid myself, of course, that I’m seeing much that’s real.  Past season contestants are obviously coached.  We have reason to believe the producers have influenced outcomes in the past, and one can be sure they’ll do so again.  It’s not a house; it’s a sound stage.  The rules look flexible depending on ratings.  And does anyone believe the ‘America Votes’ results are above board?

Fair’s fair, though.  Whatever’s wrong with it, they have me watching it.  Ergo, they must have something going on in my eyes, or I’d ignore the whole thing.

Fireworks in a parched desert

I’m in favor of fireworks, regardless of social views, all other things being equal.  I think it’s okay for kids to take a few chances with them; the alternative is to put them in a carefully protected bubble world where they never learn why it’s dumb to throw firecrackers.  I think we are harmed more as a society by obsessive efforts to prevent kids from being stupid than by the stupidity itself.

What I do not quite get is what motivates people who live in a tinder-dry area to go out into the sagebrush high desert, or vacant lots that have reverted to same, and set off fireworks there.  I get why someone would detonate them in a large parking lot, or on an island in a lake, anywhere there is no potential for damage to others.  But explosions and fire in a desert (one with just enough dry cover to go all brushfire)? Really?

How we confer rights

We are very interesting, are we not, in our sense of proportion? We will make armloads of laws to punish people for ingesting the substance or smoke of a given plant, throwing all kinds of roadblocks–an act which may be completely individual, personal and private.  We do not grant this right unfettered.

By contrast, the right to create a new life–thus handing existence to a helpless person and saying “I may do this right, I may be lousy at it, I may give you away and not do it at all, but whatever I do or don’t do, you get to deal with the consequences”–this we fetter not at all.  Anyone’s allowed.  To suggest it be restricted in any way at any time comes off as the worst sort of fascism.  Even to suggest that it be restricted, even in the case of those who have already abused the privilege with its proven idiotic exercise, reeks of Adolf.  As for trying to restrict what one does after the fact, that’s irrelevant.  Whatever we restrict after the fact, the damage is done.  The helpless person has been given life, and cold hard reality is that he or she now gets the end fallout.

How is it more necessary to interdict something so personal and private as screwing around with a plant, than to interdict the incontinent siring and production of new human beings at random?

Yeah, I was reading the latest Octomom article.  Could you tell?

Medieval mentalities

When you think of the Middle Ages, you think of a wholelottaignorant, right? Loopy folk beliefs, slavish acceptance of draconian religious programming, a profound lack of empathy for most other people (especially those different from one), squalor fairly easily alleviated but not being a priority.

Although I must say that at the recent Society for Creative Anachronism event my friends Rebekah and Forrest took me to, they seem to have left out all of the above.  Anyway, consider this dominant reality before you judge your medieval ancestor’s mindset with too much disdain:

They knew nothing was going to get better.

I was walking through my house today, thinking about the stiff knee that results from (what I believe to be) botched cartilage surgery.  Avascular knee cartilage will not regrow, of course.  That which was removed no longer acts as a pad for the weight of my thigh and upper body.  What remains, taking more stress, will deteriorate further.  My knee will never be the same again, and all because for once I finally attempted to evade a pitch rather than let it hit me.  And I thought, well, maybe they’ll invent artificial knee cartilage by the time I need it.

“Maybe by the time I get that old, there’ll be something better.”  The exact form of hope that peasant LeBlanc, tilling his fields in medieval Anjou, did not have.  Could never have–not if sane.  What reason had he to imagine his sore knee would be ameliorated by a new invention? He had never seen a new invention.  He had seen new proclamations from the clergy, the nobility, the merchants.  In nearly every case they were bad news for him:  you are going to hell, you must produce more grain, you must pay more interest.  Unless you imagine that anyone ever told him:  “You get to go to heaven, you are allowed to produce less crops for me now, and we’ll lend to you without charging interest this time.”

His knee hurt, it would continue to hurt, and nothing would be invented to fix it.

My knee hurts, and not only do I hope something will be invented for it, I am not insane to imagine that it may be.  As a child, games were things played on a board with tokens and dice and spinners.  Today’s child (who when I was his or her age, I marveled at Pong) plays a realistic and immersive game of army combat.  With Koreans.  Who are currently in Korea, not in his living room.  Also an Australian guy and some gal from Norway. When I was in college, I wrote my papers on an electric typewriter. Now I edit people’s writing on a computer with software that allows me to track my changes and leave margin comments.

I saw this change.  It is more scientific to tell myself things are possible than impossible, all considered.

You probably feel the same way too, especially if you are in your forties and hoping they’ll fix all the elderly ailments before you get them.  (They intercepted polio at the pass, did they not?)

Now imagine your life, your entire life, with no such rational hope.

Amazon’s little game

Do you buy used books through Amazon? I do, though I’m seriously considering ending that practice.  If you’re anything like me, you have absorbed the following salient facts:

  • Any used book costs a minimum of $3.99 for shipping.
  • Often that’s the entire cost, with the book selling for $0.01.
  • If you make an order of any size at all, Amazon gives you free shipping.

Perceptive readers with business sense, and at least a little bit of avarice, have just done the mental math.  Okay.  So if I’m Amazon, here’s my game.  I’ll set up my system to adjust my price to $3.98 above whatever the best independent bookseller deal is.  And if they buy from the bookseller in spite of my undercut, since I take most of the profit anyway, I can’t lose.

The reason this offends me is that it is so scientifically designed to hose the little guy or gal, the independent bookseller in Waverly, KS who keeps a local retail store going by using the business as a net-order warehouse with retail capability.  It’s not malice, just scientific greed, and I see through it. Given that it affects books and authors, thus clients, as an editor I’m perhaps more sensitive about it. I like local bookstores and help keep them around when I can. So, I reckon, do most editors and writers.

What I have taken to doing, when I do buy used books from Amazon, is easy and inexpensive.  Buy it from the little guy or gal anyway, for the extra $0.02 or $0.50 or $2.00.  It would be great if others did so also.