Tag Archives: nkw

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.

Limburger

My guess would be that everyone is revolted by Limburger, just because of its malodorous reputation.  I bet most of you haven’t actually seen, smelt or tasted it.  Fess up: you just looked at it in the foil wrapper, thought “yecch, revolting,” and bought something else–but you never experienced it.  Well, I bought some the other day and tried it (wife is out of town), with the goal of giving you an honest and full description.

I see why it’s in a tightly sealed foil package, because it does have an unpleasant odor.  Sort of like feet with a spoiled poultry nuance.  It is pale yellow and fairly uniform in color, about the color of Munster but with some burnt orange rinding around the edges here and there.  Texture is creamy and not hard, less rigid than cheddar, soft to the point of spreadability.  Cuts easily with dull knife, doesn’t crumble.  No caves like Havarti or a blue cheese.

The next step was to melt some onto food.  If you heat this stuff up, the smell travels a lot farther, but it doesn’t do much for the taste.  I put it onto some pretty bland bean burritos and it was a culinary non-entity.  Here’s the burning question:  is there some great flavor here that would make you brave the bouquet to get the taste, or is this stuff just for practical jokes? I’d describe it as like a milder Gouda, nothing to get excited about.  You buy cheese for what its unique flavor contributes, and here it’s not really very unique, just accompanied by rotting chicken and unwashed feet.  I’ll eat the rest of it just so that it doesn’t go to waste, but without great enthusiasm.

Why people love college football

Granted, not everyone does.  But college football brings with it aspects that simply are not found in professional football, and they are the reasons I like it.  And non-Americans often wonder why in the world we get so wrapped up in this.  Well…

  • 98% of players will never sign seven-figure contracts.  Many are playing to get college educations, and some play and pay their own way.  When I think of what they go through, that’s incredible.
  • A lot of otherwise smart people from lousy backgrounds get chances to get their heads on straight, become educated, experience a different world, have better lives.
  • College football teams do not hold their cities for ransom.  The Seahawks might threaten to move away one day if Seattle doesn’t build them an even fancier stadium.  The Washington Huskies are not leaving Seattle, period.
  • Every region of this nation save Alaska has nearby college football, a rallying point for local interest and pride.
  • Each school has its own set of unifying traditions that make participation more fun, from Texas A&M’s all-male yell leaders to the Stanford Band to the Gator chomp.  Archaic fight songs, unofficial spirit songs, chants, clothing choices, and so much more.
  • One can have a whole bunch of teams one likes, and a whole bunch one just loathes.
  • It’s a better way to channel some old ghosts:  rivalry.  Most people outside Kansas and Missouri, for example, do not know that our states once fought a terrible war, one that had gone on seven years before the Civil War began, with numerous atrocities and reprisals on both sides.  The ghosts still stir a bit, but the annual rivalry matchup gives a way to channel and express that–and a way to remind ourselves that this is a much better way to express it than what we did in the 1850s, which was arson, rustling, robbery, rape, torture and murder.
  • It pays the way for most of the other sports.  Football revenue makes it possible to have men’s golf, women’s tennis, women’s soccer, etc.  Yes, college football is business–but it’s a business that provides lots of ways to be a college athlete, most of them money-losers for the school.
  • College football is diverse and unpredictable.  So many different styles of play, and with amateur players, so many comical and unexpected results.  Weird stuff happens in college ball.
  • Specialty schools with appeal for unique reasons:  military academies, religious schools, prestigious academic schools, and so on.  Every LDS person who wishes can take pride in BYU football; same for Roman Catholics and Notre Dame.  The whole Navy cares about Navy football.  And those who admire outstanding academics must surely respect Stanford and Yale.

In all these areas, college football just pushes the professional version into a wastewater lagoon.

Go Huskies!

Thinking about home security…

This is one of the better pieces I’ve read on how to make your place a harder target for burglars.

There is a reason why I react very badly to solicitors who ignore my sign prohibiting such:  because it helps my home security for them to think a crazy person lives here.  A crazy person probably owns the means of defense, and radiates eagerness to resort to them.  In reality, I am not.  But burglars hate surprises, and a person of seemingly unstable temperament and fierce disposition could present all manner of surprises.

Personally, I think the best home security system is almost free:  know and like your neighbors.  Nearly all my neighbors will keep an eye on this place when I’m not around, just as I do for them.  One pays nothing for this except the nominal contributions to general interdependence and community security that signal membership:  help one another, be friendly, be interested in lives without being nosy.  I think that if the burglars sense for one minute that they might be under surveillance and that someone may already have called the police, they’ll find a softer target.

It’s much like personal self-defense.  You don’t have to be Chuck Norris.  You just need to be a harder target than other people.  It is my view that making my neighbors’ homes harder targets does the same for my own.

Oh, and if a couple well-dressed young men come to your house offering a free evaluation for a home security system, you know what to do, right? Ask them to wait a minute; you left something on the stove.  Go get a camera.  Bring it to the door.  Snap their pictures, and then smile, and let them know you’re sending the photo to the police, because they’d love some photo evidence of likely burglary suspects.  Then make them get the hell off your property.  (You have to be physically imposing to do this the way I did, which involved profanity, a raised voice, and a sports implement, so adjust this to your personal capacity.  But you can certainly dial 911 right in front of them and say, “I have a couple of people pretending to sell security systems here, trying to case houses for burglary in my opinion.  Would you send an officer to deal with them?”)

It’s all about being a hard target. Burglars depend on us being nice, trusting idiots.  Cold, distrustful, intelligent people are hard targets.

Concrete getting interesting

This afternoon I took a look outside.  I saw a section of  my fence completely shattered, a bunch of gnarly tree roots torn up (some large enough to cut up for firewood), and a Bobcat sitting in the dusty, rocky driveway with a rear wheel removed.

It is illogical to conclude that the Bobcat was jacked and stripped by Bobcat thieves.  It is more logical to suppose that the contractor got a flat tire.  That must have annoyed him quite a bit.  So must the tree roots have.  Myself, I’m not too enthused about having a section of the fence blown away, but I’ll find out what happened before I have a reaction.  I’m guessing there was a root running under the old concrete (now removed completely), he got hung up on it with the bucket, and it somehow ripped out that fence section.  He is probably wondering how he’s going to explain it to me.  I am betting this is one of those cases where one gets more with flexibility and patience than with anger and venom.

Tomorrow, at least in theory, he is building forms, and I’ll have to mark where I want the fence brackets, so I’m sure I’ll get an explanation.  It should be very interesting.

Construction at 6:30 AM is noisy

…but that is one of those things we simply bear without too much grousing, as it cannot be changed.  I looked out when I awoke, and a third of my driveway was gone.  I must remember to wear earplugs to bed tomorrow, as I ought to have tonight.  I guess I have had such lousy contractor experiences that, deep down, when they said they’d come, I didn’t believe them.

Yesterday I had an inspiration and need to talk to the contractor.  Why not pour a low speed bump where I park my truck? The logic is that I would use it as a wheel block, really, one additional safeguard against failing to engage the parking brake and forgetting to leave it in first gear.

Here comes the concrete

Concrete guy was here today to drop off his Bobcat, which I agreed he could park in the driveway early.  It would be pretty illogical to cause petty inconveniences for the guy.  Showed him the brackets he needs to seat in the concrete so that when someday I bestir myself to replace the fence, I have good fencepost anchors.  Feeling hopeful, but apprehensive.  Evidently they are starting work at 6:30 AM Monday, so that should be a pleasing wake-up call.

Got Deb here for a day and a half, so we are going to Outback for dinner, then the fair.  Harmonic convergence:  saves us from spending a lot on fair food, which often isn’t that great and is usually difficult to eat with flimsy utensils in crowded dining areas, and means we get out and walk after we eat.  We will engage in one of our timeless rituals:  I will make a manful attempt to win my wife a cheesy stuffed animal, usually by throwing darts.  I’ll fail.  Deb will step up and nail it immediately, winning a larger animal.

I always wonder about the carnies.  It’s a hard life, I think, with long hours and no dental care (to go by the looks of most of them).  They always look like they lived in Wyoming and aged prematurely due to the harsh conditions.  On one hand, it would be an interesting summer adventure for a young person–especially a young male with little to zero sexual experience.  On the other, you could end up doing meth and/or getting hepatitis.  What strikes me is to look into those eyes and wander what sort of story lies behind them.

Container of bubbles

This feels very weird.  I’m writing on a netbook from a hotspot in a Starbucks in Renton (that’s south of Seattle).  It is noisy in here, and 80% of those present here have their faces buried in computers.  This isn’t a coffee shop; it just looks like one.

It feels so Seattle.  It’s even cloudy outside, with rain threatening.  Air’s humid, though it’s not cooking hot.  And not a single person in this Internet terminal that happens to serve coffee would voluntarily have a conversation with any other person, unless they met here on purpose.

This is what I do not like about cities.  I understand wanting to have one’s bubble of not dealing with random people; I really do.  But if you look at this situation right now, this place of ass-numbing hardwood chairs and crappy music, it is all just a container of bubbles.  There is another human being three feet from me on the right, and if I tried to have a conversation with him, I would absolutely shatter all the social rules.  I would be marked as fundamentally odd, probably dangerous, and quite irritating.

Technology may be connecting us with people far away, but it is isolating us from people who are close enough they could grab each other’s junk without leaning.

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.