Several years ago, I picked up a fellow from New York City. He was in Mobile for business. I could tell from the moment he sat in my car that he was one of those hard-charging, fast-talking individuals with firmly held opinions.
"I don't see how you people can still be so backwards down here. You still live in the past." he exclaimed.
"What exactly are you talking about," I asked.
"Just look around," he said, "You've got a tunnel named after a well-known racist. George Wallace! Really?"
We are all aware of the topics that we should avoid in polite company. Religion and politics top the list. Society also warns us to stay away from personal issues. I've violated all of those rules.
"Did you know that George won over ninety percent of the black vote in his last gubernatorial election?" I asked the carpetbagger.
"I find that hard to believe," he said. "How is that possible?"
"It's not that complicated. The election was in 1982. Wallace admitted publicly that he had been wrong on race and segregation. He spent much of his campaign visiting black churches and apologizing."
"It worked because people had changed. I didn't vote for him, but those folks who grew up in a different time with a different Wallace accepted his request for forgiveness."
We sat in my car for several minutes after the ride was over. I proudly talked about the positive aspects I knew about my hometown, including the charitable and civic groups in which I was involved. I reminded him that forward-thinking cities up north, like Boston, were fighting busing and race riots decades after the South had begun our journey.
My rider said he would give my remarks some thought, but still insisted that while a lot had changed in the South, we were still a little backwards.
About five years ago, one of my readers challenged me to quit writing "feel-good stories about little old ladies in nursing homes." He said I should look around our world and use my influence to recognize how bad things were. So, I did.
For several months, I wrote political blogs, albeit from the opposing side of the gentleman who inspired my venture. It didn't take long before he called me a "budding fascist and a racist."
In many of my weekly writings, I asked for conversation. I asked my readers and my riders to engage in a competition of ideas. Listen to the opposing views and use your best argument for your side.
I stopped writing those political columns after several months had passed. Unlike my rideshare and "slice-of-life" stories, I put in hours of research into the political writings. I simply ran out of time.
Last Thursday, I picked up an African-American woman. I had been uncharacteristically quiet in the previous several rides. She broke the silence.
"Have you been listening to the news?" she asked.
I wasn't sure where she was going with this. "Yes," I said, "Unfortunately. I'm heartbroken."
"I am, too," she said, "I have many friends who are celebrating. It doesn't matter whether I agreed with Charlie Kirk; this should never have happened in our country. He had a wife and children."
I'm much older and, I hope, wiser than when I began involving myself in politics in my teens. Life has thrown many challenges my way, some of which I have defeated, and some that have defeated me (at least temporarily). I admit that I don't enjoy arguing as much as I used to when I was younger.
Even during my most combative moments, I've tried to look past the argument and appreciate the arguer. Some of my very best friends are on the opposing side politically. I love them anyway.
This is a different tone for my blogs. But, frankly, when I sat down to write today's column, I needed to unload.
To the gentleman who wrote me about the "budding fascist and a racist" accusation, I know you don't believe that. I consider you and your wife to be friends of mine. We can disagree without acrimony. Let's give it a try.
God Bless,
Tommy
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