A look through the Arch - at Dred

In 1965, the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial, also known as the Gateway Arch, was built in St. Louis, Missouri, along the western shore of the Mississippi river.

It was designed to commemorate the Louisiana Purchase, the first civil government west of the Mississippi, and the debate over slavery raised by the Dred Scott case. In practical and political ways, it was also intended to provide jobs.

But clearly, the "Jefferson National Expansion" moniker points to Jefferson's role in overseeing the purchase of the vast tract of land into which our nation would grow, starting right in St. Louis, where Lewis and Clark began their journey.

Another journey began in St. Louis - a caustic debate on slavery, which led to a rare Supreme Court ruling and - eventually - to civil war and staggering bloodshed for those on both sides of the argument. The debate was triggered by a slave - a man - named Dred Scott.

Dred had been traveling with his master, John Emerson. Scott had lived Illinois and Wisconsin - both
free states - after moving from Missouri (a slave state). When Emerson, an army surgeon, left Fort Snelling in Wisconsin, he left Dred behind and hired out his services to others. It was argued that, by selling slave services in a free state, Emerson initiated the act of slavery in that state, which violated the Missouri Compromise, the Northwest Ordinance, and the Wisconsin Enabling Act.

Emerson subsequently died, and for three years his widow continued to hire out Dred's services in Wisconsin. Dred first tried to buy his freedom from the widow but she refused. So Dred sued - in Missouri. The case went to the Supreme Court, where, in 1857, Judge Robert Taney's Majority Opinion rejected Dred's plea.

The language that Taney used in his Opinion (http://bit.ly/1GaHAA4), was, by today's standards, so inflammatory as to be hardly believable. He referred to blacks as "people of an inferior order." And that "Negroes in bondage are property and the Constitution protects property owners from deprivation.." and therefore "could be bought and sold and treated as an ordinary article of merchandise and traffic."

At that point, Abraham Lincoln, the presidential candidate, entered the fight. Lincoln characterized Taney's option as "a warped judicial interpretation of the (constitutional) framers' intent."

Taney's decision against Dred Scott fueled Lincoln's passionate oratories and helped define his political strategy during the Lincoln-Douglas debates. Historian Graham Peck wrote: “To Lincoln, the Taney and Douglas racial doctrine culminated a retreat from the idea of equality since the Revolution and provided an intellectual and legal capstone to the nation’s increasingly discriminatory racial practices..."

It can be argued that the the Lincoln-Douglas Debates decided the presidency. And the Dred Scott case helped Lincoln beat Douglas in those famous sessions. But by the time the debates - and the election - were over, war was imminent. It would be a war to define freedom. A war that would kill 620,000 Americans.

And now, back to St. Louis. Everyone knows of the social and racial unrest that have unfolded in nearby Ferguson. But not many Americans know that, just blocks away, in the Calvary Cemetery in Florissant, is Dred Scott's grave.

There, his gravestone is covered in pennies left by visitors. It's thought they link Dred's memory with Lincoln - and they attest to the heroic efforts of both men against slavery and social injustice.

Poverty, racism, and social injustice in America are widespread, complicated, and longstanding problems. They are neither socially unilateral nor can they be fixed with existing federal programs.

Dred's grave. Ferguson. The Arch. All part of St. Louis.

Looking through the gateway arch, out across the Mississippi River, are the vast tracts of land that Lewis and Clark explored. But, sadly, there are also new lands. Deserts. Deserts of jobs, of food, of affordable housing. Deserts of fairness and justice.

I've seen those deserts. Growing up on the South side of Chicago and subsequently working in places like Detroit and Flint, I've seen poor neighborhoods that stretch to the horizon. I've wondered about unemployment and despair in those places. And about whether the people living there can feel real, everyday hope for their future.

For those cities and others like Ferguson, perhaps their voices will eventually be heard. How and when change will unfold is unknown, but it's inevitable. For all of us, I hope the solution - this time - is one that can be peaceful, planned, and embraced.

Until then, when we look at the Arch, we should be reminded of the juggernaut of change that Dred Scott started in 1857.

And we should remember that in it's shadow, we'll find the troubled city of Ferguson ... and the paradox of Dred Scott's gravestone - a marble marker adorned with copper pennies and the eternal company of Abraham Lincoln.

The man I know in you

If I could only find a steam-punk time travel machine in a dusty attic somewhere, I'd spin the dials to take me back to the year 2000.

To a chilly fall day at a Chicago skate park.



I'd sneak up to the edge of the concrete track, lean on the chain- link fence and look for a familiar six-year-old among the tall, gangly teenagers.

The beautiful blonde one, his cheeks chapped and rosy-red. The one with the skinned knees and bruises. My son, timeless and innocent - fearless and confident.

Tommy.

Back then, at the skate park, 6-year-old Tommy was an epically unusual equal among those lanky, edgy, swearing teenagers. Because he didn't fear the fall or the challenge. And it was a place where he could be himself - and they loved the kid whose swagger made them feel cooler.

At night, he'd sit at our kitchen table and make his skinny friends custom tees using my old white Hanes t-shirts and indelible markers. Tommy's new clothing line, featuring skateboard company logos, was a must-have outfit for the skateboard clique.

Those shirts were genuine and pure - and thus, wondrously cool. Just like Tommy.

I think the junior-high skaters saw what I saw. And with my time travel machine, I want to see it again. I want to take pictures on my iPhone and show them to anyone who doubts the soul and the heart and destiny.

Because, like a reborn soul, it seemed that Tommy couldn't wait to get life started again. Pierre Corneille, a 17th-century dramatist, penned, "True, I am young, but for souls nobly born, valor doesn't await the passing of years." And what I saw in Tommy couldn't wait.

Tommy couldn't even wait 9 months. Couldn't wait to walk around the backyard, hunting bugs and trouble and the neighbor's dog while clutching a bottle of apple juice in his teeth like Churchill would a cigar.

He looked inexplicably cool in diapers and a baby t-shirt. He didn't have time for silly things like naps or toys. He wanted the keys to my car. He wanted my phone, my power tools, and my computer. My art supplies. My heart.

On the basketball court in our driveway, Tommy would whip off his shirt and challenge his older brother Andrew and me to a game. Him against us. He would crash into Andrew and make wild shots. He'd usually finish the game with a split lip.

But every game, Andrew and I would find ways to help him score.

Because we both knew winning meant nothing - and that Tommy's spirit meant everything.

In sixth grade, Tommy was an offensive lineman on the 7th-grade football team. He wore giant shoulder-pads and a recklessly fun attitude. More than once, I'd have to call a teammate's father and apologize for Tommy's idea of a sixth-grade football hit in practice.

In games, he would smile as the opposing 7th graders taunted and threatened him. Then he'd run to the sidelines inappropriately high-fiving his team as they helped the other kid off the field.  They just didn't know Tommy.

Vince Lombardi, a football guy, said: "Leaders are not born, they are made."

Well, Lombardi was wrong.

Leaders are born - as souls - and their lives flow toward that destiny. They are drawn to challenges and causes, purpose and justice. They are pulled, pointed and directed. Perhaps their journey takes them to an urban classroom. Perhaps to a law school in Baltimore or Washington, D.C. Or to a boardroom.

Sometimes these journeys take a sort of karmic detour. Before Marissa Meyer became the CEO at Yahoo, she was a grocery clerk. Michael Dell, of Dell Computers, was a dishwasher. Warren Buffet was a paperboy who claimed his bike as a deduction on his first tax return. Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon, was a summer camp leader.



Or, maybe your detour is to spend a summer as a busboy in a tourist town. To get ready take on bigger things. To see, to remember.

My 6-year-old skateboarder is now 21, and he sometimes forgets who he was - who he is - under the weight of the world.

Of course, he's still innocent, generous, and creative. His soul is still infused with leadership and fearlessness. With charisma.

You see, that's why I need the time machine. To snap some pictures from the chain link fence.

To tell him, "You need to remember who you are."

"I need to show you that - if you look at your past, Tommy - you can see your destiny."

To tell him again and again, "I love you for the man I know in you."

A place too high

I've been up here for a few years now.

Here in Appalachia, with its mountains of sadness and antiques and coal. In the hills of the high desert, climbing red rocks in Sedona. Looking for artifacts and aliens and God's voice.

Here, on the Sunshine Bridge, driving through slanting sunlight and lemon yellow pillars of wire. Top down, flying on the salty wind across the aquamarine whitecaps.

And here, at my window, looking at coral sunsets every night. Trying to understand a language that Whitman and Keats couldn't speak. Neither could Bob Dylan or Bob Marley, even after sitting in the sand sharing enlightenment.

I can't speak it either.  You gotta do more drugs than Dylan or Marley or me.

But I know who might. Tim Leary, Harvard psychologist and the sixties hippie of all hippies. While he probably walked around with mushrooms in his pockets, he claimed they were the source of shamanic power and deep metaphysical truth.

Leary once said that he learned more "in the five hours after taking ... mushrooms than ... in the preceding 15 years of studying and doing research in psychology." 

What did he learn? About eight levels, or circuits, of consciousness. He described the first four circuits as the basic psychological skills needed by human beings - such as survival, problem-solving, and socializing. That each circuit could be clearly and astonishingly sensed, and sometimes triggered, by specific types of chemicals - such as opiates, marijuana, alcohol and sexual hormones.

Leary also described the big leap to the higher circuits.  The ones that the shamans use. Four levels, progressively associated with sociosexual knowledge, telepathy, ESP, life extension, and immortality.

The final circuit, according to Leary, is that which is sensed in near-death experiences: it is a fusion to quantum consciousness.

This highest circuit can be found described in nearly all major religions.  It is the equivalent of a heaven, a paradise, a knowing of all things. A consciousness among all souls. It's what Leary really sought.

Levels five and higher can be reached with Iboga, a root used in West Africa, which leads to an eight hour metaphysical journey.

It can be reached with Peyote, a mushroom which brought native Americans intense transcendental experiences - some lasting up to 10 hours.

And with Ayahuasca, which means “vine of the souls.” Ayahuasca is such an intense hallucinogen that it seems to hurl the user into a dimension that often requires spiritual and clinical supervision.

I'm not going up to five. I can't get that high. I need to settle for healing and understanding and old-fashioned four level learning.

But the truth isn't in the mountains or among the red rocks or on the bridge, either.

I think it's written in the sunset.  There are streaks of meaning there, if I can lose myself in the colors and the salty breeze and in my stirred faith.  And in the quantum language of the sun's rays.

I can't understand the words - yet.

But it's my journey. John's journey. For now.