Pruner & Paul: The Greatest College Football Story You’ve Never Heard Of…

Chapter One:

Pruner

Charles Fremont “Pruner” West possessed a talent for taking what he had and stretching it a little further. His sister Ethel first noticed this with cough drops. Their father, William West, sold chickens in Burgettstown, Pennsylvania. Upon his return, he often gave his children pink and white lozenges. Like sapphires and diamonds, Charles stored the precious candies afterward.

Pennsylvania had quite the selection of medicinal confections for a boy to enjoy on a slow summer day. One could purchase Mulford Aromatics Lozenges of Philadelphia, Johnson’s Throat Lozenges of Martinsburg — “much used by singers and public speakers,” or Mearig Throat Lozenges from New Holland — mixed with sugar, peppermint, and “not more than half the minim of chloroform when made.” A kid could find himself in candy heaven.  

“One time a couple of weeks after we’d been given our mints, I smelled mint on Charley’s breath,” Ethel said, years later. “‘What are you eating?’ I asked him, thinking maybe I had been left out of a new distribution. ‘Why the mints we got a couple weeks ago,’ he confided. ‘Can I have one?’ I begged. ‘Sure,’ he said, and gave me a little piece. He had cut all his into fourths.’”[i]

If you’re a kid today, you live in a time when your most prized position would be a PlayStation 5, a smartphone, or a tablet with the coolest apps imaginable. The highlight of your day would be checking your Instagram or sharing the latest viral video on YouTube. 

However, imagine you’re a kid at the beginning of the 20th century, and cough drops were the most prized possession in your pocket. Social media was the newspaper you held in your hands, and one of the things you shared with your friends were arrowheads dug from the ground, reminding you that Native Americans roamed the land years before your family did. If you were poor, your possibilities were limited; if you were poor and African American, your possibilities were nearly unattainable. That was Charles’ world. 

Born on January 25th, 1899, to William and Hannah West, Charles was the third of their four children. Straddling the 19thand 20th centuries, that month the word “automobile” first appeared in a New York Times editorial. Walter Camp published his first College Football All-American Team in Collier’s Weekly magazine. And the United States liberated Cuba from Spanish rule, only to occupy the island until 1902. 

The West family raised their children: Milton, Dora, Charles, and Ethel, on a farm in the rolling countryside near Burgettstown. When not rationing his candies, Charles would impress his family with feats of athleticism. Rumors soon spread that he could outrace his father’s horse and he could wrestle his father’s bull to the ground, both essential skills in football and tall tales.

“Charley was very strong and fast, even at an early age,” Ethel said. “He could subdue that bull. As for the horse race, I did not see it but some of the boys came and told me that Charley had outrun the horse, which was ridden by one of the boys.”[ii]

In 1910, the West family moved to Washington, Pennsylvania. “My sister went to a little one-room schoolhouse in the country,” Ethel said, during a 1970s interview. “My mother wanted her to go to high school [in Washington], so we moved to town.”[iii]

William West soon opened a drug store, which later became a grocery store. He expanded his local activism by getting elected to Washington’s City Council, a rare accomplishment for African Americans at that time. Hannah West also became active within their church and community.    

It was Williams’ profession of selling medicine and food that would lead to nicknames for his sons. Once, when William had a cold, he began using Peruna Iron Tonic, a Prohibition era medicine with a 27 percent alcohol content. When talking about the tonic, locals thought William had said “Pruner” and bestowed the nickname on Charles. 

“What’s funny about that,” Ethel said, “is when they started calling Charley ‘Pruner,’ they started calling my other brother, Milton, ‘Kroger’ because he was helping run the family store.”[iv] Kroger, now a national grocery store chain, was then a regional grocery store founded in Cincinnati, Ohio in 1883.

Peruna Iron Tonic

Pruner’s first interests in healthcare emerged during his boyhood. His sister mentioned how mindful Pruner had been to his mother when she suffered from arthritis. “Charley was always very attentive to her. He always wanted to be a doctor.” [v]

Pruner had also performed a bit of surgery with his father, during those years on the farm. “One of our sheep got caught in the barbed wire fence somehow and tore his side wide open,” Ethel said. “My father and Charley sewed him up and they must have done a good job, because he lived a long time after that.”[vi]

Pruner aspired to be a doctor. Yet he understood that he had to take his potential and make it stretch a little further, like the cough drops he had stored in his pocket as a kid. If he wanted to become a doctor, he would need to apply to the right university, and the best way to accomplish this — at least for him — was through an athletic scholarship. 

A few years later, Pruner enrolled in Washington High School. While there, he became an accomplished track and football star, a great platform to showcase his talent to potential universities. Pruner was also named to the All-Western Pennsylvania Scholastic Football Team for three consecutive years. He was a member of the team during its 1917 championship, which the school shared with its local competitor, Johnstown High School. 

Charles Fremont “Pruner” West

These accomplishments didn’t go unnoticed. Pruner was scouted by the Pittsburgh Pirates and was sought after by Carnegie Tech and Washington & Jefferson College (W&J), a private liberal arts school in Washington, Pennsylvania. He accepted W&J’s athletic scholarship to play for their football team. Later, he also threw javelin for W&J’s track and field team. It was said that Pruner exemplified the ideal student image at W&J: a pupil with intellectual and physical aptitude. 

Once again, he took his potential and stretched it a little further. Despite charting this path, however, Pruner would face challenges off the athletic field that would test his character and jeopardize his sports career. 

***

Paul

On April 9, 1898, Paul Leroy Robeson was born with a spirit of resistance. His father, William Drew, seized his freedom as a runaway slave traversing the Underground Railroad at night. William would graduate from Lincoln University, in Pennsylvania, and become a clergyman. 

Paul’s mother, Maria Louisa, came from the Bustill family of Philadelphia, an esteemed household of black abolitionist Quakers. Her ancestry included patriots who fought in the American Revolutionary War. While William sought his freedom on the Underground Railroad, Anna Louisa supported agents who collaborated in the same clandestine network. She would ultimately perish in a house fire when Paul was six years old, orphaning four other children as well. For a time, that tragedy mentally blocked all knowledge Paul had of his mother. 

Reverend Robeson, when not fulfilling his role as a father, preached at Witherspoon Street Presbyterian Church, in Princeton, New Jersey. This house of worship was also known as the Presbyterian Church for Colored. Racial pride was a frequent theme in his sermons, though considered a controversial topic for its time. Most of his parishioners were black, yet the white community managed the church, and in many respects told the congregation what to promote.  

When Paul was 10, he and his family moved to nearby Somerville, a town known for its racial tolerance. Rev. Robeson became the pastor of St. Thomas A.M.E. (African Methodist Episcopal) Zion Church. Years later, Paul would describe how each sermon was a lyrical performance.

“Every Sunday morning, it would be a rolling out of a great sermon,” Paul said. “‘And now we’d get down on bended knee, oh Lord!’ And it became like an opera almost.”[vii]

As a child, Christianity played a major role in Paul’s life. He could sing the old spiritual hymns of the church, many of those melodies harking back to the times of slavery. His awareness of his talent as a baritone emerged during those years in Somerville. Likewise, his love for acting occurred during his high school years. Both would later shape his second career, in the performing arts.

While acting and singing fed his creative side, Paul’s father encouraged a strong self-esteem within his son, telling Paul that he was the equal of any white boy. In modern times (for most), it’s a self-evident thing to say that all children have value, regardless of skin color. But the United States of 1915 was a hostile world when it came to cultural and racial diversity. 

That year, The Birth of a Nation, the epic film directed by D.W. Griffith, was celebrated across the United States despite portraying blacks as fearful brutes and the Ku Klux Klan as heroes. During the same year, 56 African Americans were lynched in America, which means they were essentially beaten, disfigured, and then hanged from a tree. In some cases, lynchings were public events, where people took photographs and packed picnics. 

Birth of a Nation – One of the Most Racist Films in American Cinema

That’s not even considering the Jim Crow segregation that existed in much of the country. Named after a mid-19thCentury fictional character performed by a white actor who wore blackface makeup, Jim Crow laws enforced racial separation in the Southern United States, at the state and local level. During a time of commonplace violence for having darker skin, a young black teenager needed encouragement about his worth and potential.    

 At age 17, Paul took a competitive statewide exam that led to him winning a full scholarship to Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey. At that time, he was the third African American to have ever attended the school.  

Paul’s accomplishments at Rutgers were numerous. He was a member of Rutgers’ honor society, Cap and Skull; he also won first prize, for four consecutive years, in every eligible speaking competition at the university. Much to his father’s approval, Paul was invited to Phi Beta Kappa, a scholarship honor society, and was a leader among the student body of his school. 

In terms of sports, Paul was named to Walter Camp’s College Football All-American Team in 1917 and 1918, an honor bestowed annually to the best college football players in their respective positions. During his four years at Rutgers, Paul earned 15 varsity letters in four sports. 

Paul Robeson

“During his time at Rutgers, he was the consummate student-athlete,” Rutgers athletic director Bob Mulcahy said, during a 2008 interview for ESPN. “He was the second-highest-ranked student academically in his graduating class. History tells us he was a leader on campus. …There wasn’t too much he didn’t accomplish during his time at Rutgers. I know we’re very proud we call him ‘one of our own.'”[viii]

Unfortunately, that sense of acceptance wasn’t always the case. Paul was assaulted by his bigoted teammates during football practice. They kicked and beat him, in pileups and during efforts to retrieve the ball. 

“So, I come to the school and some of the other players are much older than I,” Paul would say years later. “And I’m a Negro and they don’t want a Negro on the team. So, one day I’m out on the field, and before you know it one fella hits me on the nose, and my nose is bleeding; it’s bloody. And another fella breaks my shoulder, and then I was on the ground and a fella steps on me like that, and I’m completely bloodied.”[ix]

Rev. Robeson told his son to try again, because if he had quit, then other black boys wouldn’t get the opportunity to play football. Paul returned to practice and was battered some more. One player stepped on his hand, ripping off a fingernail. Paul became enraged; he grabbed the tackler and nearly exacted his own revenge. But before that could happen, the coach blew the whistle and told Paul that he had made the team. 

Paul Robeson and Rutgers teammates

“They said of him that he was one of the smartest football players who ever played,” said Paul Robeson Jr. of his father. “In a sense, football was a metaphor for the way he dealt with conflict. Obviously playing in his time, a black football player, he had to be impeccable; he never got penalized. You can’t be rash; you have to be smart. You can’t let anger or fear take over.”[x]   

This would not be Paul’s last trial by fire, but it was an example of an ongoing theme. Paul would absorb the disrespect so that others, in this case future black athletes at Rutgers, would hopefully receive less punishment. In fact, one of those trials of bigotry would not only test Paul’s resolve during his collegiate football career, but it would test Pruner’s courage as well. 

Chapter Two:

Pruner

The 1920s was considered the “Golden Age of Sports.” With a strong U.S. economy after World War I, more folks had the financial freedom to enjoy their leisure. By 1925, 40 percent of American workers earned a minimum of $2,000 annually, which could support a family of four, back then. With a lot more spending power, the nation bought automobiles, radios, and tickets to athletic events. [xi]

Radios made it easier for fans to keep track of their teams, and more spectators with cars were able to travel and see their favorite games. Legendary athletes emerged to greatness during this decade: Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig for baseball, Helen Wills in tennis, Red Grange in football, and Jack Dempsey for boxing. 

The United States was more regionally focused in the early 20th century. In 2022, you can have a fan, living in New York, follow a sports team in Los Angles; however, in the 1920s football fans would more likely support a team in their town, county, or local university. This was especially the case for college football, with schools like Washington & Jefferson.  

Pruner West arrived at W&J College in 1920, to study for his Bachelor of Science degree; he started in the backfield of every game during his four years playing for the Presidents, except for his first game as a freshman. Generally, he competed as a halfback or a fullback. 

Charles Fremont Pruner West, Washington & Jefferson football team, front center right

Two prominent mentors stood as a guiding force in Pruner’s football career. Robert Martin “Mother” Murphy served as the college’s graduate manager for the football team, kinda like the athletic director that universities have today. The other person was Head Coach Alfred Earle “Greasy” Neale. 

Murphy graduated from W&J in 1906, taking on the role as the graduate manager and student solicitor, soon after. He personally recruited many of the players that composed most of the school’s successful teams. In 1910, debt within the school threatened the existence of the football program. Murphy was able to persuade the student body to support the Student Athletic Committee’s proposal for a $1 per term student fee to support the team, thus saving football at W&J.

Coach Neale had played Major League Baseball as an outfielder with the Cincinnati Reds, between 1916 and 1924. He also played professional football in the Ohio League with teams in Canton, Dayton, and Massillon. He coached for W&J from 1921-1922, which would be known as one of the most successful seasons in the college’s history. Sports writers assumed Neale got his nickname “Greasy” due to his elusiveness on the football field, but it was due more to a name-calling joust with a childhood friend. 

In Pruner’s four seasons with the Presidents, the team compiled a 27-7-4 record. Some of his feats included a 98-yard run for a touchdown that contributed to a 17-10 victory over Syracuse University in 1921. The 1921 Presidents beat the likes of Pittsburgh, the University of Detroit, and West Virginia. One game that demonstrated his tenacity was the 1922 match against Lafayette College, at the Polo Grounds in New York. 

Lafayette controlled the first half of the game, with 13-0. Injured halfback Pruner West, removing the sling wrapped around his arm, hit the field to back up his teammates Hal Erickson and Cad Reese on offense. W&J barreled down the field halfway into the third quarter, providing a window for Erickson to score. Pruner dropkicked one extra point, slicing Lafayette’s lead to 13-7. W&J managed to turn the tide of the game in the final quarter with a 14-13 victory. 

Most people in the 21st century can’t fully appreciate how tough football was in the 1920s. It wasn’t until 1939 that helmets became a mandatory piece of equipment in college football. The helmets used before then were composed of leather straps or moleskin fused together; they were more like the glorified helmets that pilots wore while flying World War I biplanes. So watch out for concussions. 

Oh, did someone ask about padding? The idea of padding for impact absorption in helmets was improved upon by Illinois University coach Robert Zuppke. He led Illinois to a 131-81-12 record from 1913-1941.

As for shoulder padding, this was assembled from leather and wool, sewn into the player’s jersey. The credit for that goes to L.P. Smock, a Princeton student who crafted the first version of the padding in 1877. Harnessed shoulder pads emerged around the turn of the century. But even with those flimsy precautions, players in the 1920s experienced traumatic head injuries, facial and teeth injuries, and in a few cases, death. This was the kind of game that Pruner West not only played in but excelled in as well. 

Pruner received an honorable mention in Walter Camp’s All-American Teams for four straight years. Only two other black football players had been acknowledged as All-Americans before that, one of which was Paul Robeson of Rutgers University.

“There is no doubt that had I played in the Ivy League, I would have been First Team All-American,” Pruner said in a 1979 Washington Observer-Reporter article. “But by playing at W&J, I just didn’t receive much national publicity.” [xii]

That would change on January 2, 1922, when the Washington & Jefferson Presidents played against the University of California Golden Bears, in the Tournament of Roses Association Game. This was the national championship game of early college football, more popularly known today as the Rose Bowl.

1922 Rose Bowl, Pasadena, California

Few outside of Pennsylvania had high hopes for the Presidents. Heck, they were underdogs. At that time, Washington & Jefferson was the smallest school to have ever played in the Rose Bowl, with an enrollment of 450 students. Oddsmakers favored the University of California Golden Bears to beat the Presidents by 14 points. Sportswriter Jack James of the San Francisco Examiner was claimed to have said, “All I know about Washington & Jefferson is that they are both dead.”[xiii]

Like most things in life, a random twist of fate can have profound results. This was especially so in the lead up to the Rose Bowl game. Former W&J College President Tori Haring-Smith discussed the details of that game in a 2017 Pittsburgh Post-Gazette article. 

“I guess they liked to invite an undefeated team, and there weren’t many that year,” Haring-Smith said. “So W&J, with its undefeated record, was invited. It was kind of a David vs. Goliath meeting.[xiv]

The Golden Bears had defeated Ohio State University 28-0 during the 1921 Rose Bowl. Furthermore, they had smashed all competition for two straight years in the Pacific Conference. West Coast fans had reasons to feel confident. 

“We were so small, we could only afford to send 11 players, who had to play the whole game,” she said. “A 12th player actually rode in boxcars across the country to get there because he wanted to go so badly. And when he got to Kansas City, one of the 11 players was ill, so he [Pruner] got to play.”[xv]

That sick player was W&J quarterback Ray McLauglin. Coach Neale replaced McLauglin with Pruner West, making him the first African-American quarterback to play in the Rose Bowl. 

Memorial Plaque to Charles Fremont “Pruner” West

As quarterback, Pruner played a formidable game. The Presidents rushed 114 yards to the Golden Bears’ 49 and held California to zero yards passing and two first downs. The rains-soaked game was viewed by almost 50,000 spectators at the Tournament of Roses Stadium.

Reporter Lawrence R. Stewart wrote of the game in the Corvallis Gazette Times. “Little Washington & Jefferson College, despised on the Western coast, called a set-up and held lightly by their opponents, outfought and outplayed the mighty University of California. [W&J] gave them back better than they received and held the Bears to a scoreless tie.”[xvi] In fact, this was the only scoreless game in Rose Bowl history.

“I like to think we won that year, even though the game ended in a tie,” Haring-Smith said. “We actually crossed the goal line, but we were called for offsides and the play came back. The University of California team never got across the 50-yard line.”[xvii]

Those 11 young men returned to Washington & Jefferson College, 25 years later on May 4th, 1946. If you have a chance to see the archival photo of the reunion, you’ll notice the team that took on the Golden Bears was a little heavier, a little older. This time dressed in suits rather than muddied jerseys, but their spirit remained. In an audio recording of the event, the team still referred to themselves as boys, despite having careers, children, and lives in other states. Though his hair had thinned a bit, a sense of vigor could still be recognized in Pruner’s stance, in the back row of the former Presidents. 

25th Reunion of W&J Football Team, West is in the back row, second from left

“Hello, this is Dr. Charles West of Alexandria, VA. This is one of the greatest pleasures that a man can be afforded. To come back to a union, after 25 years; some of you seem to think that’s a long time, to think we’re very old. But I have a daughter six months old, and I think I’m very young. And we’re having a great time.”[xviii]

***

Paul

Racism limited Paul’s social life at Rutgers, but that didn’t stop him from building a network of black friends from local colleges. He also sang in the glee club, but he wasn’t allowed to accompany the group for out-of-town concerts … mainly because of his race as well. When not singing or playing sports, Paul competed in the art of oration, an activity of particular importance to his father. 

Paul Robeson

These were academic contests that demonstrated the ability to discuss laws, reasoning, and leadership, all while clearly articulating these points of view. William Drew Robeson, a preacher, thought these skills were of great importance for anyone considering the ministry, as he had hoped for his son. 

“He was teaching me to be an orator; he had died in 1918,” Paul said. “In university, at Rutgers, where I went, the proudest moment of his life was when I won many of the oratorical contests; they had one every year. I had the honor of winning it for four years straight. The third year, which was the most important, he was lying in state in Somerville, 15 miles away. And before he died, he told me that he wanted me to take part in the competition. I won it.”[xix]

Paul graduated from Rutgers University in 1919. He was the valedictorian of his graduating class. He left for New York in 1920 to study at Columbia Law School. He taught Latin and played professional football on the weekends to pay for tuition. In his downtime, Paul also sang and acted in off-campus productions. This was the time of the Harlem Renaissance, a cultural, artistic, and social moment that Paul would soon embrace.

Harlem, 1920s

Throughout the 1920s in Upper Manhattan, black musicians, painters, sculptors, playwrights, poets, and actors contributed to this wave of creativity. The Harlem Renaissance was unique not only because of the artistic collaboration that took place at that time, but it was also unique because blacks had control over their voice, their story. It was a full sensory experience that garnered respect, and others soon noticed. Fans and supporters of their work had spread from beyond black communities, drawing the attention of white critics and wealthy patrons, who wished to support their craft. 

Jazz was the music of choice during the Harlem Renaissance

In describing the time prior to the Harlem Renaissance, Robeson later wrote, “a century ago, it was not possible for a Negro actor to appear on the American stage in any role — not even as a buffoon. Such parts were reserved for ‘whites only’ in the days of the blackface minstrel shows, and only toward the end of that era was ‘progress’ made to the point where a Negro face was permitted to appear in the traditional burnt cork of that happily now-dead form of American theatre.”[xx]

Many factors created the Harlem Renaissance. The African-American Great Migration North for industrial jobs was one source. Another was the rise of a black middle-class from the post-World War I economy, which soon gave birth to a black educated class. Caribbean immigrants, with their own West African influences in dance, music, and the visual arts, also complemented the Renaissance.

Although Paul was a part of this movement, someone would further encourage him toward music and theater as a career. While at Columbia, Paul met fellow student Eslanda Cordoza Goode, a brilliant young woman in her own right. 

At 15, she won a scholarship to study chemistry at the University of Illinois. Afterwards, she attended Columbia’s College of Physicians and Surgeons to become a doctor. Eslanda was the first black woman to become head histological chemist of surgical pathology at New York Presbyterian Hospital. She and Paul were intellectual equals. They married in 1921 and had a son, Paul Robeson Jr., in 1927.

“And she decided the mission on her part, of helping him reach his maximum potential, outweigh whatever she could do in her lifetime,” Paul Jr. would later say. “And there was partly an element of ambition, call it opportunism if you will.”[xxi] Eslanda became Paul’s manager after he decided to leave the practice of law in favor of acting.

This wasn’t a difficult decision. Paul got his law degree in 1923 and was hired by a white firm in New York. But no white clients wanted his representation, the office secretary refused to take dictation from a black man, and initially he studied law because he didn’t want to be a preacher. He chose this field as a lukewarm alternative. Yet he held a passion for singing and acting. 

“For the lack of any other word, he was a renaissance man,” says Theodore Carrington, president of the New Brunswick, N.J., NAACP. “World-renowned baritone, lawyer, actor, not to mention the athletics. His background, his lifestyle, it was all extraordinary.”[xxii]

In 1922, Paul starred in the play Taboo, written by Mary Hoyt Wiborg, at the Sam Harris Theater in Harlem. This was one of his first stage performances and won him significant praise from critics. The story takes place in Africa and on a Louisiana plantation before the American Civil War. The play, later renamed Voodoo, was booked for an English tour during the summer of that year. This provided Paul his first opportunity to travel abroad.

Paul Robeson performing in William Shakespeare’s play, Othello

Traveling, especially internationally, tends to put a person’s world into greater perspective. It forces one to think about issues that weren’t easily noticed. For Paul, he encountered so little prejudice toward blacks in England that he became disillusioned with how race was handled in the United States. 

One example of this frustration came during the production of the 1924 play All God’s Chillun Got Wings. Playwright Eugene O’Neill asked Paul to play the main character Jim Harris, a young man torn between his budding career as a law student and the love of his white wife, who becomes deranged and jealous of her husband’s potential. It would be an understatement to say that the subject matter was controversial. 

Groups outraged by interracial marriage depicted on stage raised a flurry of protests. The Ku Klux Klan threatened Paul’s life. And even members of the black press criticized Paul for taking on a role where a black character sacrifices his academic career to serve his white wife. Paul was assaulted from all sides. 

However, the African American scholar and civil rights activist W.E.B. Du Bois stated that the play “must be done. No greater mine of dramatic material ever lay ready for the great artist’s hands than the situation of men of Negro blood in modern America.” [xxiii]

 Just as with his time as a football player at Rutgers, Paul took a stand and accepted a role that won him little popularity. There would be other roles and other opportunities to perform; however, this would not be the last time Paul faced controversy head on. And although he could take a stand, those he relied on would not be as brave. 

Chapter Three:

Pruner

For certain kids today, the idea of bigotry is kinda abstract. It’s real but at an arm’s length; unless, of course, you’re a person of color. In history class you’ll read about the Civil Rights Movement, or you’ll watch a documentary about slavery, with archival photos of blacks picking cotton. On occasion, there’s news footage of police brutality on an unarmed black person or white supremacists engaged in fistfights with protestors supporting equality. You can learn about this from a television or book; however, it’s a different experience once it happens to you. 

Imagine going to school one day only to be told that you can’t attend class with your friends. You must enroll in the classrooms for the kids who only share your hair color. Furthermore, those classrooms will contain inadequate equipment, books, and resources.  There’s no Internet; you’ll feel cold drafts during the winter, and no AC during the summer. 

And the bigotry you’d face wouldn’t just be restricted to school. Do you want a burger? Maybe ice cream? Well, because you’re a blond, you must get your food at the door behind the restaurant. You want public transportation? You’ll have to sit in the back of the bus or subway. If the bus runs out of seats, all the blonds must give up their seats to the non-blonds. Also, if you need to use the bathroom, you must use the restrooms set aside for blond-haired boys or girls.  

Do you play soccer? Nice. Well, because your hair is blond, you can’t play the opposing team. They have a policy against blond-haired kids competing against their guys. It makes them uncomfortable. And they expect your team to enforce that policy. This is what happened to Pruner West when he played football for Washington & Jefferson College. Washington and Lee University, of Lexington, Virginia, was the football team requesting that he sit out the game. This request was not based on his hair, but because of his skin color. 

On October 6, 1923, the Washington and Lee Generals were scheduled as the visiting team to play again the Washington & Jefferson Presidents. The Generals’ coach, Jimmy DeHart, knew Pruner was on the roster when the game was scheduled. The Washington and Lee Athletic Director, Richard A. “Cap’n Dick” Smith, later claimed that he didn’t know of West being on the team at the time.

“Later when I learned from Coach DeHart that there was a Negro on the Washington & Jefferson’s varsity squad, I asked [him] to explain our position to the Presidents,” Smith said in an article in the Richmond (Virginia) Times-Dispatch.[xxiv]  

The “position” that Smith mentioned was representative of the larger tradition of Jim Crow Segregation. Southern schools refused to play against a team that had a black athlete in their lineup.

In a letter to Robert M. Murphy, the Presidents’ graduate manager, Smith wrote, “I had better mention the matter which Mr. DeHart spoke to you about concerning your man West playing against us. I feel that it is useless to mention this to you, as I know you realize our geographical location and of course will not attempt to play this man.

“The faculty here would not allow us to schedule this game if they knew we would play against him,” Smith continued. “We realize the feeling here is different than at your school, and of course hate to bring the matter up on that account and are leaving the proposition in your hands to handle as you see fit.”[xxv]

Murphy never responded to Smith’s letter, but he did approach Pruner about Washington and Lee’s demands. At that time, Pruner was a halfback on the team. 

“They left it up to me and asked how I felt about it,” Pruner later wrote. “I told them, well, there’s no way I can stop you from playing without me, but if you do, I’ll never play another game for W&J.”[xxvi]

Charles Fremont “Pruner” West

Another person with a say in this decision was Pruner’s new coach, John W. Heisman. Yeah, he’s the namesake of the Heisman Memorial Trophy, which is awarded to the most outstanding player in U.S. college football. The performance of those awarded best exhibits the pursuit of excellence with integrity. The first Heisman Trophy would be awarded in 1935.

The Heisman Trophy
Coach John W. Heisman

Coach Heisman led the Presidents at the start of the season with a win over Bethany College, 21–0. In a letter published in the W&J school newspaper, he expressed his thoughts on athletics and education to the W&J faculty, alumni, and undergraduates. 

“I believe in flawlessly clean play and in conduct of lofty sportsmanship on the field – in practice as well as in match games. It’s an excellent thing to be a great athlete, but it’s more splendid to be a fine gentleman. … That game is one that calls for the unswerving loyalty, the unquenchable spirit, the absolute best of everybody to the last man.”[xxvii]

Heisman met DeHart and the Generals upon their arrival on the W&J campus. Murphy sent them a note that stated, “W&J doesn’t play unless West plays.” DeHart explained again that most Northern schools accepted the request of Southern teams.

“Well, I won’t,” Heisman said. 

“Remove him or there will be no game!” DeHart replied, while pointing to the crowds in the stands. With all those attendees, there was a threat of lost money from the event.

“If you don’t play, you lose!” Heisman yelled.

What DeHart didn’t know was that Pruner had a badly sprained ankle and probably wasn’t able to play in the game anyway. Heisman had an excuse, an easy out, to avoid the conflict but chose to ignore it out of loyalty and good sportsmanship to Pruner.  

Heisman sought a meeting with Washington & Jefferson President Simon Strousse Baker, who backed his coach’s decision. 

Meanwhile, Smith and DeHart phoned Washington and Lee’s dean, Harry Campbell, who informed them that there would be no exception to the school’s policy. “…Athletes of the institution had never participated against Negro athletes, and … this tradition would not be violated at this time.”[xxviii]

The Generals forfeited the game by a 1–0 score. W&J officials offered DeHart enough money to pay for the team’s train tickets back to Virginia. 

The controversy around the game was described, in partial jest, in W&J’s yearbook, The Pandora. “A day of wonderful football weather was spoiled when the Presidents called the General’s bluff. The Washington and Lee squad went back home to attend a Ku Klux Klan meeting that night.”[xxix]

When the Times-Dispatch contacted W&J President Baker, he offered a bit of insight as to why his college backed Pruner. “I am sorry the unfortunate condition arose,” he said. “I respect the tradition which Washington and Lee followed in refusing to play the game, but Washington & Jefferson College is a Northern school with traditions, too. It has never made any distinction against color or creed in controlling its students. 

“Charles West, who was the cause of the controversy, has been one of the best students in the college for the last three years,” Baker said. “He has been an honor to the school, both as a student and as an athlete, adding to its prestige by his gentlemanly conduct and his efforts as an athlete.”[xxx]

Years after this legendary non-game, Pruner never forgot the loyalty that W&J’s athletic program demonstrated. His daughter, Linda West Nickens, recalled his feelings on the matter decades later. “My father was always just grateful, so grateful, for the stand Mr. Murphy took against Washington and Lee,” she said.[xxxi]

It would indeed be a wonderful example of sportsmanship if other colleges followed the stand made by Washington & Jefferson. However, the United States of the early 20th century was a brutal and occasionally unjust place. Other universities bent to the demands of segregated football games. Paul Robeson was all too familiar with this tradition.

***

Paul

By the time Paul graduated from Rutgers University in 1919 he had already been a local celebrity in the black communities of Somerville, Princeton, and New Brunswick, not only for his athleticism, but also for his academic successes. 

“I knew of Paul many years before I met him,” said a northern New Jersey friend. “As young kids we were in grammar school and he was in college, but we all knew his activities. We all wanted to be like Paul who had proven himself both as a student and as an athlete. We thought that anybody in college was the greatest thing. We thought of him as a giant.”[xxxii]

 In 1917 and 1918, for the position of offensive end, Paul was selected for Walter Camp’s All-American team, one of the greatest honors of college football. Camp, also known as the “Father of American Football,” called Paul a “veritable superman.”[xxxiii]

On October 14, 1916, Rutgers’ Scarlet Knights had benched “Superman.” The football team was hosting Washington and Lee University for a game in East Brunswick, New Jersey. The Generals had refused to play against Paul, as they would refuse Pruner a few years later. 

Rutgers President William Henry Steele accommodated their request, leaving Paul, their giant, their star athlete to sit out the game. Justifications were made: it was Rutgers’ 150th anniversary; officials probably wanted to keep the event calm and festive. But Paul’s teammates protested, and the game ended in a 13–13 tie.

This was not the only time Paul faced such an indignity. Georgia Tech’s Golden Tornadoes considered scheduling a game with the Scarlet Knights during the 1918 season. They were also invited to a post-season game at the Polo Grounds in New York, in November 1918. Receipts from the game would have been donated to the United War Charities Fund. Yet there was one problem with that idea. According to the Atlanta Constitution, “Rutgers has a star end in Robeson, but this gink happens to be of the dark-skinned gentry and Tech could hardly play a game with him in the line-up.”[xxxiv]

Coach John William Heisman

The coach of Georgia Tech’s 1918 football team was John William Heisman. This isn’t to say that Heisman had any influence on Georgia Tech’s bigoted policies, but one can see an opportunity for equality and redemption by advocating on Pruner’s behalf years later. 

A month later, in November 1916, West Virginia made a similar demand to bench Paul. Scarlet Knights Head Coach George Sanford stood by his player. Superman would not be benched during that game. 

Endnotes:


[i] E. Lee North, Battling the Indians, Panthers, and Nittany Lions: the Story of Washington & Jefferson College’s First Century of Football, 1890-1990 (Daring Publishing Group, 1991) 127

[ii] Ibid

[iii] http://cdm16065.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/singleitem/collection/p16065coll1/id/17  

[iv] Ibid

[v] Ibid

[vi] E. Lee North, Battling the Indians, Panthers, and Nittany Lions: the Story of Washington & Jefferson College’s First Century of Football, 1890-1990 (Daring Publishing Group, 1991) 127

[vii] Paul Robeson: Here I Stand. Dir. St. Claire Bourne. Perf. Paul Robeson. Ossie Davis. Eagle Rock Entertainment, 1999. Documentary

[viii] http://www.espn.com/espn/blackhistory2008/news/story?id=3266347

[ix] Paul Robeson: Here I Stand. Dir. St. Claire Bourne. Perf. Paul Robeson. Ossie Davis. Eagle Rock Entertainment, 1999. Documentary

[x] Ibid

[xi] “The 1920s: Sports: Overview.” American Decades, edited by Judith S. Baughman, et al., vol. 3: 1920-1929, Gale, 2001. U.S. History in Context, link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/CX3468301022/UHIC?u=rosw82806&xid=75a0678f. Accessed 9 July 2017.

[xii] http://cdm16065.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/singleitem/collection/p16065coll1/id/17

[xiii] http://www.washjeff.edu/rose-bowl-replay

[xiv] http://www.post-gazette.com/neighborhoods-south/2011/09/08/W-J-honors-early-black-football-star/stories/201109080225

[xv] Ibid

[xvi] http://cdm16065.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/singleitem/collection/p16065coll1/id/14

[xvii] http://www.post-gazette.com/neighborhoods-south/2011/09/08/W-J-honors-early-black-football-star/stories/201109080225

[xviii] Rose Bowl Reunion 1946 Audio Finding Aid, 25th anniversary of the 1921 Rose Bowl Team on May 4, 1946; Oval Terrace Room, George Washington Hotel. 

[xix] Paul Robeson: Here I Stand. Dir. St. Claire Bourne. Perf. Paul Robeson. Ossie Davis. Eagle Rock Entertainment, 1999. Documentary

[xx]https://books.google.com/books?id=vgy4V_kZr84C&pg=PA10&lpg=PA10&dq=Paul+Robeson+1922+Taboo&source=bl&ots=WI-KTGZLFK&sig=ubvpkeimwMPAAXvEI0feESafNvw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjWrPCq1tfVAhWoxVQKHRtZDAoQ6AEINDAD#v=onepage&q=Paul%20Robeson%201922%20Taboo&f=false

[xxi] Ibid

[xxii] http://www.espn.com/espn/blackhistory2008/news/story?id=3266347

[xxiii]https://books.google.com/books?id=XhO3fVh0EUEC&pg=PA61&lpg=PA61&dq=Paul+Robeson+1922+Taboo&source=bl&ots=BbEJouiuyv&sig=cbf9ID1le-dBMacgTLb0qz5PuEc&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi-nuCG1dfVAhUm9YMKHS-OCEoQ6AEITTAJ#v=onepage&q=Paul%20Robeson%201922%20Taboo&f=false

[xxiv]https://books.google.com/books?id=yjYn6FVEqCQC&pg=PA185&lpg=PA185&dq=Heisman:+The+Man+Behind+the+Trophy+DeHart&source=bl&ots=Nz8zfO1GcN&sig=WkidKIdpMVwweXL2m8CRIAP5CwU&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiE2If1hefVAhUqqFQKHWxLBpAQ6AEISzAK#v=onepage&q=Heisman%3A%20The%20Man%20Behind%20the%20Trophy%20DeHart&f=false

[xxv]https://books.google.com/books?id=JtMzy76xerMC&pg=PT196&lpg=PT196&dq=Charles+Pruner+West&source=bl&ots=6wJIFfgwaD&sig=MjNGts1O3OaVdY2lowi8g-f2MKs&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwju-YWJhcbSAhVBNSYKHe3wA7Y4ChDoAQg4MAY#v=onepage&q=Charles%20Pruner%20West&f=false

[xxvi] https://issuu.com/washjeff/docs/winter2012magazine

[xxvii]https://books.google.com/books?id=QWv3BlnItIEC&pg=PA185&dq=Charles+Pruner+West&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjO6bTv5u_SAhUM72MKHfTABZAQ6AEIHDAA#v=onepage&q=Charles%20Pruner%20West&f=false

[xxviii]https://books.google.com/books?id=yjYn6FVEqCQC&pg=PA185&lpg=PA185&dq=Heisman:+The+Man+Behind+the+Trophy+DeHart&source=bl&ots=Nz8zfO1GcN&sig=WkidKIdpMVwweXL2m8CRIAP5CwU&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiE2If1hefVAhUqqFQKHWxLBpAQ6AEISzAK#v=onepage&q=Heisman%3A%20The%20Man%20Behind%20the%20Trophy%20DeHart&f=false

[xxix] http://cdm16065.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/singleitem/collection/p16065coll1/id/17

[xxx]https://books.google.com/books?id=JtMzy76xerMC&pg=PT196&dq=charles+pruner+west&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjYj46UnP_SAhXJ6YMKHZwhD5oQ6AEIIDAB#v=onepage&q=charles%20pruner%20west&f=false

[xxxi] https://issuu.com/washjeff/docs/winter2012magazine

[xxxii]https://books.google.com/books?id=vuckDH3cD_EC&pg=PA66&lpg=PA66&dq=Paul+Robeson+Georgia+Tech&source=bl&ots=xjT0CU5OuI&sig=1fd19ymn47kttPdsaNr757iAs0g&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiws6-rmezVAhXI31QKHdcBDSQQ6AEIPjAE#v=snippet&q=Paul%20Robeson%20Georgia%20Tech&f=false

[xxxiii]https://books.google.com/books?id=fwBFAwAAQBAJ&pg=PA32&lpg=PA32&dq=paul+robeson+georgia+tech&source=bl&ots=PPacTd6QQk&sig=zXHQ7Aj6AgPBHF8UAaKbPOwvfzE&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjxx5SMmuzVAhVij1QKHZCPApsQ6AEISjAG#v=onepage&q=paul%20robeson%20georgia%20tech&f=false

[xxxiv]https://books.google.com/books?id=yjYn6FVEqCQC&pg=PA188&lpg=PA188&dq=Heisman:+the+man+behind+the+trophy+Paul+Robeson&source=bl&ots=Nz8zfN1IeP&sig=0s8o3mPTUEzmlZqffV6Uu4q0Vd4&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwillc2-4ebVAhVBllQKHW7PCZkQ6AEIVDAL#v=onepage&q=Paul%20Robeson&f=false

Posted in African-American, Football, Harlem Renaissance, History, Sports, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This Blog Will Return….

Hey All!

2021 was a complicate year, but it’s been too long since I last blogged. Let’s fix that in 2022.

Peace & Love,

Corey Quinlan Taylor

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Embrace Someone with Your Words…

My brothers, their children, and me, circa early 90s.

There’re individuals I could talk to over the phone, or over a drink, and completely lose track of time. Conversations have always held a photosynthetic quality for me. I absorb the words of friends, mentors, and family. I find myself starving for their wisdom, even in the form of throwaway anecdotes or sunbeams of insight. 

When I was younger, I had those discussions with my immediate family, but at times it was piecemeal. My oldest brother Greg would encourage me to study and apply myself in school; he detected a potential within me that I still find myself struggling to achieve. Up until the last couple of years, he and I were the only members of our family who’ve ever traveled abroad. A Marine and a Peace Corps volunteer. There’s an irony in that.

My other brothers, Eric and Terry often shared advice on either fighting boys or appealing to the affections of girls. By the time I was 13, I was enlightened to the mysteries of flirting, banter, foreplay — and God help you, don’t ever fall asleep immediately after sex. It was imperative to wait until the girl fell asleep first, then you could fall asleep — appreciating the “afterglow,” they called it. 

In hindsight, I’m flattered they’d thought so much of my romantic prowess that they believed it was imperative for me to learn this at age 13. Truth be told, it’d be a few more years until I’d actually put those lessons to practice. 

I talked about my grandfather before on this blog. He was the closest person I’ve ever had as a father figure, unfortunately he passed away when I was 18 years old. He was a quiet man. A deacon in the Baptist church I attended as a boy. Some weekends, my ma would bring my kid sister and me over to my grandparents’ home. My mother would help my grandmother cook, or they’d just share a few hours catching up on the happenings of fellow parishioners and neighbors. 

My grandfather was never called “grandfather,” or “grandpa,” or “grand dad.” He was my grandmother’s second husband. And well before the time I was born, my older brothers and older sister called him Mr. Ernest. So, I called him Mr. Ernest as well. There was never anything particularly odd about the formality of this relationship. We never saw him as a step-grandfather, my five siblings and I saw him as our true grandfather… we just referred to him by a more formal moniker. 

Anyhow, whenever Mr. Ernest needed to shop for grandma, I’d ask if I could come along. He accepted my request every time. With Cincinnati, Ohio as my hometown, we’d often visit Findlay Market to buy oxtails for stew, Thanksgiving turkey, pigs’ feet, or a nice Christmas ham. Mr. Ernest often bought me a bag of roasted peanuts to enjoy on the way back to his home. Occasionally during the summer, he’d park his Ford behind a nondescript truck. An old white man with strong arms would sit next to the truck, reading a newspaper. From the car, I’d see Mr. Ernest approach the truck, slip the man a few bucks, and he’d return with a watermelon. This wasn’t a supermarket watermelon. This was like a cannonball full of ruby deliciousness, more than five pounds, perhaps more. 

Findlay Market, Cincinnati, Ohio

The point is, during each of these excursions, Mr. Ernest and I probably shared no more than five words. He wasn’t a talker, and I hadn’t yet learned the art of conversation. But he taught me the art of silence, and how men could communicate without an over-reliance on words. These errands, in a sense, felt like an apprenticeship to manhood. My grandfather by marriage would go shopping for his wife, and I watched and learned.

Someone’s probably wondering if I ever had fulfilling conversations with my mother, and I’d say yes. My mother is a tough single parent, but there’s much love interwoven within her resilience. As the single parent of four sons and two daughters, she took on the burden of multiple roles: homemaker, disciplinarian, breadwinner, cook, teacher of household chores, and mother. One day, she decided to teach me about the birds and the bees.

This was well before my older brothers decided to pass along their wisdom of not falling asleep, and foreplay. I was nine years old, sitting at the kitchen table, and my mother was preparing dinner. I may have been playing with my action figures or drawing. Whatever my routine, I noticed my mother regarding me for a few seconds at a time as she cooked. 

At the point when our meal needed time to simmer, she exhaled, wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, and turned toward me. 

“Corey, I think it’s time we had a talk about sex.”

“Um … okay.”

Her eyes narrowed and she pointed a finger at me. Not so much a dagger point, but more like a calm directive.

“Don’t get any girls pregnant.” The tone was similar to when she told me to never pour bacon grease down the sink — calm, subtle. Afterward, she turned and began cutting onions. 

That was it, but it was sufficient, seeing how I haven’t impregnated anyone since those words at age nine.   

One morsel of wisdom outside my family came from a librarian I knew in middle school, Mrs. Davis. I can’t speak for most black people, but from my perspective, in the African American community, there were middle-class adults we admired. They “worked for the city,” as my grandma used to say with pride. 

These were adults back in the early 80s and before who were in their 50s, 60s, or older. From the “Greatest Generation,” those folks who would sire “Baby Boomers,” and who earned middle-class incomes working for the post office, clerical occupations for state and local governments, or perhaps with a factory job. They were the types of older African Americans who owned homes, maybe a second car, and because they were able to save their earnings, they actually could afford to send their kids to college. They were articulate, they read, and they occasionally had social circles with the Shriners or Masonic Lodge; they vacationed in Florida. That was Mrs. Davis’ world, a world of dignity and character. I miss that world. 

I had first met her in seventh grade; I enjoyed going to the library during lunch. After spending the first 30 minutes eating in the cafeteria, I’d use the remaining 30 minutes reading a few books here and there. If I was writing a report for a class, she was a valued resource for finding the proper text to fulfill my needs. 

One day, I think I said to her in passing how some kid’s attitude made me mad.

“Angry,” she said. “His behavior made you angry. That’s a better word than ‘mad,’ which connotates craziness, insanity. You were frustrated, resentful. Not crazy.”

So every now and then, during the course of my visits to the library during middle school, and high school, (both were in the same building for me), Mrs. Davis would correct my grammar and expand my vocabulary. Once I asked her why.

“People in this world, especially white people, will judge you before you open your mouth,” she said. “Your words and your actions will earn back your credibility, if you use the best words, that’ll help.” 

She taught me to flip through a thesaurus to find better words. To this day, I’m not as articulate as most friends of mine, but expanding my vocabulary has helped, and I owe that to Mrs. Davis.

This absorption of wisdom didn’t end at my adolescence. I’ve gained much from conversations with friends, college teachers, strangers, and the occasional adversary. In time, I’d find myself passing along verbal nuggets. It doesn’t occur often, but enough that I’d notice. At age 47, I have friendships ranging from those who’re in their early 60s to those in their mid-20s. I enjoy talking with all of these folks. We learn from our individual journeys, our struggles. 

With the stresses and challenges of 2020, I think we need to celebrate the benefits of conversation, the serenity of discourse, or just sharing a few words in passing. It feeds our soul; discussions are an intangible hug during a year when the real thing can’t always be provided. Make time to embrace someone with your words.  

Me and my college buddy Aaron, in Micronesia, 2012.

Posted in African-American, Cincinnati, Family, Friends, Humor, Ohio, Personal Tales, Travel Writing, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Moonshine Review: Interview with an Actual Moonshiner…

As most of you know, I’m an informal connoisseur of moonshine, especially the white lightening one can purchase at the local liquor store. I’ve tried a number of flavors over the years: plain, cherry, apple, strawberry, raspberry, orange, pickle (ain’t that a story), West African, and blackberry. However, moonshine — by the purists’ definition — is crafted in Appalachia, away from factories, “revenuers,” and rules. There’s an “outlaw” quality to the production of this hooch, which adds to the legend of moonshine. It’s a subculture of mason jars, jury-rigged still pots, and backwoods chemistry. 

Daniel’s still, tucked away in his rural Virginia barn.

Imagine my delight when my friend in Fredericksburg, Virginia told me that she has a friend who knows a neighbor who makes his own moonshine at his farm. Out of respect for his privacy, I can’t say where exactly, but it took about two hours of state highway, then a few twists on country roads, gravel roads, then dirt roads to finally get there.  

Daniel, whether you think of him as an amateur distiller or a moonshiner, is an affable guy. He looks like the kind of middle-aged dude you’d see watching a baseball game in a pub. He doesn’t possess any of the tropes one would have of a moonshiner; I mean, no beard, no overalls, and no terracotta jug slung over his shoulder. Instead I was fascinated by his willingness to educate himself about using a still, from local craftsmen as well as through literature. 

Before my visit, I had the good fortune to receive a bottle of rum he made. My Fredericksburg friend gave it to me during my weekend visit, telling me in advance that it was a gift from Daniel. She drove me to meet her friends, with Daniel’s farm located several yards down the dirt road. He and I talked for about 30 minutes. 

The road to Daniel’s farm.

Corey: “Okay Daniel, could you describe how this still works, and I guess the second question is how did you design it?” 

Daniel: “Okay, well first I didn’t design it; it was given to me by a friend of mine who wanted brandy. I used to have a lot of wines and things like that. After a while you drink up all the good wine, and what’s left is [laughter] garbagy wine. So you end up with bottle after bottle of garbagy wine that’s not bad, it’s just not great.”

Corey: “Okay…”

Daniel: “So my buddy said, ‘Hey, what are you doing with all that stuff?’ So I was like ‘Well’ — His name was Reggie — And I said, ‘Hey, I’m not doing anything with it.’ And he [Reggie] goes, ‘Well, if you could turn it into brandy, would you give me some?’ And I said, ‘Sure!’ [laughter] But I said, ‘I don’t have a still. I’m not gonna venture in that direction.’ And he was like, ‘Well, if you had one would you use it?’ So I was like, ‘Yeah, yeah I’d use it.’ So that night I came home and there was this set-up [ pointing to the still]: this, and a different coil, and all that stuff that was with it. So I was like, ‘Okay.’”

“So I started uncorking wine, and running it through here [the still] and basically making brandy. [Laughter] It was pretty low-quality stuff, but it was how we started off. So this thing was actually a stainless still ink pot from an old inking machine.”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “Reggie worked up at this place in New Jersey that did that, and he got this from them. And he had his cousin put this cap on it.”

Corey: “And what does the cap do?”

Daniel: “It’s a filler cap; it stops the pressure from releasing through here.”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “So, this is the release for the steam, right on this side [ of the pot]. This is where you fill the liquid in and this is where the steam comes out. It’s a sealed unit, and it builds pressure, pumps the steam out and condenses. You can see where we run a small burner. We’re not killing it with heat; we’re kinda letting the heat run up [the coil] and like you pointed out before, I insulated the sides [of the pot] so you can actually run a lighter flame, and it just evenly presses up [the coil] and the steam evenly comes out.”

The small burner.
Steam from the still pot runs through this coil, condensing into another container.

Corey: “And what are different types of beverages you’ve made with this still?”

Daniel: “No matter what you put in here, be it: beer, wine, mead, or whatever — no matter what you put in here —” 

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “I think the chemical code is CHOH2; that’s the only thing that comes out.”

Corey: “Uh-huh.”

Daniel: “No matter what you put in here, the only thing that comes out of this is pure alcohol.”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “Okay, it doesn’t matter if it was alcohol from wine, alcohol from beer, alcohol from mead, alcohol from any distiller — anything distilled. It doesn’t matter; it’s gonna produce CHOH2. And that is what I call base. Okay, and you get your base from, uh, roughly about a 100 to 160, sometimes 180 proof.”

Corey: “Oh wow!”

Daniel: “Yeah.”

Corey: “Is that drinkable?”

Daniel: [Laughter] “Some people do, but those people go to detox eventually.”

[Everyone present laughing]

Daniel: “Most drinkable ‘shine and everything is below 130 [proof].”

Corey: “Oh, okay.”

Daniel: “The better the quality, the higher the proof. But very rarely can you cross 130 and drink it.”

Corey: “Yeah.”

Daniel: “Not pleasurably.”

Corey: “Right. So, have you ever made anything using corn, barley, sugar?”

Daniel: “Yeah, I’ve made a couple of mashes like that. My mash that I like to use is in the carboys, is like um, I use a brown sugar, molasses —”

Corey: “Carboys?”

Daniel: “Yeah, carboys; the um… glass bottles.”

A carboy, or glass bottle.

Corey: “Oh, okay.”

Daniel: “I use molasses, sugar — brown sugar, water, and uh yeast.”

Corey: “Okay.” 

Daniel: “That’s where I get my alcohol from. And that puts out an 11% alcohol. I guess that would be a wine [at wine level of potency].”

Corey: “Right.”

Daniel: “And then I run that and you do what you want with it. Your best alcohol is vodka, which comes out white pure.”

Corey: “Uh-huh.”

Daniel: “After vodka is your scotches, which is basically like a vodka stored in wood. And then it takes on the color.”

Corey: “Do you have wooden barrels?”

Daniel: “I don’t do it that way, but yeah effectively that’s what they do. But I do it the same way big distilleries do it. I toast chips of wood, and I run the alcohol through the chips of wood. And the reason why I normally don’t do barrels is because I do what’s called thumping. When you break the bead of the alcohol, which lets the ether out.” [Bead refers to the bubbles that form on the surface of shaken whiskey and reflect the alcoholic content. A thumper is the part between the boiler and the coil that distills mash and redistills the alcohol coming out of the boiler.  Also called a “doubler,” “thumper keg,” or “thump barrel.”]

Corey: “Right.”

Daniel: “Aging is only to get rid of ether. So, if you’re running a crappy alcohol, and you’re storing it. The longer you keep that in a barrel, the more ether leaves. The better the quality of the alcohol becomes over time. If you thump it, you’re 90% of the way there to begin with.”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “So you can have a real high-quality rum, whiskey, bourbon, scotch, or vodka. Right off the worm if you thump it. And that’s a Foxfire thing.” [Daniel is referring to when I explained to him how I learned about moonshine from The Foxfire Books. A worm is a coil submerged in a water-filled container.  Alcohol-laden steam condenses to a liquid in the coil.]

My dog-eared copy of the Foxfire Book.

Corey: “So how did you learn to do all of this?” 

Daniel: “Reading — the same things as you — Foxfire. One of the things I did was I asked every old timer around here; every guy I could find who knew anything about it. Just listening to what they had to say and just took the parts I liked.”

Corey: “Right. In the Foxfire edition I have, I think it was like ’68 or ’69, an original copy —”

Daniel: “Right.”

Corey: “The thing that I always found fascinating yet sad about it was these old-timers being interviewed in the late 1960s; they were probably in their 70s, so they’re dead now.”

Daniel: “Yeah, they’re gone.”

Corey: “And being able to preserve that knowledge is a very challenging thing, because they would need to pass it onto other folks. And then folks like yourself would pass that knowledge onto other folks, as well. This is a lost art that I’ve always found fascinating.”

Daniel: “I do to; that’s one of the things. I’m from up north, but when I came to Virginia I was like, ‘Hey, I have to learn how to do this.”

Corey: “How did you make the rum?”

Daniel: “The rum is basically flavoring; you use molasses to flavor the rum. Here’s what people don’t understand. If I take a molasses wine, which is an eight percent wine, and I run it through this [the still] it still comes out CHOH2. It’s not rum at that point. It’s…”

Corey: “Pure alcohol.”

Daniel: “Right — just pure base. So, you have to add a little molasses and brown sugar to get the flavor you want. Then you add that in, then you sift it out and let it sit. Then a lot of fiber will come out of it. Because when you use molasses, there’s fiber in it. So, then you have to wait for the fiber to drop out of the solution. And you skim that off the top. And what you have left is pretty good rum.” 

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “And for the rum, I think the one you got was over 100-something proof. That was over a hundred.”

Daniels’ rum, made from his rural distillery.

Corey: “Yeah, it gets the job done.”

Daniel: “Yeah it sure does!”

[Mutual laughter]

Daniel’s rum

Daniel: “And it’s pretty smooth too. So, if you’ve had 151 or 101 rums off the shelf, they’re not easy to drink.”

Corey: “No.”

Daniel: “That’s one of the things you can control doing country brewing.”

Corey: “I was a Peace Corps volunteer, and one of the things we were often served by the locals was something called Sodabi [sometimes spelled as “Sodabe,” which is like a palm wine.”

A jar of Sodabe from a friend in Benin.

Daniel: “Oh, is that the one they use amylase to convert —”

Corey: “I don’t know. But it was clear, and they would serve it from jars, and it was very strong. And because I would teach small business development classes, and whenever I’d visit someone’s farm, before we’d talk business, the tradition was to take a shot. And this would be 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning. And you’d do this five or six times during the morning for two years —”

Daniel: [Laughter]

Corey: “You’d develop a really high tolerance! So yeah, it’s crazy how there would be school kids who’d give it to their Peace Corps teachers the way kids in America would give apples to their teachers a long time ago. So I had fellow volunteer teachers who were like, ‘I can’t drink this stuff, can you take care of it?’ I was like, ‘Yeah, I’ll find a good place for it.”

Daniel: “That’s the equivalent of the American three martini lunch.” 

[Mutual laughter]

Corey: “Oh yeah, big martinis. Alright Daniel, thank you very much!”

Daniel: “Yeah, good!”      

Bonus content from my interview with Daniel on how he’s able to legally make alcohol:

Daniel: “I’m in a ‘recipe phase’ which is something — I did it through the ATF [Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms] which is called something else now [The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives]. I called them up and told them what I had and what I wanted to do. And they said I was able to make up to 52 gallons a day [196.8 liters].”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “But I can’t package it. I can’t proof it. Can’t label it. It has to be in a resealable quart jar.”   

Corey: “Right.”

Daniel: “I can’t sell it, but I can give as much away as I want, and that’s generally what I do.” 

Corey: “It’s kinda, well not exactly comparable, but it’s sort of similar how in DC now [Washington D.C.], you’re allowed to use marijuana. You could give it away; you could barter, like if a guy had a block of cheese and another guy had a jar of pot —”

[Mutual laughter]

Corey: “One could get the cheese and the other could get the pot. It’s totally fine, you just can’t sell it.”

Daniel: “You cannot sell it, yup. And they get serious; the state has its own rule. Most of the rules are really starting to relax. And there’s gonna be a point there where states are gonna allow you to make this like on-site, at a bar.”

Corey: “Yeah.”

Daniel: “And sell it.”

Corey: “That’s the thing. If you go to any ABC Store in Virginia [‘Alcoholic Beverage Control Authority,’ like a state sanctioned liquor store], I think within the last 10 years or so, it’s the beverage that a lot of hipsters are into.”

Daniel: “Yeah.”

Corey: “And you know, you get vodka from Eastern Europe and tequila from south of the border, and this is like an authentic American spirit that a lot of people are getting excited about.”

Daniel: “Yeah, and I’ll break it into pieces; like nowadays that’s gonna give me close to three quarters of a gallon, little heavier than three quarters of a gallon.”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “I’ll basically throw the first part out, about the first pint — I’ll throw it out. Which will take it down to three quarters of a gallon.”

Corey: “Cool.”

Daniel: “Out of that three quarters of a gallon, I’ll get one quart that’s like from heaven.”

Corey: “Right.”

Daniel: “The first quart’s gonna be bitter, sharp, and just not good. The second quart’s gonna be perfect. And the third quart’s gonna be mixed with a lot of water vapor at that point. Okay?”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “So what you do is you’ll have that second quart in the first quart. Picture them both together.”

Corey: “Okay.”

Daniel: “Then you have the last quart, which has no more real usable alcohol in there.”

Corey: “Mm-hmm.”

Daniel: “You run that through a Brita Filter, and it clears it back up; it doesn’t separate the water from the alcohol, but it takes the ‘white’ out of it. And I call that my cut. So, I’ll take the other two quarts, and I’ll take the really good quart and put that in a bowl. Then I’ll take half of the sharp one and put it in a bowl. Then I’ll take the equal part cut to that. And that’ll give me two quarts of just premium, premium alcohol. Then what I’ll do with the last one — okay so I’ll take the cut again and put it back in the first one. So, I’m dealing with the same three quarts, I just changed where they are. That one I’ll turn into either a rum, or a bourbon, or something along those lines. But your better alcohols you just keep white.”

Corey: “Okay, that’s good to know.”         

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One of the Happiest Times of My Life…

The friends of ’97, during our last meeting in 2001.

Most will agree that 2020 isn’t their favorite year. COVID-19, video recordings of cops killing unarmed black people, protests labeled as riots (then the looting caused by a few), militia self-described as “patriots,” and a U.S. president who feeds off the discord of a nation. It saddens me more than frightens me. 

Humanity has swayed on the precipice of despair multiple times, yet we survived. We prevailed against the chaos. Admittedly, there’s a vigilance required to preserve such peace. Not a vigilance of armed men walking down small-town streets, but the vigilance of facts, free speech, tolerance, and kindness. Not just toward those similar to us, but especially for those different from us. 

Here’s something fascinating to consider among all this conflict: someone fell in love this year, with a person they’ll marry and share a lifetime until an aged-old death. After several attempts, a couple finally gave birth to their first child — perhaps their only one. But that baby will receive so much guidance and compassion from these parents leading him or her to an adulthood of clarity. Elsewhere, two people who don’t share the same religion, skin color, or politics became friends. That realization occurred this year, but the cultivation of it probably began in 2001, 2017, or last December. 

My point is during the shittiest of times, remarkable wonders can occur. Despite the sheer peril of our political and societal climate, I do have faith in some aspects of mankind. I’m not a sports fan, but if mankind were the most fucked up of basketball or football teams, I’d still be in the nosebleeds section, in my faded jersey, yelling “Yay, humanity! You can do it!”    

Despite that hope, I do have gray days, moments when I feel the weight of all this … madness. It hit me so hard at times it became difficult write, even as a passion. I understood I had to claw my way out of this hole; each handful and foothold of dense clay rising me from the pit. Muscles clenched and released, bones wrapped in sinew set ablaze by the labor, the effort. Just typing these words now took weeks. I hate that my inspiration to write came from the catalyst of beer, spirits, and 2:00 A.M. insomnia. But hey, the Muse comes when she comes.

I sincerely believe there are folks who’ll consider 2020 their favorite year, whether it’s the strangers who fell in love this summer, or the couple who finally had their first child, or the categorically different dudes who became best friends. I’m not a prophet, but this prospect gets me excited. Despite the tragedy of that morning, I’m sure thousands of amazing young people were born on 9/11. The point is any moment has a possibility for wonder, for solace. We create those moments. We’re the match that sparks the world.

One of the happiest days of my life occurred sometime in July 1997. I forgot the actual date — it happened in the evening. I had graduated from Ohio University, in Athens, with a master’s degree in public administration, the month before. In September, I would depart for Peace Corps, working in Benin, West Africa. 

Earlier that spring, I had met a Jewish girl, who reminded me of the actress Claire Danes, but with frizzy sandy-blonde hair. She graduated undergrad at O.U., same month as me. She’s creative, writing for the town’s local newspaper when she wasn’t in class, and freelance writing greeting cards in her downtime. Me and my buddy Aaron, met her and her friend Janice in a dive bar, over pitchers of Lowenbrau dark beer and an unstable pool table. 

The Union Bar & Grill, Athens Ohio

During the proceeding months, Aaron and I were indoctrinated into their circle of friends. And you probably noticed how I haven’t mentioned her name. I hold her in high regard, so out of respect for her privacy, I won’t mention it. As for Janice, I don’t think she would mind.  

One of the happiest days of my life involved spending an evening with these girls, about five in all, with Aaron and an additional male friend of the girls. We were in Columbus, Ohio, hanging out at Rena’s mother’s house; Rena was in my girlfriend’s crew. 

The eight of us grabbed takeout and ate it at Rena’s place. We drank beers and chilled during the night. Maybe there was music, maybe it was from CDs or mixed tapes. We sat around outside. The night was cool; I’d like to think there were stars, but I can’t fully remember. The comfort, the sensation of happiness is clear. I feel warm pulses of joy just thinking of it now. 

The point is, I was enveloped in absolute serenity: a girl I loved, successfully finishing college, and Peace Corps — with boundless possibilities ahead. I wanted that night to last for a thousand nights, because an itch in the back of my heart told me the love my girlfriend and I shared may not endure the two years of Peace Corps. I also knew that adulthood had a way of suffocating the most precious of friendships: people got married, had kids, moved away for better jobs, or the responsibilities of life superseded just hanging out, playing pool, and shooting the breeze. 

On that night in Columbus, in July 1997, I was celebrating a moment that would end soon. Like an Irish wake, I felt bliss and sorrow. We would never assemble as one again, except for a weekend in February 2001, and even that wasn’t the same.  Before the end of ‘97, she would mail me a breakup letter. Though we were distant friends into the 2000s, she completely ending that in the early 2010s. It broke my heart, but I understood. Fortunately, it wasn’t my first or last relationship, so I dealt with it as a man would.

Remembering moments like that, the happiness of that evening, helps me deal with the storms of today. I hope each of you can hark back to whatever moment gave you joy, as a balm to deal with the pain of now. Truth be told, I don’t want to hate anyone, and everyone seems to hate someone, now. I’ve been angry for over half a year. I look forward to the day when our differences can be cast aside, while celebrating our common interests, instead. That day will come. But until then I’ll think about that evening in July 1997, and I’ll create more moments in my future. 

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Moonshine, A Layperson’s Review: Midnight Moon Blackberry Moonshine…

Inspiration for moonshine reviews come at inopportune times. The Muse speaks when she wishes, even at 3:30 a.m. on a Saturday. Like most folks, I’m engaged in lockdown due to COVID-19. I don’t have it, but I’m still keeping my distance from large groups. Initially staying with a friend in Fredericksburg, VA; then heading home for quarantine in Fairfax, VA; and presently social distancing in the Washington D.C. neighborhood of Brookland.

During these uncertain times (BTW a euphemism used in most of the commercials I’ve watched over the past five months), I can’t think of a better spirit to sample in 2020 than a nice chilled jar of Midnight Moon Blackberry Moonshine. Now, I’ve reviewed Midnight Moon brands before: raspberry, strawberry, and cherry

Piedmont Distillers, located in Madison North Carolina, developed this talent for making their fruit-flavored moonshines taste like liquid jam infused by lightning. The strawberry, raspberry, and cherry moonshines taste like their respective fruits. Nothing artificial. If you take a gander at the side of the jar, you’ll find each brew is made from distilled corn, the respective fruit, and cane sugar. All natural! Yes — it’s 100 proof, but nature is a savage beast, boys and girls. We must summon our inner Werner Herzog and make peace with nature’s cruelty. 

That aside, this moonshine is a real treat. As opposed to the plain moonshine, which is clear with subtle grassy notes, the blackberry moonshine is abundant in fruit flavor. It’s as if Steve the Intern was at the moonshine factory and Matt the Manager went home early, because his wife Deborah prepared Stouffer’s lasagna dinner for their 14th wedding anniversary. Then Steve, not really knowing what he’s doing because he’s worked at the factory all of three hours, decided to put 48 times the recommended number of blackberries in the moonshine distillery. Basically, Steve made Frankenstein’s monster in a jar — but in the most amazing way. Meanwhile, Matt and Deborah enjoyed their Stouffer’s lasagna dinner.

When you open the jar, take a tablespoon and fish out a few blackberries. Each one is soaked in moonshine potency, with sweet notes of berry goodness. I guess I’m selling this brand hard because as an American, I’m so used to “fruit-flavored” processed foods being artificial. I’d read the ingredients section of foods where the blueberry flavor is fake, the apple flavor is fake, or the peach flavor is fake. Imagine a company coming up with the novel concept of: “hey, why don’t we put natural fruit in this jar and add a touch of cane sugar.” Mind blown. So, what’s my recommended cocktail for Midnight Moon Blackberry Moonshine? It’s pretty complex, so get a pen and paper, kids. 

The Perfect Midnight Moon Blackberry Cocktail:

One 11oz glass

1/4thglass of Midnight Moon Blackberry Moonshine

Done….

I mean seriously, why would you wanna mess with this flavor? Leave it be. It’s just like preparing a medium-rare steak from a black skillet — take it off the stove and leave it be. Let it rest for a few minutes. Let the heat cook all the way through. Don’t touch it.

Okay, I’m not gonna belabor the point. 

Verdict:    

When you were a kid, did your ma every make you toast with jam and butter? The warm scent of cooked bread, soaked with butter, and smeared with blackberry preserves? Remember how all three flavors complemented each other? And how the berry seeds got stuck in the nooks of your molars? I felt that nostalgia with every sip. That’s a big deal for me, because I’m not sentimental! So during these “uncertain times,” chill out a bit with Midnight Moon Blackberry Moonshine. … After lasagna dinner.

Posted in Appalachia, comedy, Food, Humor, Moonshine Review - Click Titles to Read More! :-), nature, Personal Tales, Rural Cuisine, Spirits, Truth Salad with Fiction Dressing, Uncategorized, Washington, D.C., whiskey | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Cigars, Foxes, and Moonlight

The best way to greet a fox is to not speak at all. I’ve learned this lesson over the course of several months, when I smoke a cigar and sip a bit of rum on the front stoop of my condo in suburban Virginia. This ritual doesn’t occur every day, not even every week, but about four times a month — always after midnight — when many are in slumber and humanity’s presence is conveyed by SUVs, lamplight, and trash bags set out for Friday mornings.

I stand on the front stoop before the parking lot, surrounded by modest condominiums, trees, and cars. Although the silence is pleasant, I typically listen to my playlists from music on YouTube. I have an affinity for Bossa Nova, 70s R&B, classic rock, and soft tempo music from the 60s. Yeah, I love hip-hop too, but not with a cigar and rum at 1:30 am. 

This ritual initially began while I worked for FEMA in Puerto Rico. Helping with the recovery effort post-Hurricane Maria, in late 2017 and early 2018. I’ve lived abroad before, in West Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer, but the short period of time in Puerto Rico had a profound impact on me. After 10-hour workdays, there was time to only do three things: grab dinner, complete a chore (laundry, catch up on emails, etc.), and chill for an hour, tops. Sleep was essential, and since I had to arrive at the Joint Field Office by 7:00 am, it was important to get at least six hours of sleep with the hectic work schedule the staffers experienced. 

I was staying at a relatively modest hotel with a balcony that overlooked the coast of San Juan. At night, the coast was aligned with city lights, the remnants of Spanish fortresses, and palm trees. Several stories skyward, between song selections, I’d listen to the sound of surf smashing against wave breakers and palm leaves whipping against the wind. On the night horizon, I’d see a cruise ship, illuminated. Silent. Again, I’d listen to my playlists, smoke cigars from Kuros Smoke Lounge, and sit on the balcony in the nude, to feel the breeze, to feel unencumbered — just to feel something other than the sensation of sitting in a Joint Field Office for 10 hours. I never knew what Kuros placed in their house blend cigarillos, but after I smoked one, my fingertips clasped onto another one. I’d enjoy my hour, then chase my six or more hours of sleep for the next hectic 10 hours of work.

I’m not a cigarette smoker, but cigars and rum were the two vices I brought back from Puerto Rico. And now, on occasion, whenever I feel the need for reflection and peace, I light up tobacco from Nicaragua, Cuba (by way of Jamaica), Puerto Rico, or Virginia (since tobacco is a cash crop here). Then one night in 2018 — about 1:30 or 2:00 in the morning, I saw a fox. 

The creature’s fur didn’t resemble the fox fur one would see in cartoons or nature documentaries. The fur was grayish or brown, with a hint of autumn coloration. I can’t remember if the first fox ran or meandered, but I do recall that all foxes hurry or meander. Intuitively, I remained still. When a fox presents himself or herself to human eyes it’s rarely for a long duration. So, in my mind, I said hello to the fox, and I imagined his or her presence as an omen for me to do this or accomplish that. 

Not the actual fox, but a blog about foxes does need at least one fox image.

Superstitions? Yeah. But in this day and age, I think a dash of superstition adds flavor to the doldrums of modernity. I’d see a fox and feel inspired to write. I’d see a fox and absorb the urgency to contact my literary agent. The fox became my totem. What choice did I have, after seeing this animal for more than two dozen times?

Other animals do appear. Once, I saw two deer dash across the lawn. Another time, I saw a raccoon saunter between the cars. But the fox, one of the last wild canines of North America, kept returning. To feed off the trash? To assert his or her habitat? I don’t know. I do know that I value these visits, as I greet the fox in silence and I respect his or her space by remaining frozen in those few seconds the creature arrives, then leaves. 

And of course, I would be remiss to ignore the sky. I’m not an astronomer, but I can identify a couple of the classics — Orion’s Belt, the North Star … and that’s all I got. I’d like to say I saw the Big and Little Dippers, but I didn’t. 

However, I do experience bliss in the aerial artistry of starlight and moonlight on cloud formations. There’s a subtle rainbow effect that occurs when the moon shines through clouds. Burgeoning and billowing like living marble in multiple gray hues, the clouds form an illuminated wreath around the heavenly jewel. The cloud is then stretched across the night, like natural cotton against a celestial briar. Sometimes this occurs with a solitary cloud. As if it were the sole oil color on a nighttime palette — smeared, blended, lightened, darkened, then gone.

A cigar could last me from 20 to 30 minutes. When I have about two inches of cigar remaining, the number of fingers needed to hold it reduces depending on the heat my digits feel. I smash out the remaining fire in the “foot” of the cigar, producing a small cascade of bright embers, drifting into the damp grass and soil. I confirm the fire’s completely out.  

I turn off my music and go inside. With one final gaze to see if the fox returned one final time. On rare occasions, he does. 

You don’t need a cigar to truly appreciate the night sky. My sense of wonder for the heavens is crippled by my heart’s limitations. The foxes, the deer, and racoons guide me a bit further beyond my boundaries. Creating sparks of curiosity. Someday, I’ll see the sky’s fire without lighting bundled leaves, instead lighting something else from within. 

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My Apologies for the Long Absence….

Happy New Year! I’ll Post Fantastic Content Soon…

Astronaut Corey 73475030_10163878263175354_5646925651052068864_o

Cheers & Take Care,

Corey 70588057_10163617972120354_5093231115930435584_o

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A Wad of Cash & A Lump of Dignity…

wallet 20190828_235452_HDRMy housemate Tomas was the first to learn of my new writing job, and he became the first to offer advice on adjusting to the position. He knew I had spent days and evenings focused on my historical fiction manuscript. Some nights, often after midnight, he’d find me huddled over my laptop like an electric flame, punching out ideas from a time long past. He’d give me a pep talk, sip a glass of water, and return to sleep.

Occasionally, he’d caution me on the importance of finding consistent income, not only to pay the bills and reconcile my credit rating, but also for my self-esteem and perhaps social health. I haven’t had a relationship for over six years. I reside in the Washington DC/Northern Virginia/Southern Maryland region. A place where one’s dating worth is as determined by one’s profession as it is by one’s character.

I speak two languages, I’ve traveled to a dozen countries, and earned two university degrees. But until recently, I haven’t had a consistent income beyond freelance writing and editing. So whenever I’d attend a house party, cocktail soiree, or formal event, I had enough charm and intellect to receive a woman’s number, occasionally unsolicited, but the attractions soon chilled upon learning I didn’t have an “arousing profession” like public relations specialist, healthcare account executive, attorney, CEO, physician, or USAID global health project manager.

To be fair, there were the occasional outliers: women who attained the “successful husband” or “lucrative boyfriend,” only to learn years later there’s more to a meal than metaphorical truffles and wagyu beef. They were bored with the “successes,” and I was a stew of peculiar flavors and precarious storage, and yet a few women still enjoyed the taste. Unfortunately, those moments were rare. And Tomas felt compelled to help me. God bless ‘em.

Tomas is my housemate for only part of the week. His job requires a commute so far that he arranged with his bosses to allow him to drive from our home, his part-time home, from Fairfax, Virginia to his job, and the other part of the week he’s permitted to work from his actual home in central Virginia.

Tomas is a man of layers. On the surface, he’s a Puerto Rican from Philly with a “black dude’s” cadence – can’t make it anymore politically correct than that. He’ll be the first to tell you, if you ask, that he grew up in an African American neighborhood, as I did. He went to an urban high school in the 80s. That leaves an impact.

I suppose the second thing from Tomas that would leave an impact would be his fists. The guy occasionally shadowboxes whenever I’m pontificating on something. Kinda like combat exposition. With his muscular frame, a holdover from his 20s as an amateur professional wrestler competing in the C-list wrestling circuit along the East Coast, he’d punch the air from time to time while listening to me. Whenever I was listening to him, I usually had a glass of moonshine or bourbon in my hand – for the vitamins. Seriously, I don’t make up these blog stories, unless it’s the Rural Gothic stuff, and I haven’t written one of those in over a year.

Beneath the layers, one would learn that Tomas’ day job entailed the budgetary aspects of proposal writing, usually with Uncle Sam as the principal client. The man was whip smart when it came to quantitative matters, requiring a bit of overtime on his part. When neither of us are working, we engaged in a healthy level of ball-busting and jokes. He could literally kick my ass if he wanted to, but to his credit he respects me. He’s deferential to my opinions. To be fair, his opinions are just as formidable as his punches. He’s a bit of a social conservative and up until recently, he was pro-Trump, but that changed upon Tomas actually needing the Affordable Care Act, not too long ago. As I was thinking about this, he began slapping his palm.

“You need your confidence back, Señor.” I kid you not, that’s his nickname for me. “Best way to do that is on payday – (palm slap) – take out $200 in tens and twenties. Put it in your wallet, feel the thickness of it and that’ll give you the confidence and incentive to go out there. Talk to women – with your head up.”

Truth be told, this felt like a scene out of a 1970s Scorsese or Francis Ford Coppola film – gritty, visceral. Tomas is playing the James Caan role, while I’m playing … me – because I don’t have the freakin’ narcissism to say I’m playing the Pacino role.

Tomas slaps his thigh, I guess where his pretend wallet is supposed to be, and says, “Remember to do that on payday. Go out, get a drink or two, then talk to whoever catches your eye. Get your confidence back.”

Skyline 20190817_201153_HDR

Payday weekend, I decided to attend a cocktail party at one of the numerous roof-top bars sprinkled across D.C. A female friend and her husband planned to meet me there, but before they showed up, I took the opportunity to initiate conversations with women who caught my eye. Unfortunately, other guys hovered in that awkward way, attempting verbal one-upmanship. It got old quickly.

“Oh, you traveled here; I traveled there!”

“Oh, you’ve read that book; I’ve read this book!”

All while the woman whom initially caught my eye found herself surrounded by four other guys, including myself. I’d look around the penthouse bar with the same results. Primates in khakis performing mating rituals to demonstrate their genetic fitness to the attractive primate. For years, I’ve heard there were more female professionals in DC than male professionals.

Mayhaps, they’re somewhere else.

With a boyfriend or newlywedded husband. Enjoying an all-girls night out – who knows. Instead, I see a saturated market of desperate men. And I’m not desperate.

Over the course of two conversations, I directly – yet politely – ask for phone numbers to continue discussions for another time. Maybe date. And I didn’t have a wad of cash bulging out of my side pocket to do it. Later I’d call each number, only to get no response.

Did I feel bummed out about it? Yeah, of course. I had an active dating life in my twenties and thirties, between profound girlfriends with whom I sustained relationships for years. I never lacked for company.

Now? It’s difficult. I think even more so in a region that determines a man’s worth based on his salary or career. Seventy percent of my friends are female, and whenever I raise this point about the challenges of dating as a male, I face a barrage of all the issues women contend with when it comes to dating: from the risks of sexual assault, stalking, and being abandoned due to body shaming, to dealing with Incels, “nice guys,” or having the right to refuse a guy if said guy doesn’t appeal to them. All those points are valid – I agree. Furthermore, my female friends tell me that its only practical to prefer a guy who’s financially successful, just in case they would consider settling down with the dude. They want a man who’s “settled,” just in case they yearned to start a family.

One woman actually said that during our third date in 2010. We discussed our personal interests and passions. She was a single mom working for an international agency, and I had spent my time writing my manuscript, and freelance writing on the side. Her two sons were pre-adolescent, yet this woman said to me that she couldn’t date me because I wasn’t “settled” enough for her. Later she started dating a single father.

That word – settled– stuck with me. Even for the women I talked to who were adamant about not wanting kids, financial stability reigned supreme. It felt like coded language for being well off. Spoiler Alert– I’m not. … For now.

These prerequisites troubled me because I’ve never heard a male friend say, “Yeah, I decided not to date ___________, because I felt she wasn’t financially settled enough for me.”

It doesn’t matter that I pay my bills and taxes on time, cover the dinner tab during dates, and earn an income based on skills that are in demand. What seemed to be more important for dating was whether I had a house, a lucrative job, and a socially tolerable car.  …Oh, by the way, body-shaming is unacceptable. Wallet-shaming is.

I’m not alone in this conundrum – other men experience it too, but the frustrating thing is I’m not allowed to discuss this. It’s taboo. I’ll be ripped to shreds for talking about it openly. However, I should be allowed to feel this frustration from the double-standards that occur for men, while still maintaining the hardships women encounter are legitimate and justified. I agree – they are!

If men can appreciate how tough dating is for women, why can’t women equally appreciate how dating is a raw deal for men. Approaching some woman you don’t know – putting yourself out there for rejection. More often than not, being the initiator. Do I have privilege as a heterosexual male? Yeah. But God as my witness, as a black, freelance writer, newly employed as a copywriter, living in one of the most competitive and expensive parts of the United States, my “privilege” is a watering can with holes and flakes of rust tainting its liquid.

I’ve made decisions to follow a dream I care about passionately – publishing a manuscript. And I refuse to apologize for my decisions in order to get a date. Is it within your right to refuse dating a guy like me? One thousand percent. Yes. However, when you’re recounting our chat to your friends over brunch, which I’ve overheard hundreds of times at hundreds of brunches, be mindful that the guy you turned down is a human being.

I can’t fold a lump of dignity in my pocket and feel confident or renewed from its presence. I have to maintain that on my own. Through my heart and grit.

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Posted in Personal Tales, politics, Truth Salad with Fiction Dressing, Uncategorized, Virginia, Washington, D.C. | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

The Day I Accidentally Visited a Confederate Pizzeria…

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Fourth of July weekend, my friend Rani invited me to join her, her husband James, and their toddler son on a road trip to see our friend and her toddler daughter in Harrisonburg, Virginia. Our friendship goes back more than 20 years, so we had a great two days of homecooked meals, dark and stormy cocktails, entertaining kids, and watching the U.S. team win the Women’s World Cup.

I love road trips, especially in the company of friends. Rani experienced her first visit to an Arby’s along the way; it was almost akin to a cultural anthropology site visit for her. The lean layers of roast beef, large beverages, and French fry portions genuinely fascinated her. Maybe because she’s a bit of a foodie as an adult, or perhaps because Arby’s wasn’t located in her part of New Jersey during her childhood. All the same, she enjoyed the visit.

Blue Ridge Mountains 20190707_135431_HDRBack on the road, their car radio played pop music for as long as the signal permitted before buffeted by the Blue Ridge Mountains and obscure turns. The mountain range paralleled the highway like a sleeping Kaiju covered in trees from ground to sky. The clouds were equally monstrous and beautiful. Lacking man-made structures to obscure their glory, cumulus clouds swirled to the height of natural wonders that would dwarf a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

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We decided to return home on Sunday afternoon, and about an hour or so into our trip we were hungry. Rani checked her phone and found a pizzeria along the way. I won’t say where. After parking the car, we entered what initially seemed like a small-town pizzeria. A handful of customers ate their slices, while a staff of four served the clientele. Two teenage girls, a guy in the kitchen, and a waitress, maybe over 30.

Rani spotted an intimate dining area in the back with tables, comfortable seats, and crimson walls. I didn’t get a good look until we sat.

Confederate-Flag-DT-2Festooned upon the walls were portraits of Confederate officers, paintings of Confederate armies marching into towns, (with the requisite cheering Southern belles and locals), and a poem written in calligraphy, about Rebel patriotism. In each of the frames I saw little banners of Confederate war flags.

As some of you readers are aware, I’m African-American. Rani is Indian-American, born in this country. And James is Irish-American, born in New York. The thing about having a friendship of more than 20 years is that you can convey volumes with one look. Rani and I gave each other a look that expressed the following dialogue in an instant:

“Really?”

“Seriously.”

“Okay, we’re gonna do this.”

“’Murica.”

After that bit of telepathy, I turn to James. “Uh – yeah, we’re totally eating here.”

We sat down, with Rani’s son on her lap – her biracial son. The waitress, avoiding eye contact, took our orders. I got a personal pizza, while Rani and James ordered the calzones. We also asked for a round of soft drinks. From our table, we observed the Rebel paintings. Symbols of “Southern Heritage” for some, while others would regard the frames as old remnants of a political and cultural movement reliant upon bigotry and human subjugation.

I have a binary perspective when it comes to Confederate history. On one hand, I’m fucking pleased the Confederacy lost. Plantation owners of the Antebellum South owned my ancestors and slavery existed as an institution in North American for 246 years. It was a history of sexual assault, maiming, physical and psychological abuse, and murder. It’s aftereffects still exist today in ways this modest blog entry couldn’t begin to examine. I was never able to watch Gone with the Wind because it romanticized a way of life that couldn’t exist without the suppression of human beings. I have no love for the Confederacy.

That being said, I’m fascinated by history. World history and American history. I try to understand the motives and perspectives of others from the lens of time. Chronological distance opens a researcher’s objectivity. Not forgiveness. But objectivity.

That curiosity allowed me to study Antebellum culture for my historical fiction manuscript. It allowed me to read about the political context of a people obsessed with affectations of European aristocratic gentry. To the point where they relied upon an agrarian economy over that of a manufacturing economy, even when it was no longer practical. It also didn’t help that Northern politicians enforced trade tariffs that affected the South significantly, because some of their European clientele bought commodities from Southern farms … which relied upon enslaved black people. Again, objectivity. Not forgiveness.

A more revisionist aspect of Confederate romanticism is the compulsion to reduce the number of slaves owned by Southern households each year. We’re told in social media, Alt-Right rallies, and political journals that the Civil War was about “states’ rights;” it wasn’t so much about slavery. But you gotta ask yourself, “the states’ rights to do what?” Hell, in the official “Declaration of the Immediate Causes Which Induce and Justify the Session of South Carolina from the Federal Union,” South Carolina’s delegates noted “an increasing hostility on the part of the non-slaveholding States to the institution of slavery.” These states wanted to maintain ownership and were willing to leave the Union to achieve that end.

Furthermore, although reputable sources do concede the majority of Southerners did not own slaves, they place the number of slave-owning households anywhere from 25 percent of white families, to 32 percent.

However, authors Jamelle Bouie and Rebecca Onion wrote in a Slate.com article that “by most measures, this isn’t ‘small’—it’s roughly the same percentage of Americans who, today, hold a college degree. The large majority of slaveholding families were small farmers and not the major planters who dominate our image of slavery.

“Typically, this fact is used to suggest that the Civil War was not about slavery. If so few Southerners owned slaves, goes the argument, then the war had to be about something else (namely, the sanctity of states’ rights). But, as historian Ira Berlin writes, the slave South was a slave society, not just a society with slaves. Slavery was at the foundation of economic and social relations, and slave-ownership was aspirational—a symbol of wealth and prosperity. Whites who couldn’t afford slaves wanted them in the same way that, today, most Americans want to own a home.”

So yeah, that’s my outlook on all things Confederate. I’m glad their side lost, yet from a historical standpoint I want to understand various aspects of the culture and politics. I’d rather see a rebel flag in a museum than on a truck bumper. I’d rather see a statue of a Confederate general in a historical exhibit than in the center of some Southern park, because not every kid who plays in a Southern park is a white kid. Some are black, brown, and yellow. And the Confederacy wanted nothing to do with those kids. Am I talking censorship?Lee 4153085.vpx

No, as a political science graduate student and former journalism major, I love the First Amendment too much to go down that road. I also enjoy visiting parts of the South. My best friend was born in North Carolina, and my ex-girlfriend was born in Alabama. I have a great deal of respect for the South’s people. But I still have the right to hate the “Stars & Bars.” I don’t want tax-payer funds perpetuating that mythology.

Which brings me back to that pizzeria with the room enshrined to the Confederacy. In a way, it reminded me of a small-town version of the sonnet Ozymandias, by Percy Shelley. Back in ancient times, Ozymandias was the Greek name for Ramesses II, an Egyptian pharaoh.

But instead of a poem about the remnants of a massive crumbled statue in timeless sands originally crafted as tribute to an imposing monarch, we have a roadside pizzeria dedicating a portion of its space to a failed cause that justified human bondage.

Am I gonna sit there, eating a slice of pizza, this black guy, with his Indian-American friend, before a portrait of Stonewall Jackson? Damn straight I will. The failure of that cause led to my people’s freedom.

Look on me eating this pizza, “Ye Mighty,” and despair.

 

Posted in Appalachia, Food, History, Humor, Personal Tales, politics, Rural Cuisine, Rural Customs, Travel Writing, Truth Salad with Fiction Dressing, Uncategorized, Virginia | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments