This year, my best pal Smokey was the Grand Marshall of Atlanta’s Gay Pride Parade. The city painted the crosswalks along the parade route in rainbow colors. Thousands of people marched and lined the route, including the Mayor and who knows how many other muckety mucks showing their support for a large and engaged portion of Atlanta’s populace. The south, like the rest of the world, is indeed changing, and sometimes we can grab a glimpse of that hope that Martin Luther King, Jr. described to us as the “arc of the moral universe bending toward justice.”

And sometimes we can’t.

With all of the south’s apparent transformations, I keep hoping that my experience of the south transforms as well. Alas, I am not so lucky.

As a child of Atlanta in the 1950s and ’60s, I remember the “coloreds to the rear of the bus” signs. I remember the Klan rallies. I remember the Saturday racist vitriol in the Atlanta Constitution from soon-to-be-governor Lester Maddox as he hyped The Pickrick, his ax-handle-selling restaurant. I remember the morning phone call telling my folks not to send me to Sunday school because the Temple had been bombed.  I remember the overt racism that I would hear no matter where I went, and the tamer racism of my WASP neighbors politely making reference to the “nigras” and of my Jewish friends and neighbors using the comfortable secret code word “schvartzes.”

Yeah. I keep hoping those days have passed. They haven’t.

Sunday afternoon, after a fun few hours with an artist friend* of Rebecca’s whose family she knows from Omaha, I went to a local Buckhead watering hole, the Buckhead Ivys, to catch the last quarter of the (very stinky) Patriots-Eagles game. Four 20-something men greeted me at the door, glad to see another Patriots fan. One of them had grown up in Portsmouth, NH and infected the others with his love for the Pats. They all now live in Atlanta, transplanted from Alabama, and still committed followers of the Crimson Tide. They seemed fun at first. Then I realized they were about 25 sheets to the wind. The very high volume and inaudibly slurred nonstop patter gave their condition away.

Hey, I’m not a judgmental guy, and I’ve been known to down a few myself … and I did come of age in New Orleans where, at the ripe age of 17, I was never once asked for an ID … but these guys were really freakin’ drunk.

Then I witnessed something I have never seen before: The bartender­ ­– a foxy woman who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the moment ­– pulled out 16 plastic cups and arranged them in a 4X4 grid. She made identical drinks per row, so when done, she had made four different drinks per person lined up in front of each of the four guys. She had made them with a smorgasbord of stuff from behind the bar: jagermeister, tequila, beer, whiskey some gross-looking red crap, soda, and who knows what else. I couldn’t keep up with all she poured. When done, she blew a loud whistle to get everyone’s attention, took out her cell phone, and started filming. The guys competed to see who could down all four drinks first … one drink at a time, from the closest to the farthest.

As soon as they finished, the loud, slurry guy got louder and slurrier. His buddy closest to me turned green, made a beeline for the parking lot, puked, then returned, picking up on his commentary where he had left off as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

As much as I wanted to see the Patriots pull out a three touchdown, come-from-behind victory, I was really happy when they turned the ball over on downs just before the end of the game. I had time to escape the bar and get back home before the drunkards hit the road.

It was almost like the old days except that I no longer feel invulnerable. In fact, I was pretty frightened at the prospect of being on those roads and deeply saddened by the value placed on such meaningless, over-the-top inebriation. Maybe I was like that in my youth. I really don’t think so … and in hindsight, I really hope not!

Then this morning, the Old South again reared its ugly head. My mother has a new landscaper. She likes him. He seems to respect that her yard is totally organic, so he won’t use lawn chemicals on it. His two Hispanic workers seem to handle leaf blowers and rakes pretty well as he sat in the cab of his truck perfectly playing the role of “bossman.”

I introduced myself, and we had a pretty cordial conversation … for two or three minutes … until he asked me quite seriously what I thought of these radical Muslims. The tone of his voice left no doubt about what he thought! (Nor did his very vocal unwavering belief that Obama is one of them and has been his entire life.)

For the next 15 minutes or so I listened to him sing the praises of Donald Trump … who has proved his worth by earning so much money and who is the only candidate who will put these radical Muslims where they belong … except maybe for Ted Cruz who he also likes just a little.

He asked me if I didn’t think that white people and black people were different … you know, like “if you put lions and tigers and leopards in the same cage, you know they are not going to get along because they are different. And black people are different from white people. And they are always involved in gangs and violence and they just don’t want to work and want to collect welfare and for all of us to support them.”

Oh, how I wish I had the capacity to make this shit up. Sadly, I don’t. It was totally real in the ’50s. It is equally real and unchanged today. And even more sadly, I am sure these conversations and experiences will not be limited to a quick Sunday evening-Monday morning 1-2 punch. We will experience them for many more weeks … and while I am sickened by them, my inner sociologist has little desire to avoid them … most of the time. Troubling as they are, they seem like critically important reality checks. Life in the US is not what we might be lulled into thinking it might be if we spend too much time in Vermont or around Cambridge.

___________________________

*ChARiTy Elise Designs is colorful, whimsical, beautifully crafted, and just great fun. Google her stuff. She is most assuredly NOT a good ole’ boy!