Remembering dark stories
I started my Friday morning heading for the the farm but it got cancelled by a phone call. I went for a hair cut. I met a friend at the coffee shop. We were sitting outside and another guy came by. I recognized him and he gave my friend a hug. They had gone to school together as kids in Duncan.
They chatted as if they were discussing the weather. They knew each other’s friends and were discussing their teachers. One story led to another and the stories became darker and darker. They both came from privilege. But that didn’t help. The stories popped out of their souls like popcorn.
They’re 60 in age now and they told their stories with a calmness and in a matter of fact way. Here’s one. At night walking along the side of the road, a truck would come by with their headlights shining in your eyes so you couldn’t see them and they would swing a corn broom to hit you in the head and collapse you into the ditch. It’s called white privilege. I didn’t say anything. One guy is rich but can’t forgive his dark Valley past. The other is thankful to be alive and looking after his grandkids.