Carl – Page 2

Why nobody who preaches fear will ever get my vote

Posted on May 6, 2017 Written by Carl

By Carl Carter

The one-gallon glass bottles of water were lined up across the wall of our basement, below a small window that looked out at ground level. They had once held Clorox and were covered in dust. My parents had placed them there so that we would have something to drink if the nuclear missiles from Russia or Cuba hit.

There may have been some cans of food, but I don’t remember them. My child’s mind (I was only seven or eight) raced with questions nobody wanted to answer. Why don’t we just go to the school? It was literally next door, less than 150 yards away, and it had a fallout shelter.

We knew what fallout was, vaguely. After the bombs hit, there would be dust and radiation that would make us sick. We would break out and our skin would slide off our arms, and we would soon die.

My friends told me they, too, had bottles of water stored in their basements. At school, we would have “duck-and-cover” drills when a siren went off and we walked single file to the first floor and put our hands behind our heads. I could see windows and doors from where I was ducked and covered, and I tried to imagine how the thin glass would keep out the radiation, and exactly how my little arms would protect me from the bombs. There was a big crack in the doorway. Wouldn’t the radiation seep in there?

A 17-year-old civil rights demonstrator, defying an anti-parade ordinance of Birmingham, Ala., is attacked by a police dog on May 3, 1963. On the afternoon of May 4, 1963, during a meeting at the White House with members of a political group, President Kennedy discussed this photo, which had appeared on the front page of that day’s New York Times. (AP Photo/Bill Hudson)

Not far away, there were other schools where kids were doing exactly the same thing, but one thing was different. They and their teachers were black. It was illegal for them to attend Minnie Holman Elementary, or Comer, or Gibson, or any other “white” school. Red lines on maps dictated where they could live. Presumably, they had their own dusty Clorox bottles of water stored away.

We rarely saw each other, unless it was downtown or on a city bus. My father routed the buses, primarily on an east-west trajectory, up and down First Avenue North and other roads that ran the length of the city. Every bus had a clear white line, and if you were black, you had to sit behind that line. If you were white, you stayed in front of it not only because of the law, but because heaven only knew what horrible things went on in the back of the bus. We imagined constant knifings and fights, and felt certain we might be killed if we went back there.

Because of his role as the bus scheduler, Dad got regular phone calls from the infamous commissioner, Bull Connor, who obsessed on keeping black and white from ever being in the same place at the same time.

Not that I ever saw any of that. That long seat in the back looked to me like a fun place to be. But no matter. Mother kept my sisters and me safely in the front. When we went shopping downtown, there were “White” and “Colored” signs everywhere — especially on water fountains, restrooms and doors. In theaters, blacks had to enter by their own doors and sit in their own sections, usually in the very back of the room. In restaurants — at least the ones where we ate — they weren’t allowed at all.

Whether black or white, we lived in fear. At home, it was fear of the Russians. In shops, and on buses and sidewalks, it was fear of each other, and a great deal of work went into keeping that fear stoked. Somewhere in Woodlawn, mere blocks from my home, was the local KKK chapter, to which my grandfather belonged. Nobody ever admitted James T. Harwell had robes in the closet, but it finally came out when his son (my uncle) Jack pulled them down one day while playing in the home. We certainly never heard what went on in those meetings, but apparently it wasn’t extreme enough for some members, who splintered off join others and form the Cahaba Boys, where the plans were hatched to bomb Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, which resulted in the deaths of four little girls.

I’ve been haunted for years by the question of whether my grandfather knew the bombers. I guess we’ll never know for sure.

Over the years, some of the lines keeping black and white separate began to fade. It was 1969 before I had a handful of black classmates. The world didn’t end.

In his final hours of life at East End Memorial Hospital, my grandfather became delusional, grabbed a pen from an orderly and ran up and down the halls stabbing black employees in the backside with it. Whether it was fear, hate or some mix of the two, nobody will ever know. They had to sedate him and strap him to his bed.

While all this was happening, I was worshipping each week in an all-white church that posted guards to keep black people from worshipping with us — or, as my dad preferred to call it, making trouble.

Fear kept them out. Fear kept us in and sent our wealthier friends to the all-white southern suburbs of Mountain Brook, Homewood and Vestavia.

For years, starting in the late 1980s, I lived in Hoover next door to a career policeman and FBI agent, who happened to be black. We talked about the frequency of police shootings of black men. He blamed much of it on fear. A scared black man makes a sudden move interpreted by a scared cop as an effort to reach for a gun. Boom.

I think in many cases, the bullet is just the agent of death. The real cause is fear.

My vantage point of the civil rights struggle in the 1960s changed me forever. It’s the reason I have refused for years to vote for anybody who wants to make me afraid.

That doesn’t mean I am free of fear. There are very real dangers in the world around us. So we lock our doors and buy insurance and install security systems.

The problem isn’t fear per se, but those who use it to control us. Those who paint pictures of inner-city chaos, killers and drug dealers pouring across our borders, people of different religions, or people who love differently, for the purpose of getting our votes. It might surprise you that this is an attitude I inherited from my father, who felt deeply that race mixing was dangerous and yet took pride in refusing to ever vote for George Wallace.

As I write this, we are just months from very important elections. I don’t know who will get my vote yet, but I will be looking for those who invite me to be better, and believe in a better future. This is why nobody who preaches fear will ever get my vote.

How the kids won: The high-stakes gamble that got the money to build Hoover Schools

Posted on March 10, 2017 Written by Carl

By Carl Carter, APR

When the Birmingham suburb of Hoover formed its own school system in the late 1980s, the city immediately faced a problem that threatened the system’s very existence: The school facilities inherited from Jefferson County were old, run down and only had room for less than half the students we had to serve.

We needed money — a lot of it. We had a vote coming up in just a few weeks on a tax referendum for 17 mills to build new schools. If it had failed, there would have been no money to build Hoover High School or Spain Park High School, among others. Today, they’re two of Alabama’s biggest high schools, but few remember how close they came to not existing at all.

The city was at war. The new superintendent hired by the system had managed to get on the wrong side of the mayor and several city council members. The mayor and council remained on the sidelines, unwilling to openly support the tax. One councilman in particular kept introducing resolutions to dissolve the system and ask Jefferson County to take the city back in. He and others were closely allied with a local printer, who churned out flyers opposing the effort.

There were charges that the school system had spent too much money on rented offices, cell phones and staff. School board members were unresponsive to the council. Tempers were running high.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking, and the vote was looming. From all appearances, the tax was dead in the water. We had commissioned a poll a few weeks earlier, and we were seven points down. An out-of-town consultant told us it was hopeless. An advisory referendum just a few months earlier had failed by a few votes, and that one didn’t even involve a tax.

It’s worth noting that in those days, people over 65 still paid property taxes, and they were actively campaigning against the tax — and the school system. Supporters had been quoting statistics that showed how badly we needed more space, but the message wasn’t sticking.

There’s never money for ongoing polls in local elections, so we were flying blind, but it was clear the school tax was in trouble. A massive gamble on a different strategy was our only hope.

The loose-knit committee working for the tax made a critical decision: We called a unilateral cease fire in the war with the council. We ignored the charges of overspending and poor management and streamlined our message to one word: Overcrowding.

When a councilman called for the school system to be dissolved, our answer was “overcrowding.” We refused to re-litigate the creation of the school system. We let accusations go unanswered.

Instead, we started telling stories.

We took pictures of kids who were meeting in hallways, stringing crayon pictures on strings between hat racks to form something that at least felt like a wall. We set up interviews with a chemistry teacher who was working out of a closet and rolling her equipment from room to room, because the old Berry High School had no space for a chemistry classroom.

We escorted reporters in to see for themselves. We blanketed the neighborhoods with flyers that showed leaky roofs. We called radio talk shows. We told overcrowding stories to everybody who would listen.

Then election day came, and school buses loaded with senior citizens began showing up at the polling places. (Who authorized the use of city school buses for this anyway?) At one point, I stood in the parking lot of my polling place and very nearly vomited as the demographics scared me to death. My kids were four and six, and we’d just bought a house. Now what?

All we could do was hope the stories had worked and reached enough people. There were a few hopeful signs. The mayor and council members who had been tepid in their support had started saying the right things as we shifted the conversation from politics to overcrowding.

As the polls closed, we gathered at the school board offices for what we hoped would be a celebration. I forget exactly how close it was, but the kids won by a whisker. We would have money to build Hoover High and a new middle school, while expanding and renovating most of the others.

As we were waiting for results, campaign chairman Jim Hopes asked me to write a victory speech for him. It was the shortest speech I ever wrote. The room was full of TV cameras and reporters, and Jim walked out and delivered the message:

“The winners tonight are all the people of Hoover, and especially the children.”

Jim and his family moved away, and we lost touch, but my wife and I saw them a few years later in the Uno Pizza restaurant in Orlando. We left the kids to themselves and got a booth for some adult conversation. Hoover High and a middle school had been built, and Spain Park was in the planning stages. We speculated on what Hoover would look like without the new schools.

We remembered how hard it was to convince people that we had to quit fighting and start telling stories. Some had even refused to help us, thinking we had gone crazy or soft. After a while, the conversation fell silent; there was little else to say. We’d moved on.

The kids had won, and not much else mattered.

BirminghamWatch steps into the breach: Veteran journalists provide in-depth local coverage for the city

Posted on February 23, 2017 Written by Carl

By Carl Carter, APR

When I arrived at The Birmingham News with a newly minted journalism degree in the mid ‘70s, one of the first people I got to know was Carol Nunnelley, then covering City Hall. We and dozens of others worked hard on a newspaper that went through four editions a day. There were endless boring meetings, all nighters counting votes, and occasional shouting matches as reporters competed for space and resources for stories they cared about deeply.

After a decade, I bolted for a PR career, but Nunnelley and many others soldiered on. And at a point when most would be content to sit and reminisce, she has once more emerged as a major force in Alabama journalism, as co-founder and editor of BirminghamWatch. It’s an ambitious — maybe even Quixotic — undertaking for anybody, but especially noteworthy for someone who long ago earned her spot in the annals of American journalism.

After a full career capped by eight as managing editor of The Birmingham News, she took on a new challenge with Associated Press Managing Editors, a job that took her across the country, training journalists and building bridges between media and readers. Meanwhile, back home, The Birmingham News was following the national trend for newspapers, cutting back on editions and coverage, reducing staff, and leaving stories uncovered.

Nunnelley wasn’t willing to concede the news business to mediocrity. At least not in her home town. She and two others founded the Alabama Initiative for Independent Journalism, setting it up as a 501(c)3 nonprofit entity, similar to about 100 others around the country, including the widely followed Pro Publica. The AIIJ publishes BirminghamWatch, which — like most nonprofit news organizations — relies largely on philanthropy and reader donations for support, much like Public Radio. The AIIJ also received a welcome grant in August 2016 from the Ethics and Excellence in Journalism Foundation.

The project began with some financial backing from individuals, with experienced journalists who were willing to donate their time to help get it launched. BirminghamWatch published its first story in September 2015 and has never looked back. Key to its operations and success from the very beginning has been another Birmingham News alum, Emily Jones Rushing, who serves as president of the board.

“We try to focus on news that matters, especially on topics that aren’t getting the attention we believe they deserve,” said Nunnelley. “We’re able to focus on the longer term, without the pressure of day to day deadlines. At the same time, we’re seeking just the right balance between beefier, in-depth stories and shorter pieces that might have more immediate reader appeal,” she said.

Education, state and local government, the economy and the environment have been major topics of coverage, but she takes extra pride in the voter guides prepared for the most recent elections. BirminghamWatch partnered for those guides with WBHM 90.3, Weld, B-Metro, Starnes Publishing (publisher of regional newspapers around metro Birmingham), Trussville News, Public Libraries of Jefferson County, and the League of Women Voters. The guides provided key non-partisan information about key races in Shelby and Jefferson counties.

Most recently, BirminghamWatch has established a partnership with Weld to ensure that all meetings of the Birmingham City Council and Jefferson County Commission are staffed. “The people of Birmingham need to know what’s happening in their community, and how it affects their lives,” said Weld Publisher Mark Kelly. “For us, working with Carol and BirminghamWatch is an integral part of our efforts to fulfill that mission.”

Things aren’t perfect. Nothing in media is, these days. Nunnelley is acutely aware of the gaps in sustained coverage of surrounding cities and counties, where many councils, commissions, school boards and other government agencies work without the oversight of any watchdog media.

“There are budget limitations, of course. We have to do what we can based on the personnel available. But we’re continuing to work hard to provide coverage of things that are important for the people who live, work and do businesses in greater Birmingham. We’re getting more traffic at birminghamwatch.org, and we continue to work to earn local support. We’ll continue experimenting with various models for providing sustainable coverage, but we do rely on the financial backing of local individuals, and I think we’ll see more of that support as people get in the habit of relying on our coverage and gain confidence that we’re in this for the long haul,” she said.

As a note, I must point out that while I engage in public relations work for clients, I follow a strict policy of disclosing whether I’m getting paid to write something, and by whom. That is a requirement of the Public Relations Society of America’s Code of Ethics. BirminghamWatch is not a client. They didn’t pay me a dime to write this. BirminghamRaw does not publish sponsored content.

Donations to BirminghamWatch are tax deductible and may be sent to:

Alabama Initiative for Independent Journalism, Inc.
147 Glenview Drive
Birmingham, AL 35213

Grandmom’s lesson: Even with an uncertain future, we don’t have to live in fear

Posted on February 4, 2017 Written by Carl

By Lindsay Fernandes

My grandmom died when I was eighteen years old, and I was in her hospital room when it happened. She had been heavily medicated but responsive. Nodding, blinking, sighing, or squeezing my hand to indicate that she heard us, knew we were there.

My mom, my cousin and I were all three in the room when it happened. There was nothing special about that moment. We were simply three people gathered around a loved one, sitting quietly with our own thoughts. And then there was a burst of air in the room, and an audible creaking, as if the room itself suddenly clenched and released. It was loud, and it was weird. Certainly not a sound or a sensation we had felt before in that room, which had been the center of our world for a solid week.

And then my grandmother gasped, her mouth opened wide in an expression of surprise. Her eyes widened and sharpened, the cloud of medication gone. Her gaze was pinned to the corner of the ceiling. She looked both shocked and happy. Then she blew out a breath, closed her eyes, and was gone. It took another day for her body to stop fighting, but my grandmother was gone. Never again would she respond to our presence.

The three of us present approached one another in the days to come, wanting to confirm what we had experienced. Each of us had the same sensation. The gust of air, the creak, the gasp. The sense that grandmom saw something none of the rest of us could.

As a person of faith, I am absolutely positive what happened that day, and I have no doubts who was present in that room. I believe, with full certainty, that my grandfather and my uncle had come to collect Emma Katherine Smith and usher her into their realm. I call it Heaven. I believe she saw them, and was simply delighted. I believe they saw us, and smiled with a certainty that they would, one day, see us again.

And now I’ll come around to my point.

This week was rough. Rough for me personally. I felt bombarded, shattered, overwhelmed by the struggles of those around me. I have always been one to carry another’s heartache as my own. I’ve lost sleep with worry over a multitude of friends and family who are staring into the chasm of the unknown, terrified to jump, but knowing there’s no way around.

And then I’ve checked the news and guess what I’ve found. More struggle. More heartache. More pain. More suffering. More fear, more dread, more anger, more cruelty. The stripping down, it seems, of every safeguard on our future, from the environment and the very air we breathe to the laws guarding the money we depend on to live.

The future doesn’t seem a very appealing place right now.

Then serendipitously, I happened to have a meeting at my church on a weeknight. This is unusual, because I live across town, and I’m normally at home, being mom, rather than out and about, being Lindsay. So there I was, with what seemed an impossibly heavy heart, consumed with worry about those I love and care for and carry with me, and I found myself in the one place, I realized, I would most love to be.

I found myself in church.

I made my way down to the sanctuary and entered in the pitch black dark. I knelt at the altar and clasped my hands and lifted my head to the simply wooden cross that hung above. Its shadows cast two more crosses on the wall behind, bringing the total of crosses to three. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

So consumed was I that I had no words. I just sat quietly, lifting my head to the crosses, sitting still and listening for the sound of peace. After a while, I began to shake with the weight of my emotion. Then I began to cry, but still there were no words. Just images of every loved one I have who is facing the impossibility of a future in which all that is certain is struggle and pain.

And then it happened. The room around me, the empty sanctuary, moved with an audible creaking sound. As if the whole room suddenly clenched and then released. It was a sound reminiscent of someone standing from a creaky old pew. I wondered, idly, if someone was behind me but I felt no fear. My tears stopped and I turned to look with eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness, but of course no one was there. And yet of course someone was there, and I knew who it was. And I knew that sound because it was one I could never forget.

The very definition of faith is the assurance of things unseen. Things like the future. No matter how fearful we are, no matter how consumed we feel with dread and sadness and desperation, my faith assures me that God has already begun moving things behind the scenes, things we don’t expect and cannot predict, to catch us when we fall. To boost us over that chasm and deliver us safely to the other side.

Sometimes we just have to be still, be with Him, and listen quietly. And then we can be brave.

I’m not scared of Donald Trump. Or radical Islamic terrorists. Here’s why.

Posted on January 29, 2017 Written by Carl

By Carl Carter

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had conversations with a number of you, mostly in your 30s, who for some reason have looked to me for help in dealing with the likelihood of policies that do violence to both our constitution and our people.

My message in all of these conversations has been, “Hang in there. It’ll be ok.”

I don’t say that just because I’m a cockeyed optimist. I’m not wearing blinders. I’ve just seen things you haven’t. Time and again, I’ve seen one political party or the other emerge victorious, with its leaders strutting and thumping their chests while the losers retreated. And I’ve seen things reversed almost overnight. I’ve seen times of real danger — not the imagined threats we fret over these days.

Let me try to put this in perspective. When I was born, it had been a mere seven years since more than 60 million people — 3 percent of the world’s population — had been killed. Seven years isn’t much time. (Consider that we’re still wringing hands over one day of attacks that killed fewer than 3,000. And that was 16 years ago.) We flexed our muscles and invaded Afghanistan for revenge, killing about 104,000 people and injuring another 41,000, according to the Watson Institute of International & Public Affairs at Brown University. Just for good measure, we invaded Iraq as well (for reasons that were never clear), resulting in the deaths of about 165,000 Iraqi civilians.

In most contexts, you could at least call it a wash and move on. But we can’t seem to do that, because we have too many people who want us to be afraid. They use fear as a tool to manipulate us.

As a result, folks are so paranoid that someone wearing a turban might kill somebody that we are shutting out millions of children, engineers, scientists and others who are fleeing genocide. Just in case one of them should turn out to be a bad guy who wants to blow somebody up.

Guess what? We already have a lot of bad guys who want to kill people, right here among us.

But I digress.

Seven years, 60 million people. And yet, I was born into middle-class home during a time of peace and prosperity. We elected the general who led us to victory in World War II, and the warrior also knew how to make peace. He stayed clear of Viet Nam. He refused to be baited into a war over the Suez Canal. Our daddies built factories and nice homes and made babies. Our mamas made dinner.

I also lived in a city where lines were drawn on a map, showing where black people were allowed to live. We had separate restrooms, separate churches, separate schools. I’ve had friends whose homes and church were bombed simply because they were black. I’ve seen ministers chased out of their congregations because they wanted to allow black people to worship.

I watched my parents store water in the basement because they were so afraid of a nuclear attack. I participated in drills where elementary school students were sent to the basement to “duck and cover” in preparation of the bombs that were sure to come. One day, we were all required to walk (or run) home from school to get a note from our parents noting how long it took us to get there. Apparently, our nation’s leaders felt it was important to know how long it would take us all to get home to die there rather than in the school.

The threat, of course, was very real. We came very close to an all-out nuclear war at various times. But we found a way through it, like we always do. We lived moved on.

This is why I’m not afraid of Isis. It’s why I’m not afraid of Donald Trump. Sure, things look bleak right now. But they always do when you’re in the middle of one of these strange periods of history.

Excesses in one direction create counter-forces that keep things in check. We are already seeing that. As I write this, I have friends at the airport marching in support of immigrant rights. Judges are already beginning to roll back unconstitutional executive orders, and the courts will keep things tied up at least for a couple of years. Members of Congress are seeing demonstrations like we haven’t seen in decades, and they’re already starting to say, “not so fast.”

Know what happens in a couple of years? Mid-term elections. Remember that the party holding the presidency usually loses in those elections. What about the things we can’t anticipate? It wouldn’t take much. If the president goes too far, it’s not hard to imagine a handful of Republicans agreeing to caucus with Democrats — a move that, overnight, would put a stop to much of the mischief that might otherwise be done. I’ve seen stranger things.

At least 5,000 marched in Birmingham last week. It’s already making a difference.

Then there are the things we can’t even imagine. I’ve seen a lot of those over the years. Watergate and related scandals took down both the president and vice president, elevating a wise Gerald Ford to the presidency, where he began taking measures to bring about healing.

You’re scared. I get that. If you’re just looking at today’s headlines, it’s only rational to be frightened. But what happens today is only a blink in the long arc of our history. Time and again, I’ve discovered that what we’re seeing now won’t last. About the time we decide we’ve settled into a new reality, it disappears. And we rarely see that change coming.

All we can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. Working for justice. Protecting the vulnerable. Putting our faith into practice. And believing.

Seriously, guys. It’s going to be OK.

A second generation for Birmingham Raw

Posted on January 28, 2017 Written by Carl

By Carl Carter

Birmingham Raw grew out of my desire to tell some of the stories of our city’s history. For people born before 1980 or so, many of these stories may help us understand where we are now, and perhaps even where we might go.

As I write this, one week into a new and controversial administration, I find myself surrounded by people who fear what is ahead. The dangers are real, and there is much work to be done. But Birmingham — like our nation — has been through some very dark times, and I’ve seen us emerge stronger. I’ve seen hate turn to love and despair turn into a quiet determination to create a better future.

Lindsay Fernandes

My generation, that of the baby boomers, is fading and sadly divided. Many who once stood for racial equality and social justice now listen more to the voices of hysteria and rage. And many of the next generation find themselves alarmed at what they see, and they fear that we will never regain our moral footing.

I understand — and reject — the pessimism so prevalent in my generation and the next. I have long argued that anger and fear are the strings used to manipulate us, and I refuse to give in to either. I believe in the future because I’ve seen the past. And because I see remarkable talent, drive and strength in the next generation. It is a better one than mine.

Which brings me to the point: I am proud to welcome my daughter, Lindsay Carter Fernandes, as co-host of Birmingham Raw. Lindsay is an exceptional storyteller in her own right, and hers is the kind of voice that can show us the way to a better future by more clearly showing us the realities of our present.

I know you’ll enjoy her stories as much as I do.

Why Martin Luther King’s birthday matters to me

Posted on January 16, 2017 Written by Carl

I was born in Birmingham, where laws designated where you could live based on your color. My grandfather, a klansman, lived a few blocks away, across the street from the notorious Bull Connor, who was the Police Commissioner who ordered that fire hoses and German shepherds be loosed on black children who dared march. My father drew up the routes for the city buses, which had clear lines designating who could sit in the front and who had to go to the rear. He got regular phone calls from Connor, who wanted to make sure segregation laws were being enforced. I tagged along when my father was assigned as a “Color Guard” to keep people the wrong color from worshiping in our Baptist Church. I never had a black classmate until 9th grade.

I remember watching a little black girl squirm and cry downtown, and asking my mother what was wrong with her. Mother shushed me and explained that the restrooms were for whites only.

I enrolled in the University of Alabama a mere decade after George Wallace stood in the door of Foster Auditorium to prevent two black students from enrolling. Wallace was still in office when I began my career, and I covered him from time to time.

In other words, today isn’t about ancient history for me. As recently as a year and a half ago, when we put our house on the market, a friend warned me that “you might end up selling it to a black.” (Never mind that I’d had a black next-door neighbor for 25 years.)

I know people who want to go back to those days, but they’re polite to black people and swear that there’s not a racist bone in their bodies. But manners have nothing to do with it. Many want to quit fussing with such inconveniences as enforcing the laws giving all citizens the right to vote, live wherever they can afford to, or get an education.

Every advance we have made has been a result of public policy and enforcement of our laws. The Emancipation Proclamation. Eisenhower’s nationalization of the Arkansas National Guard, which was preventing enforcement of court desegregation orders. The Civil Rights Bill of 1964, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

Every one of these laws and actions was bitterly opposed by my parents and theirs, and by good people of like mind who would insist that they’re not racist because, after all, they’re nice to black people and have black friends.

The generation before mine raised people my age who, today, are talking very much like my parents and grandparents did.

There are many issues on which I disagree with people around me, but I keep my mouth shut on most of them. On race, I cannot do this. My faith and my conscience do not afford me the luxury of doing so.

I hope you’ll understand. It’s not up to me to call anybody a racist, and I won’t. But I have lived long enough, and seen enough, to feel an obligation to say out loud that my family was on the wrong side of history at every turn. And there are people who, even today, remain on the wrong side of history. I’ll leave it to others to attach labels.

Season’s Greetings and Happy Holidays. And no, I’m not declaring war on your faith.

Posted on December 4, 2016 Written by Carl

Christians began the new liturgical year last Sunday, and today was the second Sunday of Advent. In the next few weeks, Muslims will celebrate Mawlid-al-Nabi (birthday of Mohammad) on 12/11. My Jewish friends will celebrate Chanukah starting 12/25, the same day most Christians celebrate Christmas (or the first of the 12 days of Christmas), and then Epiphany.

Orthodox Christians won’t get around to Christmas until January 7. Pagans will observe the Winter Solstice on 12/21. For some of these occasions, I’m not even sure what the proper greeting should be. Faking it can backfire. As a Christian Gentile, it seems both silly and patronizing to say Happy Chaunkah. Trying to dispense greetings you don’t understand can also lead to tragically comic results. I can imagine a well-meaning Hindu checking her spring calendar and wishing me a Merry Lent — hardly appropriate for the season of fasting and repentance that begins with ashes.

So I say to all of you that if I’m not sure which tradition you observe, and on which day, it is still my wish that that you experience happiness of the next few weeks. So I may wish you Happy Holidays or Season’s Greetings. It’s my way of wishing you joy, not declaring war on your faith. If I’m sure you share my tradition, I may even wish you a Merry Christmas.

Can we all live with that?

How Birmingham got the turn lane

Posted on June 5, 2016 Written by Carl

Loren Carter (better known as LK) was obsessed with traffic. It was his job. He had started his career as a street car driver and, after 22 years, was responsible for routing and scheduling all Birmingham bus routes.

He made some changes that mattered. For years, the buses ran in circular routes on either the east or the west side of town. The logic was simple: The buses were there to take you downtown. It was pretty much assumed that nobody in East Lake had any business in Ensley, and vice versa. So if you wanted to go past downtown, you had to get a transfer and stand downtown waiting on one of the buses that served the other side of town.

Dad never thought that made much sense, so he sat down at his big drafting table at the transit company and re-drew the routes to go from one end of town to the other. At last, you could ride from Huffman to Wylam without stopping.

But his greatest source of pride was the turn lane. It seems that in those days, traffic in Birmingham ground to a halt every time somebody had to make a left turn, because that vehicle blocked the left lane until it had an opening to turn. Dad was especially aware of this because many of these vehicles were buses. The city was growing, and it was turning into a serious problem.

On a visit to Memphis, Dad had seen a dedicated lane in the middle of the street that allowed cars to get out of the flow of traffic while they waited for an opening to turn left. It just happened that one of his buddies was Birmingham traffic engineer Ben Robinson. Dad called Ben one day and said, “Let’s go to Memphis. I want to show you something.” They drove up there, and Dad pointed to a turn lane and said, “See? We need to do that.”

A week later, Birmingham’s first turn lane was installed on First Avenue.

Years later, I’d grown up (more or less) into a skeptical Birmingham News reporter. One day I had to interview Robinson and asked him about the tale, about which I had developed my doubts. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Lemme tell you about that, son. See, it used to be that any time you turned left, you held up everybody behind you. Then your old man called one day and said, ‘Let’s go to Memphis…’”

Birmingham has always had its problems, but every now and then, somebody has a notion and makes things better.

Services for Virginia Mauck Hamm Haigler, mother of Vivienne Hamm Nichols, set for Monday, March 7

Posted on March 5, 2016 Written by Carl

I’ve written often about my days growing up in Woodlawn/Crestwood (what they now call the Crestwood North area). Part of that experience, which seems rare today, was the role many of the parents played in the lives of the kids in the neighborhood. Most of those parents are gone now, and we lost one of the very special ones this weekend. My dear friend Vivienne Hamm’s home was one where we were all welcome, and due to a snafu, they were unable to get the obituary in to AL.com in time for Sunday. I’m pleased to post it here to give people an easy place to link to it.

SERVICES

SUNDAY, MARCH 6, 2016 – A memorial service will be held at 4 PM at the St. Augustine Chapel at Alexian Village, 437 Alexian Way, Signal Mountain, TN 37377.

MONDAY, MARCH 7, 2016 – Visitation begins at 10; 30 AM followed by the funeral service at 11;30 AM Johns-Ridout’s Funeral Home, Valley Chapel, 1800 Oxmoor Road, Homewood, AL 35209.

Burial will at Forest Hills Cemetery, 431 60th Street North, Birmingham, AL.

The obituary, written by Vivienne Nichols

On the night of March 2, 2016, Virginia Mauck Hamm Haigler passed away.

She was born November 22, 1919, in Birmingham, AL, to Lotoise Plant and Lester Charles Mauck. The years within her biological family were happy ones and she adored her parents and brother, Charles Mauck, always and beyond their deaths.

The foundation of Virginia’s Christian faith was nurtured within their Woodlawn household and the tenets and ministries of Methodism.

Virginia was faithful to the fellowship of Woodlawn UMC for seventy years, serving as children’s teacher, president of the Gladys Kirby Sunday School Class, and president of the United Methodist Women.

From 1998-2006, Virginia was a member of Mountain Chapel UMC, Birmingham and after moving to Signal Mountain, TN, she joined Signal Mountain United Methodist.

Virginia loved the church universal, and it came to her in profound ways, especially in the waning months of her life. In that time, Virginia was blessed by the ministries of the pastor and congregation of Signal Mountain UMC, as well as visitors from Signal Crest UMC. Though she missed the joy of meeting them, two missions of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, Matteson, IL deeply touched her heart. A beloved Episcopal priest brought the Holy Sacraments to her bedside and she was daily blessed and tended by the staff of the Catholic Alexian Brothers mission. A host of multi-denominational, ordinary saints, present in family members, friends and caregivers rose to the realm of extraordinary in the ways they became, for her, the hands of Christ. A depth of gratitude is felt for her loyal caregivers, Stacey York, Sherry Motley, Reta Owens, physicians and the staff of Alexian Brothers.

On March 27, 1948, Virginia Mauck married Thomas Henry Hamm, Jr. Together they raised three children- Tom, Greg and Vivienne. She was the strong and sacrificial shoulders of her household-a devoted steward of all the blessings bestowed upon her.

Virginia lived the spiritual gift of hospitality and delighted in children. On her deathbed, she gave precise instruction to “Teach the children that Jesus loves them. Teach them reading, writing, arithmetic. And dance.”

She loved dance, whether a simple polka in the living room or a waltz at the Philharmonic Ball in Vienna, Austria. She belonged to several Birmingham dance clubs -Talisman, Lamplighters and Sophisticates.

Virginia was grateful for things of her heritage. Her ancestral home in the Shenendoah Valley at Luray, Virginia. She revered the values placed upon education and hard work. She was a graduate of Woodlawn High School and attended Birmingham Southern College. Virginia was innately curious and an avid learner until the time of her death. She belonged to literary clubs and even when macular degeneration robbed her vision, she listened to audio novels and readings every day until her last.

Her work ethic was one of complete dedication. She worked six years in the pediatric office of Dr. Jerome Weaver. She was office manager, over thirty years, for Dr. John W. Harris.

In 1977, within weeks of one another, Virginia lost both her husband of 29 years and her middle child, Gregory Mark, of only 26 years of age. Her grief was deep, but she allowed the losses to add a gentler dimension to her compassionate nature.

After 10 years of widowhood, Virginia married the man who had been her first date, Collins ‘Cotton’ Haigler. Theirs was a charmed life filled with joys of family, travel, and perfect companionship. They moved to Chattanooga. Cotton passed away, April 10, 2014 and was sorely missed.

Virginia’s stories of life in ‘The Magic City’ held a wealth of knowledge and intrigue. Her loved ones were her finest audience and will evermore cherish the things she told them.

Virginia was strong, intelligent – a great light – whose presence radiated warmth. She was a torch-bearer for the greatest generation. And like a flame, she often burned herself out bringing light to others.

Virginia is survived by her son, Thomas Mauck Hamm and his wife, Diane Nordan.

She is also survived by her daughter, Vivienne Hamm Nichols and her husband David.

Her grandchildren were her ‘angels.’ They are:

Melanie Hamm Toole (Frank), Thomas Aaron Hamm (Jennifer), and John Nordan Hamm (Jennifer), Nicholas Richardson Nichols, IV, (Ashley), David Stonestreet Nichols, Jr. (Elizabeth) and Ellen Virginia Nichols Norris (Field).

Virginia was blessed with 14 great-grandchildren.

Virginia is also fondly remembered by a host nieces and nephews and her “unofficially adopted son” John Harris. Virginia adored a host of Woodlawn ‘boys and girls’ and present friends of her daughter’s were especially dear to her. She declared shortly before her death, ‘I have surely been loved.”

Virginia was grateful for these kinds of love in her life. She never stopped growing in her quest for enlightenment and in the desire to give and receive love.

« Previous Page