Profiled In Courage

It was a slow day at work, so I decided to go through the old newspaper archives. You can do this when you're a sort of paranormal historian, which most people aren't. I essentially created my own career; there are no rules. I was wearing a T-shirt with aliens on it, captioned It's cool. We come in peace.
I got into the library's microfilm and began looking through, hoping for some idea for a newspaper column or tour. There's always something---The library where I work has several different newspapers, and they go all the way back to 1813. I don't worry about running out of ideas much.
A few minutes later, I was at the desk, showing an 1877 article to my co-worker Barb.
"Check this out," I said. "I got a neat one here."
The article, from the Clinton Democrat, was headlined What To Do With The Indians.
Barb skimmed through it. "Oh, my god."
"Yeah. A man named Isaac Packer had a farm in Woodward Township, and he found out that it was built on an Indian burial ground. So he ground the bones up and used them to fertilize his corn."
"You're not actually going to write about this, are you?"
"Well, I'm about fifty percent on that. I'd have to be sensitive. I don't even know where this is yet. Maybe I'll save it for a Halloween column. No way there's not a whole bunch of pissed-off Indian ghosts over there."
I looked up the name Isaac Packer in the index file. He was listed---There was an obit, and a Historic Resource Survey Form. with properties, that's helpful. I pulled the form and looked it over.
Oh....I know this place.
It was in Woodward Township, midway up the Farrandsville Road. I'd biked past it a bunch of times; there was a barn and an old farmhouse, with an ancient lime kiln by the road.
And, apparently, the remains of ground-up Native Americans all over the fields.
Just another day at the office.

"Sissy very upset," Paul Matthew said, sitting at the table.
"Sissy was very upset?" I said. "Why?"
"Bad man made Sissy upset."
I looked at my daughter, who was getting Paul some milk from the refrigerator. She shrugged. "I wasn't going to tell you," she said. "A guy yelled at me while we were down at Hoberman Park today."
Paul can't keep a secret. "What happened?"
"We were on the ball field, and there were some tracks from bikes. I was letting Pip run. A guy in a truck came, and he started shouting at me. Told me to get a job and pay taxes like everyone else, that it was obvious I don't work. He said that he has to work all day, and then he has to come and fix the field because of people like me. We weren't even doing anything!"
She sat down at the table.
"You got profiled, hon."
"What?"
"He took one look at a woman in a wheelchair and a little black child, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that you were unemployed vandals." I was feeling myself get angrier as I said it. "I'm calling City Hall."
"Dad, no. You don't need to do anything."
"This is wrong," I said. "I do need to do something."
I walked into the other room and picked up the phone. I dialed City Hall and got the Parks Department.I said,"I'd like to report something. This is Lou; you may know my work with the Express and the Record. My children were at the ball field in Hoberman Park today and a man came and harassed them. He said he was working, doing maintenance, and he told me daughter to get a job and stop being a drain on society."
"Okay," said the parks director.
"My daughter is in a wheelchair, and my son is black. I'm angry about this, and I'd like something done. Because right now, what I'm tempted to do is write a scathing newspaper column about how my children were treated by a maintenance guy." I don't bring out that routine much, but I'm not above it.
"Well, sir, I agree that they shouldn't have been treated that way," said the park director. "That was out of line. Our ball fields are maintained by the Little League, with volunteers. I'm going to get in touch with the Little League right now. We will get to the bottom of this, and reprimand the person responsible."
"Thank you, sir," I said. "I appreciate your taking this seriously."
I don't pull strings a lot, but I do have them to pull.

At the library, the next day, I sat down at my desk and wrote an editorial about the incident. Being able to write can be like a super-power. It's nothing I ever dreamed of as a kid, and it's not exactly X-ray vision, but it has an impact. The trick is in knowing how to use it effectively. When it comes down to it, talking to fish isn't anything special, either.

Everyone is aware that I love Lock Haven. I talk about it, I’ve written about Lock Haven many times. I’m proud of this community, and flattered to have become such a well-known part of it. It’s my home, and I feel happy and safe here.

Except for those rare occasions when I don’t.

Clinton County has wonderful people. The majority of them are lovely, great people that I’m pleased to live with. But, like everywhere else, we do have the occasional unpleasant person.

My children encountered one of those recently.

On May 12, my daughter took my son out to Hoberman Park. They were running around in the baseball field beside Prospect Street. Now, for context, my daughter is in her thirties and in a wheelchair. She babysits my son while I’m at work. He’s almost three, and he’s African-American; my wife and I adopted him when he was less than a day old.

The field was a bit wet from the heavy rains recently. There were some tracks on the field, because some of the local children like to ride their bikes there. So my daughter and my son were having a good time, just playing outside.

Then a man showed up. He was talking to someone on his cell phone as he approached. He said,”I have to go, there’s a b**ch on the field.”

Then he began to shout at them and berate them. He told my daughter that she should get a job and pay taxes like everyone else. “Get off your a** and get a job, because it’s obvious you don’t work,” he said. He said that he works all day and then has to come and get the field ready for the children to play on, and blamed them for the tracks on the field. He was rude and cruel to them both.

They both came home crying.

“Sissy very upset,” my son told me later.

I called to make a complaint with the city, and spoke with Jack Bailey, the director of the parks. He informed me that the fields are maintained by the Little League, and he called the person in charge of that. Both the city government and the Little League have been very supportive and helpful, taking the incident seriously. They’ve assured me that they’re going to look into what happened and reprimand the person responsible.

And the person, whoever he is….I’m ashamed to share a community with him. This was bigotry. It was subtle, but it was bigotry. He took one look at a handicapped woman and a black child, and jumped to the incorrect conclusion that they are vandals leeching off society.

I am angry. I love my city, but I am angry at this person. Days later, my son is still afraid to go back to the park, and he’s still talking to me about the “bad man who upset Sissy.” Both the city of Lock Haven and the Little League have been very helpful about this whole thing, and as I write this, they’re still looking into it.

Most of the people in this area are wonderful people, very warm and supportive. But somewhere out there, there’s a man who hurt my children and made them cry.

I hope that, eventually, he learns the decency to feel ashamed.

Bigots will come to fear my journalism powers.
I typed it up, and looked it over. Then I sent it in to the Express, the Record, the Sun-Gazette, and every other local paper I could think of.

The piece ran the next morning. I read it over while I was drinking my coffee, Paul playing at the table. "Need bagel please, Daddy."
"Okay, little man, I'll make you a bagel. You want cream cheese on that?"
"Yah. I like cream cheese."
The phone rang. It was the parks director.
"Hello, Lou," he said. "I saw your column this morning. I'd like to thank you for giving credit to the city and the Little League."
"Well, my problem's not with them," I said. "You guys have been very good about this whole thing, and I appreciate that."
"I was calling to tell you that we know who this was," he said. "After seeing the newspaper today, he called and confessed. The head of the Little League says he's going to be dealt with pretty severely. I could have him call and apologize to your daughter, if you'd like."
"I'll ask her," I said,"But I know my daughter, and I think she'll say that's not necessary. You guys have been square with me, and I'm content to let you handle it."
"The head of the Little League isn't happy about this," he said. "He's going to be pretty harsh; he told me this guy will get worse than a talking-to. He doesn't like how this makes the Little League look."
"I don't really blame him."
"Well, I'll keep you updated. If there's anything else we can help you with, feel free to call."
"Thank you. I will."
I hung up and set the phone down. "Guess what, little guy? Daddy got the mean man from the park."
"Good," said Paul. "We play now?"
"Yeah, we can play, little man," I said. "You want to hear about an Indian burial ground?"