Merton testing the waters of freedom . . .
I was a bit dazed by the momentousness of it, and by Pop's own great generosity. Because, after all, he really meant it that way. What he was trying to do was to arrange everything so that even if he were ruined, we would be able to take care of ourselves. Fortunately, he was never ruined.
That day at Oakham, Pop crowned his generosity and his recognition of my maturity by an altogether astounding concession. He not only told me he was in favor of my smoking, but even bought me a pipe. I was fifteen, mind you, and Pop had always hated smoking anyway. Besides, it was forbidden by the rules of the school--rules which I had been systematically breaking all that year, more for the sake of asserting my independence than for the pleasure of lighting and relighting those cold, biting pipefuls of Rhodesian cut-plug.
When the holidays came there was another big change. It was decided that I would no longer spend my holidays with Aunt Maud or other relatives in the suburbs outside of London. My godfather, an old friend of Father's from New Zealand, who was by now a Harley Street specialist, offered to let me stay at his place in town when I was in London, and that meant that most of the day and night I was more or less free to do what I liked.
Tom--my godfather--was to be the person I most respected and admired and consequently the one who had the greatest influence on me at this time in my life. He too gave me credit for being more intelligent and mature than I was, and this of course pleased me very much. He was later to find out that his trust in me was misplaced.
Life in the flat where Tom and his wife lived as very well-ordered and amusing. You got breakfast in bed, served by a French maid, on a small tray: coffee or chocolate in a tiny pot, toast or rolls, and, for me, fried eggs. After breakfast, which came in at about nine, I knew I would have to wait a little to get a bath, so I would stay in bed for an hour or so more reading a novel by Evelyn Waugh or somebody like that. Then I would get up and take my bath and get dressed and go out and look for some amusement--walk in the park, or go to a museum, or go to some gramophone shop and listen to a lot of hot records--and then buy one, to pay for the privilege of listening to all the rest. I used to go to Levy's, on the top floor of one of those big buildings in the crescent of Regent Street, because they imported all the latest Victors and Brunswicks and Okehs from America, and I would lock myself up in one of those little glass-doored booths, and play all the Duke Ellingtons and Louis Armstrongs and the old King Olivers and all the other things I have forgotten. Basin Street Blues, Beale Street Blues, Saint James Infirmary, and all the other places that had blues written about them: all these I suddenly began to know much of by indirection and woeful hearsay, and I guess I lived vicariously in all the slums in all the cities of the South: Memphis and New Orleans and Birmingham, places which I have never yet seen. I don't know where those streets were, but I certainly knew something true about them, which I found out on that top floor in Regent Street and in my study at Oakham.
Merton, in his adult life, was very aware of the struggle of the Civil Rights Movement. Perhaps the little passage above hints at his coming awareness of the plight of African Americans in the United States, with his reference to the "slums in all the cities of the South." When Merton became a public figure, he wrote poems about the children of Harlem and the bombing of a Birmingham church. And, in 1968, he was planning a religious retreat with a man he greatly admired--Martin Luther King, Jr. Merton envisioned this event happening in April of that year. On April 4, 1968, King was assassinated in Memphis. Two days later, Merton wrote in his journal: "The murder of M. L. King . . . lay on the top of the traveling car like an animal, a beast of the apocalypse." For the Trappist monk, King's death "finally confirmed all apprehensions--the feelings that 1968 is a beast of a year . . . Is the Christian message of love a pitiful delusion?" Thomas Merton would die eight months later. December 10, 1968. Electrocuted by a faulty fan in his room while attending a conference in Bangkok.
Minneapolis right now is burning because of the death of George Floyd, an African American man, at the hands of a Minneapolis police officer with, by all accounts, an established history of violent behavior. On social media, the pandemic has been pushed aside by this story, another in a long, sad line of stories about people of color murdered by members of law enforcement. And riots have broken out in other parts of the United States, as well.
I didn't post last night because I didn't know who to respond to these events. As a privileged, white male, I think my words in support for Black Lives Matter ring a little hollow. I have no idea what it is like to live as a person of color in my country. I will never experience the fear that a young, African American man experiences being pulled over by the police. It is simply not in my cultural vocabulary.
That doesn't stop me from being sickened and outraged by the video of George Floyd's murder. (Confession: I couldn't bring myself to watch the entire thing.) And it doesn't stop me from wanting justice for the crime. In a class I taught this past semester, I had some of my students talk about being racially profiled, stopped by law enforcement, not because they were breaking the law, but because their skin colors clashed with the neighborhood they were in. Institutional racism is alive and well and deadly in the United States of America. We all know that.
Now, I don't think violence is the answer to anything. George Floyd's killing was horrific. The looting and burning on the streets of Minneapolis and across the nation is disturbing. However, these riots are the direct result of a country that is built upon a class system that exploits people of color. An economy that is designed to keep poor people poor and rich people rich. A President of the United States who praises white supremacists and call protesters in Minneapolis "thugs." And a criminal justice system that, consciously or unconsciously, targets people of color.
No, I am not saying all members of law enforcement are racist. And no, I am not condoning in any way the burning of buildings or the looting of stores. Fighting violence with more violence doesn't work. That's not coming from my white privileged mouth. That comes from Martin Luther King, Jr.: "Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars . . . Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."
My country is a long ways away from everyone joining hands and singing "Kumbaya." And I say "my country" because I know that I am wrapped up in all of it. I'm white. I've never been racially profiled. Police officers don't follow me down the street because of the color of my skin. If the tables were turned, and I was given the opportunity to live as an African American male in the United States, I wouldn't take it. Because I know what kind of struggles black people face in this society. Yet, I have complacently gone through my life, giving lip service to racial justice and equality, without really doing anything about it. That makes me part of the problem.
I am not trying to change anyone's mind about anything with this blog post. I am simply taking ownership of my role in a racist system. Until everyone does that, people of color will continue to die, and cities will continue to burn. Plain truth. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Thomas Merton probably would have raised his hand to that and said "Amen."
This blog post is my attempt to not stay silent. To talk about something that matters. Black lives DO matter. George Floyd's life mattered. I say that with love in my heart, not hate. Because, as Martin and Thomas knew, love is the greatest miracle and can move mountains.
And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.
Work Reference: Lefevere, Patricia. "Merton and King: spiritual brothers who never had a chance to meet." National Catholic Reporter. 4 April, 2018. accessed: 31 May, 2020.
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