Do Undocumented Kids Have Constitutional Rights?

photo courtesy of USAG Livorno PA / flickr

Riffling through the pages of The New Yorker, I almost dropped my teeth. Jill Lapore, teacher at Harvard has written a chilling article about immigrant students in Texas. It seems that four families  from Mexico without documented papers saw their sixteen children turned away from a public school in Tyler, Texas. “On the first day of school,” she writes , “Rosario Robles …walked her five children to Bonner Elementary, where she was met by the principal, who asked for her children’s birth certificates, and, when she couldn’t provide them, put her and the kids in his car and drove them home.”

Wait, wait, I thought. They are turning away little children dressed for school because their parents are not fully documented. Ms. Lapore writes that these parents have jobs, work, pay rent, owned cars and pay taxes. Yet their children cannot go to school. In 1975 it seems that Texas passed a law allowing public schools to bar undocumented immigrants. So in 1977 Tyler’s school board worried that their town would become as haven for immigrants driven from other towns insisted that undocumented children be kicked out ofd the city’s schools unless their parents paid a thousand dollars a year per child. Of course these families could not afford this. 

This struggle goes on a cross this country. The point: What kind of a people are we? What kind of a country do we have today? Read the article and weep. We still have much work to do to fulfill the dream of what America is supposed to be.

photo by Charles Edward Miller / flickr

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Happy Birthday Brother

Gene and his beloved Pepper

He came roaring into the world on September 23, 1939. Whew. He's done a lot since that time. He finished High School. Fell in love with Charlotte. Got married in September. Worked at Fort Benning for a long time. Some time in there he built his own house. Still standing. Solid as a rock. Swimming pool and all.

Gene and family

He left Fort Benning  and worked for the Post Office. Sorta retired from there after 37 years. He started doing Income Tax for a few folk. My, my he has helped so many people through the years.  I kept telling him to charge more. He wouldn't. He just wanted to help people and has helped so many people through the years. Even as he has been very sick--he has helped over 500 people this year with their taxes. He gets tax forms from all over the country.

Gene and best friend Peddie

He and his great, great help-meet Charlotte have raised four children and they have 11grandchildren. I could write a whole book about her. 

His battles with cancer started somewhere around 10 years ago. And he has fooled all the doctors. He has fought cancer after cancer and is still here. He has been having a hard time these last few years. But he just will not give up.

I've got a lot of memories. The times he dragged me off to Biloxi and laughed as I lost and lost. But one of my favorite memories is the trip just the two of us took to the Caribbean. Fun...fun...fun. Night after night we sat in the ship's theatre and enjoyed the karaoke as people sang on the stage. The crowd every night asked one particular man to sing. And they would yell, "Bill sing 'I Believe I could fly...' . And the crowd would grow quiet and wistful as he would sing. Night after night he would touch something deep down in all our lives. Despite who we were and whatever had happened we wanted to believe we really could make it. The singer, there in the darkness sang for us all, "I believe I could fly..."

As you turn 79 brother...Happy Birthday. Enjoy your day--you deserve some enjoyment right now. And guess what, Gene--I think the man on the stage on the ship was right: I believe you really can fly.

The early days--Gene and Charlotte and their boat. 

Gene and Charlotte in Columbus, Ga - Home

Gene and Charlotte

Gene in Caribbean

Just Gene

Wedding time for kids

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Dear Mr. Trump

photo by Kim Haughton / flickr

I am trying hard not to be political in these blog pieces. In these days it is not easy for me. As Pastor I never told the congregation how to vote. I did talk about a multitude of issues that Christians should be concerned about. I tried to reach out to Democrats and Republicans and people who did not care about politics at all. Sometimes it was hard to deal with the rantings of some. Thank God most of their anger was not directed at me--but sometimes I was in the hot seat. The great George Buttrick used to stay that the Pastor is the lightning rod for the frustrations of the people. And I believe his words are true.

And yet sometimes I cannot keep silent about some things that are going on. When Mr. Trump was elected President I wrote a column that appeared in the local paper. What I said in essence: Okay, I did not vote for our new President. Some of his statements on the campaign trail frightened me. But I wrote  that I did know that once someone becomes President that the burden of these heavy responsibilities might just change Mr. Trump. I said: Let's be fair--let us give him the benefit of the doubt. After all he is the President and deserves some respect.

That was then--but this is now. And after trying very hard to stand with this President--I simply cannot do this. President Trump took an oath to be the President of all the people. The beginning word  is "we" in the Declaration of Independence. We the people. Mr. Trump pledged that cold January afternoon to be President of all the people. That is part of his job description. I think he has forgotten the pledge he made that day. Today it is not "we the people" but it is his base. His fans. Those that support him get his love and affection and support. I belong to a very large crowd that feels ignored and really despised because I do not support so many of the things the President stands for.

His harangues on Twitter and before the microphone directs his anger toward many people he feels are not his fans. The list of his tirades are seemingly endless. NFL, Hillary, Obama, Mr. Muller, Amazon, Harley-Davidson, the Mayor of Puerto Rico, the FBI, the CIA, illegal immigrants, Muslims, Mexicans, Canada, the sick and dying John McCain. We could also add to that list a multitude of leaders all over there world.

The cruelty of our President is one of the largest complaints I have. He has made fun of people with disabilities, he has called Mexicans and so many others rapists and murderers. We have 8,000 young immigrant people who have dreamed of getting an education and becoming citizens of our country. He has blocked this effort and never thinks what it means to these whose dreams are shattered by our government. Under the banner of Homeland Security he has ripped children, even babies from their parents at the border. Many of these people fled horrific conditions to find a place of safety and peace. They are all turned away as if they were all terrorists. Over 500 of their children have yet to be placed with their parents. He cannot face the fact that thousands have lost their lives in the stormy days of Puerto Rico. Not only has he demeaned his hand-picked attorney general but continues to treat this man and so many others with disrespect and cruelty. Even after he has dismissed people like Mr. Comey, the FBI Director he continues to call them names and insults and questions their patriotism.

Doris Goodwin has said that those that work for him know that "royalty loyalty is a one way street." Mr. Trump does not understand genuine commitment to his staff. He wonders why so many of the people he has surrounded himself with seem disloyal. Mr. Woodward's book, Fear tells of many that work closely with him know that his trust and loyalty only runs one way.

More than 5,000 lies the President has told have been documented by many. When truth is ignored and any disagreements called "fake news" we are in a serious time. Our children are told to tell the truth. Our very foundations rest on the pillar of truth. Mr. Trump's lawyers do not want him to testify before the Mueller hearings because they say he will not tell the truth. What kind of a President do we have that cannot be truthful?

Chaos reigns in this country. We are a divided people. Looking back at our stormy history

photo by Alisdare Hickson / flickr

we have been here before. Many times. Our whole history as a nation tells of ups and downs and injustices and days when we were not our best. Many times our citizens have taken to the streets. What every President is called to do is to help shape us into a united people.  Many of our Presidents have failed at this task. Mr. Trump has taken the divisions that he inherited from so many and made our situation worse. Every day there seems to be another ugly Tweet or angry action from the White House. This chaos spreads like a poison across the nation.

Strong leaders care for people. They admit their mistakes. They do not claim infallibility. Everything is not about them. Most of us run away from those that can only say: me...me...me. Strong leaders are not braggarts. They let their records stand for themselves.

I love this country. I would not want to live any other place. I want our President to be our President. I want to respect and be proud of the accomplishments of the common good. I want a leader who does not bang the fear drum over and over. Social media has not helped us really. Every action is instant and "breaking news" is in exclamation marks no matter how small.

A very wise Pastor was asked what quality above all the others should a congregation look for in a Pastor. The minister replied with one word: character. This is what we long for in all of our leaders. We don't need to hurl insults at our President. But on our better days all of us want the leader of the free world to have unquestioned character.

We will survive Mr. Trump. We have survived other poor leaders. But wise people learn from their history. Let us determine that whoever leads us in the future will be someone with integrity and character. As we honored John McCain we did not pay tribute to a saint. His feet were as clay--maybe more--than the rest of us. But we came to know this man even if we disagreed was someone we could listen to and trust. May their tribe increase. And may the chaos cease.

Please keep reading if you like. I am going to try to stay away from messy politics. But when I see things so blatantly wrong I don't think I can remain silent. We really have not drained the swamp.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com 

September Eleventh--Remember When We Were One?

September Eleventh--Remember When We Were One?

We all remember where we were that sad, sad day. We have lost so much. We lost 3000 when the Towers fell. We lost fireman, policeman and so other courageous folk that day. But we also lost close to 5,000 who have fallen since that day in this never-ending war. It is estimated that over 500,000 children have been killed since 9-11. I wrote the following meditation on September 6, 2011. I think you might want to read it. Read it or not. Remember. Remember.

                      +            +            +            +

Immediately after 9/11 many people sat down and wrote out their feelings. This moving poem captures for me our sentiments on the days following the September 11^th attack. It was written by Cheryl Sawyer.

“As the soot and dirt and ash rained down, 

We became one color.

As we carried each other down the stairs of the burning building

We became one class.

As we lit candles of waiting and hope

We became one generation.

As the firefighters and police officers fought their way into the inferno

We became one gender.

As we fell to our knees in prayer and strength,

We became one faith.

As we whispered or shouted words of encouragement,

We spoke one language.

As we gave our blood in lines a mile long,

We became one body.

As we mourned together the great loss

We became one family.

As we cried tears of grief and loss

We became one soul.

As we retell with pride the sacrifice of heroes

We become one people.

We are 

One color

One class

One generation

One gender

One faith

One language

One body

One family

One soul

One people

We are The Power of One.

We are united. 

We are America.

I love this poem. I remember reading it somewhere right after 9/11 happened and loved the sentiment. We were in Oregon visiting relatives when the planes hit. We couldn't get home for several days because all flights had been cancelled. I missed preaching the Sunday after 9/11--but got home in the middle of the next week. On Sunday I gave my reflections of what had happened to us and what I thought it meant theologically. 

After the sermon one of our Ushers said, "There is a young man back here that wants to talk to you." I saw him and invited him into my office. He was a University student from Iraq. He was a Muslim. He told me how ashamed he was because of those that destroyed the towers were Muslim. And then he said, "Does your God hate Muslims?" That was the question he came asking. I assured him that God loved everyone...and that God loved him and I hope because this had happened that he would not have a hard time in our country. I still feel that way after all these years.

Sorrowfully, our one-ness of that day did not last long. We went back to our favorite trenches, with our favorite weapons and began to fight once more. We fought a war for the wrong reasons...there were no weapons of mass destruction. Suddam Hussein, monster though he was, had nothing to do with this attack. He and Osama ben Laden hated each other. We broke our own rules with torture and rendition. We created a Department of Homeland Security that seems to cover everything. We kept spending and spending money on these wars until it has nearly bankrupted us. It takes a million dollars a year to keep one of our soldiers in this war that seems to have no end. 7,000 coalition forces have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan since this war started. Estimates are that over 200,000 locals have met their death in this war. These figures do not include the broken and wounded who will never be as they were.We elected our first black President and yet he has been more vilified that any President we ever had. Death threats on the office of the Presidency has escalated since he has come to office. 

We have become a fearful and anxious people. And fearful and anxious people launched the Third Reich. Our politicians cannot get together enough to deal with this economic or jobs crisis.  Many would rather the country go down the drain than re-elect a black President for a second term. Our list of hatreds seems to grow. Gays, liberals, intellectuals, mainstream Christians that do not understand fundamentalism. We are scared to death of the Muslim citizens in this country--and our resolutions and laws directed toward Hispanics shatters the intent and meaning of the Constitution. 

We've have been through bad periods before. We will somehow get through this slough of despond. We have always been a resilient people.  But anxious, fearing people do strange things. As the tenth anniversary of 9/11 approaches--it is a good time to ponder that one-ness we had once upon a time when the ground still smoked and the rubble was everywhere and there was weeping in the streets by people of all colors and all races.

Let us all do our parts to lower the temperature--and find some way to become the dream of our forebears: a United States.

I read a prayer-poem the other day that might be wonderful medicine for us all. 

"May the pain of every living being

Be completely cleared away. 

May I be the doctor and the medicine

And may I  be the nurse

For all the sick beings in the world

Until everyone is healed...

May the frightened cease to be afraid

And those bound be freed..."

--Prayer by Geshe Acharya Thusten Loden

And God bless America--all America--All--ALL.

--Roger Lovette /  rogerlovette.blogspot.com

First Grade Teacher

(I first published this memory of school beginning August 12,. 2009. If you missed it you might want to read it. Memory time. RL)

School begins this week. All over the country kids are buying shoes and shirts and pants, dresses and backpacks. It’s a New Year and it calls for new duds. Teachers are hauling supplies, bookcases and books into schoolrooms everywhere. We say that January first is the beginning of a New Year. No. For children, parents and teachers, the year really begins at the end of the summer when the school doors open. But like January 1, there is something wonderful and scary about the opening of a new door and walking into the unknown.

I still remember going to school that first scary day. We lived two blocks from the schoolhouse. My school was a great big two-story redbrick building. From a six-year olds viewpoint it looked like the biggest building in the world. Across the street from the school was a long white building we called “The Teacher’s Cottage.” Single women who taught lived in what could easily have been called a Protestant Convent. I don’t know how many teachers lived there. I do know the Mother Superior in that boarding house for teachers was a tall stately woman named Miss Eva. She seemed to be as old as God and twice as scary. She was the Principal and ruled the school and the cottage filled with unmarried teachers, with an iron hand. After I entered school that first week, I learned the most frightening thing that could happen to a student would be to be summoned to that Principal’s office. Up the long stairs, down the dark hall at the end of the second floor was her office. It was whispered that behind those forbidding doors there was a whipping machine. We were also warned that few who entered those doors ever came out again. Six-year-olds are believers and seven or eight-year-olds would talk about the whipping machine and other unimagined horrors at the top of those stairs.

That first school morning, my mother stayed home from work, put on her best dress and waited for the big bell across the street at the mill to ring. The ringing of that bell was a signal that it was time for us to go to school. The bell would ring thirty minutes before school started. The second bell would proclaim that school had started. We all knew that we had better be in our classes when that second bell rang or unimaginably terrible things would be in store for us.

After my Mother left me at the door, alone and afraid, I found my room and my teacher. It has been more than sixty-five years ago and yet I can see that first grade teacher still. She stood in the doorway to my class that morning. Dishwater blonde hair, small-frame, freckled and light complexioned. She wore wire-rimmed glasses that glittered when the sun hit them. She wore a starched printed dress and was gentle and seldom raised her voice. Her name was Miss Beggs. Surely other teachers along the way challenged me more. But Miss Beggs I will always remember. She walked with me across a bridge my parents could not walk. She taught me about a world bigger and finer than I had ever known. There would be no going back—this was the point of no return. I still remember that she held my hand as we walked to recess, to the rest room and to the lunchroom that first year. She must have known I was shy and afraid. The passing of the years often adds far richer colors than are present in real life. Yet as I think of Miss Beggs I really believe the kindness that I remember was truly there.

I don’t recall if she taught at our school more than a year. I never remember seeing her after that first grade experience. Where did she come from and where did she go? It hardly matters. What did matter was that she took me by the hand, she pointed the way. I love school and books and studying to this very day. She opened windows and doors that could never be shut again. Is it any wonder that after all these years I can still see her face and I still remember her name?

(The picture featured in this article is my second grade class and teacher. I am on the front row, on the left side (barefooted) next to the boy on the end. I couldn't find a picture of my first grade class--and I would give anything to have a picture of Miss Beggs.)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Ripples in the Stream--A Tribute to Dr. Bill Dukes

Dr. Bill Dukes

(We gathered on August 31 in Clemson, SC to pay tribute to our good friend the Doctor. This is what I said on that sad occasion.)

If you were to visit St, Paul’s Cathedral in London you would find an epitaph for Sir  Christopher Wren. He was the great architect that designed not only St. Paul’s Cathedral—but great buildings all over England. He designed 53 London churches alone. In the floor of St. Paul’s—directly under the great dome of that church are these words about Christopher Wren. “If you would seek my monument look  around you.”

I do not know a better way to give a tribute to Dr. Bill Dukes than to simply say: Look around you. Why you wouldn’t even have to leave this room—for all over this house are people whose lives are indelibly different because of Bill Dukes.

I hardly know where to begin. Maybe at the beginning at that little cotton mill house in Honea Path where it all began.  Bill was born 88 years ago there. And in the fifth grade Mrs. Birdy Case gave him fifty cents to pay for his registration fee to Scout Troop 43. The mill where his parents worked paid his expenses to send him to his first camping experience at Camp Old Indian.  Can’t you just see the excitement of that little boy as his world began to grow larger and larger. His Troop bought his first Boy Scouts uniform. They did not know that the ripples in the stream make an indelible influence on our lives. For Bill, you see became the very first Eagle Scout in South Carolina in 1946. For 70 years he gave tirelessly in a multitude of ways to Scouting. For you see, from that tiny beginning he began also to make his own ripples in the stream. And those ripples lasted his whole life.

Like I say I hardly know how to tell Bill Dukes’ story. After high school he worked in the mill for a while. In 1950 he joined the Navy and was in the active service for 4 years. But after that he served in the Naval Reserve for 36 years and left as Captain Dukes. When he left the service he enrolled in Clemson College and graduated in 1957 and enrolled in the Medical University of South Carolina.  And in 1961 he became Dr. Dukes. He moved to Clemson and hung out his shingle in 1962 and would practice here for 51 years. He delivered more than 2,800 babies and I don’t know how many thousands of patients he helped. 

And in between the ripples in the stream just continued. He spent countless hours in scouting and we do not have time to list a multitude of his scouting honors for his 70 years of work. 

He married Sylvia 57 years ago. And they had three children: Gene, Dwight and dear deceased Maria. And he loved all of his children greatly. But when Maria was born and they discovered that she was Downs Syndrome—it must have been devastating for Bill and Sylvia. In that hospital some advised these parents to put Maria in an institution. The family said No. And that decision would change their lives and the lives of countless others. Ripples in the stream. Maria became his sidekick. They went everywhere together. One day in his office I heard Maria on the PA system proclaiming , “Woman having baby, Dr. Dukes. Woman having baby.” She wanted to see her Daddy. I wonder how many families with special need children found help and hope as Bill and Sylvia told their Maria story. Among the multitude of good things they did—was to establish an endowment in the Blue Ridge Council for handicapped scouts. Ripples in the stream.

photo by Sergio Santos / flickr

Bill loved Clemson University and served on University’s Board of Visitors twice. He was the personal physician to three university presidents. We could talk all day about Bill’s honors and his work. Sylvia—I don’t know how he time to sleep. The recognitions to his work bestowed honor after honor on Bill and Sylvia. Mrs. Birdy had no idea that what she did in that fifth grade for that little cotton mill boy would help change his life. Ripples in the stream.

But we turn a different page. Surely we look around us and see everywhere his monuments. But we now say a word to Sylvia who was there the whole time. And a word also to Dr. Gene and to Dwight. And to those two brothers, Joe Robert and Jim Dukes. And that multitude of the rest of us that come with our own grief and our own sadness. But we put our feelings aside to surround this family.

Faith says that we are not alone. Jesus told his disciples, “Let not your heart be troubled…I will send my Holy Spirit to be with you forever.” Losing a loved one is a long and hard journey. And no two of us handle our losses the same way. But the old prophet Jeremiah asked, in a hard time: “Is there no balm in Gilead?” And the testimony of many in this room could say to Sylvia and this family: “Oh yes…there is a balm in Gilead.” Psalm 147 says that “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” So this is my prayer for the family and all of us here—we are not alone on our journey. 

Sylvia—and boys—when the black writer Alex Haley was a little boy he would sit at the kitchen table and cry. Life was hard then for that little black boy in Tennessee. And his grandmother would put her arms around him and say: “Alex, we don’t know when Jesus is going to come—but he will always come on time.”

I could not be at Bill Dukes’ retirement celebration. I had to be out of town. But I wrote him a letter in July of 2013. This is what I wrote:

July 12, 2013

Dr. Bill Dukes

My dear Bill:

When you count on your hands people that you love that have helped you Bill Dukes is certainly on my list.

We’ve shared cotton-mill backgrounds and from the beginning had a lot in common. You came up the hard way—and you made a decision back there that you wanted to be a Doctor. Lord knows the obstacles you had to crawl through. I do not know about others—but I do know your journey, like so many others was hard.

So you got there—Bill Dukes, MD. There are doctors and there are doctors. And you are one of those real Doctors. Who knows how many people you helped through the years. When we were here for thirteen years you were our Doctor—without charge. I wonder how many people you did the same thing for. Anyway—in an age when it is hard to even see a Doctor—when we called, you came. I have told many people: “Our Doctor makes house calls.” They would look at me like I had lost my mind. But you came out to our house I don’t know how many times and you not only allayed our fears—but you dealt with the pain.

You had three children: Gene, Dwight and Maria. You loved them all. But I especially remember Maria and watching her grow up. All children change your lives—but Maria turned you all inside out. Some of your friends tried to get you to instutionalize her. You thought they were crazy. The old book says: “Be careful lest you entertain angels unawares.” Maybe at the beginning you did not know—but as time progressed—you knew you had an angel on your hands. I loved her as you well know. I baptized her and after that she would come out the church door and say: “I want to get baptized!” and I would say: “Maria you don’t do that but one time.” And she would laugh and ask me the same question the next Sunday. I loved the way you and Sylvia loved her and accepted her. She changed your lives—and in turn—you changed a whole lot of lives by talking to parents who had special needs children. I remember the day she died and I came over to your house and you were in the floor holding dear dead Maria. Thank you for being a model for all folk with special needs children.

I heard just a few years ago from Tom Lynch how sick you were and I called you up long distance to talk to you. You could have died—you didn’t. You came back and you worked and worked. As your best friend Tom died, it must have hurt you immensely.

So thanks for the memories—which are good and special. Thanks for all you have done for so many. And thanks to you and Sylvia for opening the door and letting me into your hearts. Gayle and I have a long-planned trip to the beach with our kids and grandchildren on July 28. But be assured we wanted to be at your retirement celebration and we know this will be a wonderful, wonderful day.

I look forward to sitting down and remembering old times soon. Thanks. Enjoy the days ahead. Gayle joins me in saying: thanks...thanks...thanks. 

Sincerely—Roger Lovette

Toward the end of the book of Philippians Paul wrote: “Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and anything worthy of praise remember these things.”

Ripples in the stream…they go on forever.

photo by Alex Proimos / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com