The Lies They Tell

by Tuvia Tenenbom

  Now, this is very interesting. I tell her that we don’t have blacks in Germany. Period. We are all white, blond and tall.

  Tulsa, they tell me, is diverse. And America is too. And it’s so great, really great – says Nancy – to be in such a diverse country as the United States of America.

  I tell them that I enjoy very much, very, very much, the non-diversity of my beloved Germany.

  “What, you don’t like diversity?” Nancy asks. “How can you live in a country without – ”

  I cut her off. Be honest! Isn’t this “diversity” thing just a lip service invented not long ago? Did it exist when you got married?

  No, it did not. “Diversity,” as far as Bruce remembers, became part of the American lingo only about fifteen years ago, at the most.

  If you were wondering: Nancy and Bruce believe in climate change and prefer the Palestinians to the Israelis. They are, in short, Wagner people.

  I take another sip of my asphalt mix and go to the Courtyard to sleep.

  Before I close my eyes I think about “diversity.” Who, I ask myself, came up with it fifteen years ago? A professor at Nicholas’s UC Berkeley? A journalist? Enterprise?

  I fall asleep and I dream of buffalos. Don’t ask.

  • • •

  Night goes, morning comes, and downstairs I see Bill, a black guy, and he’s in the mood for talking. “Just about every day somebody gets killed here. Gangs all over. Kids who want to be rich in a day, lazy kids who want all the money but don’t want to work for it.”

  Who are those kids?

  “Blacks and Spanish. They kill for territory.” He means locations to sell drugs.

  Not whites?

  “The whites are the big guys, the guys who live in the big houses. They have no names. They give the drugs to the black kids to sell on the street.”

  How often are the shootings?

  “Every day.”

  What happened to “values” in the black community?

  “Gone.”

  Are there no leaders in the black or Spanish communities?

  “What leaders?”

  I don’t know what to say to him, so I say: pastors.

  “My classmate, he became a pastor. Now he’s in the pen, at the Big Mac.”

  For what?

  “Raping a little girl. They waited till she gave birth, checked the DNA and it was him, he was the father. He won’t survive the Big Mac.”

  What’s the Big Mac?

  “That’s the name of the pen, in McAlester. It’s a famous prison, toughest in the country.” It is officially known as Oklahoma State Penitentiary.

  Why do you think that the pastor won’t survive?

  “If you are in prison for bank robbery you’ll make it okay, no problem. But if you are in prison for rape, especially of young girls, it’s the inmates who will take care of you!”

  Rape you?

  “That’s one thing.”

  And the guards wouldn’t stop it?

  “The guards, they are the same like the inmates. Only if you bribe them they’ll protect you.”

  Nancy and Bruce don’t know stories like that of Bill’s friend, which is only one of many happening here in this state and in this country. They love blacks, but from a distance. They don’t approach blacks, and they don’t talk to them. If they did, they wouldn’t ask ridiculous questions about blacks’ voting rights in Germany – as if life is just about voting.

  What they like is the idea of having blacks around, because this makes them feel “diverse.” They like to be served by blacks, for example. I don’t call myself “diverse,” and I befriend blacks the same way I do whites. I find the blacks warmer than the whites and I enjoy their company. Love of the other is not an idea; it’s life itself.

  • • •

  The Tulsa State Fair is taking place a short ride from here, and I go there. There I see, for example, a pig by the name of Peppa and her fifteen piggies, which were born just a few hours ago. The piglets are very busy trying to suck food from their mama. They are independent, at this tender age of just a few hours, to the point of fighting each other for another lick of mama. It takes human babies years before they reach such independence.

  I hook up with a guy, a rich white guy, and he tells me that the Donald is the best man in America. Donald Trump is not really a nice man, I tell the guy. Years back, he tried to force tenants out of buildings that he bought in New York so that he could renovate and sell their apartments at much higher rates. He behaved like the worst of slumlords, which is how he made it big in real estate. He threatened tenants with imminent demolitions, he drastically decreased essential services to them, he instructed employees to obtain information about their private lives and sex habits – in short: there was no stopping him. How could you support such a candidate?

  “If Donald did it, there’s nothing wrong with it,” he responds.

  • • •

  There’s a megachurch in town called Church on the Move. I go to church. Again…

  The parking lot outside the church is huge, with endless rows of cars. When I finally park and get out of the car – my car is the nicest on this lot, let me tell you! – I can hear the service through the loudspeakers, something about Jesus giving his life for you and me.

  Lovely.

  I go to the men’s room and while I’m urinating I hear about Jesus’ blood and some other goodies. Yes, this church has speakers in the toilets, so that none of us will miss a single word uttered on the stage. I finish fast, hoping for some better stories once I join the crowd.

  Thousands of people are on their feet, joining the band onstage in song:

  Jesus, we love you, Oh how we love you.

  You are the one our hearts adore.

  This church is not the Potter’s House; it is not a black church. There are some blacks here, but very few. This is a white church, and the level of energy and passion here does not reach what I witnessed in Denver. But what they are lacking in energy they compensate for in production value: lots of lights, dozens of lighting effects, amplifiers that are very loud yet very comfortable to the ear, TV screens, comfortable seating, a modern stage – and stagecraft second to none. Simply put, the service here is a production that could easily compete with every Broadway show in history.

  The singing continues:

  I believe in the resurrection,

  That we will rise again.

  For I believe in the name of Jesus.

  Lights flicker and shine, lines light the stage, and the party goes on. The thousands of people raise their hands up to the ceiling, singing: “We will rise again.”

  When the songs end, the sermon starts. The pastor says that Christianity is a unique religion because it does not relate to a specific geographical area. Islam is rooted in the Middle East, Judaism in Israel, and Buddhism in the Far East, but Christianity has no one unique location and is equally connected to any place.

  He’s not totally right, but theologically speaking he has a point. As I look at the praying and singing people around me, it hits me – and for the first time: “American” is very “Christian.”

  Americans like to say that what unites them is not a race or ethnic identity, not even a land, but an “idea.” But isn’t their idea actually rooted in Christianity? “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). Why didn’t I think of it before?

  And here’s the corollary: the modern-day ideology of “human rights,” as well as the idea that tribalism is essentially bad, is not “liberal” thinking but an old Christian doctrine.

  It goes without saying that both liberals and conservatives would commit you to a mental institution if you dared say this to them.

  Especially human rights activists, many of whom do not follow Jesus. Yet, whether they like it or not, none of them was born in a vacuum. They are the children or grandchildren of believers, and while they don’t follow Jesus it do
es not mean that they don’t follow his teachings. They do. They follow an “idea.”

  • • •

  I enter the belly of Captiva, a Car on the Move, and drive south. On the roads I see big signs: “Worry less, pray more.” “In God We Trust.”

  After an hour or two of driving I park my Captiva – what a gorgeous name! – between Jesus road signs and an Indian casino, the most important Indian cultural institution of our day.

  A few feet ahead of me is an RV outside of which stand an older couple and a young lady, the older woman’s daughter from a previous marriage. The man is a Native American (“Assiniboine Sioux”), the wife is a white American and the daughter, Robin, is a former US soldier who, for a time (2003–2004), was deployed to Iraq as a supply sergeant with a quartermaster company supplying a base with water.

  How was it in Iraq? What did you find out while serving there?

  “I found out that the media, as far as America goes, was pretty much wrong on the way they portrayed the events happening in Iraq.”

  Tell me!

  “Things were not always as bad as the media made it out to be.”

  For example?

  “There were a lot of good Iraqi people there that were being mistreated.”

  By whom?

  “Unfortunately, by US military. Also by their own people.”

  Give me an example of US military treatment of Iraqis.

  “Whenever they would be captured as prisoners they were very mistreated. They were starved – ”

  Starved for how long?

  “Weeks!”

  What do you mean? Were they given just water…?

  “Barely even water.”

  She gives me more examples, what she calls “hearsay,” meaning things she did not personally see: “Iraqi people were beaten with frozen fish.”

  What did you, personally, see?

  She saw the starvation and “a lot of horrible things.”

  Give me an example of that.

  “Little kids, on the side of the road, were begging for food, and American soldiers threw cans and bottles of water at them.”

  Just for fun?

  “Just for fun.”

  Robin informed her superiors of these abuses, but no abuser was arrested and the abuses continued unabated.

  Do you think that the Iraqi invasion was justified?

  “No.”

  Robin’s stepfather, who served in Vietnam, puts an Indian headdress on my head and we pose for pictures.

  For the record: Robin supports Obamacare, does not believe in climate change and supports Israel.

  Before I leave, Robin thanks me for talking with her. “It is very humbling,” she says, “that you are interested in American culture and that you are asking me about America, because so many people don’t like Americans.”

  She pauses for a second, looks at me, and says: “We are not all bad.”

  Robin is one of those people who touch me very deeply. She is among the finest that I have met. She loves her country and is pained by its misdeeds. She loves America, yet she is not lost in blind admiration. She is part of this huge and powerful country, yet “humbled” by a stranger’s curiosity about her country. She combines pride and humility in admirable portions, making America look so much better than most will ever succeed in doing.

  I think that Captiva, a proud American, is a bit ashamed listening to Robin’s account, and she wants to leave. As we drive off I take a look at the casino’s reflection in my mirror and think of the people inside who feed the slot machines with a never-ending supply of greens. Take me, Captiva, to the next casino you see!

  • • •

  Sulphur, a little city of five thousand residents, has a casino. I park Captiva near the casino’s entrance and just before I get out another car pulls in next to me, driven by a man who calls himself “Sooner.”

  He loves this casino. “Last time I was here,” he tells me, “I made $1,900.”

  How did you do it?

  “You have to understand the machines.”

  Do you make your money on slot machines?

  “That’s part of it. I also have my own business.”

  Do you really make money playing the slot machines?

  “Oh, yes.”

  How often do you play?

  “Two, three times a week.”

  How long have you been doing this?

  “A number of years – four or five.”

  In total, how much have you lost or made?

  “About $150,000.”

  In winnings or losses?

  “Winnings!”

  Is there a system to it?

  “Yes. Ignore all the lights and the flashes and look for the numbers.”

  What numbers?

  “At the bottom of the machines there are numbers of last winnings. If the number is high, I know this is a machine that gives money and I play it.”

  Interesting.

  “There are other things you have to know.”

  Such as?

  “You have to tip the girls well.” If you do, he says, they’ll tell you which machines give the best returns.

  I ask him which machines. “The Cats.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  Would you mind if I go with you and watch you play? I ask him.

  He would love me to, he says. Sooner and I enter the casino. I see the expected: old white ladies. There are free drinks around and I take a cup of cola.

  Sooner walks around the machines, checking them out. He does his magic and picks a machine. He puts a hundred dollars in. His golden fingers press the buttons, and in less than three minutes he loses $99.70.

  Got to try the Cats! He goes for the Cats. Don’t ask me what the Cats are. Perhaps it is a way to lure pet lovers into playing the machines.

  Sooner puts in another hundred dollars, plus the thirty cents he had in credit. He plays. The girls are smiling. It takes about four minutes and he loses it all: $100.30.

  “You must be in it to win it,” he tells me, and moves on to yet another machine. He puts in a one-hundred-dollar bill and in a few minutes the number jumps to $186. He is smiling. Lady Luck is on his side. He plays with renewed energy. He is smiling more, he’s happy and he presses play again and again.

  Until it goes below one hundred dollars.

  “Time to stop,” he says. I bid him farewell. As I walk away I look back for a second or two. Sooner goes to another machine, trying his luck again. I leave. Let the cats play.

  What games would Americans play if their forefathers had not butchered the Indians?

  • • •

  The casino, Artesian, is owned by the Chickasaw Nation. Here in Oklahoma, I am told, there are no Indian reservations; here there are “nations.” Why? It goes back to the forced relocation of Native Americans from their homes almost two centuries ago, along what is known as the Trail of Tears, into an area of what is Oklahoma today, and it is here that the Indians established their “nations.” What are these nations known for? If I’m getting it right: Cool Cats.

  Not far from the Indian casino is the Echo Canyon Spa Resort, where I am going to rest for the night. A beautiful place!

  A couple, Joe and Carol, are the owners of the resort and they have a crew of dedicated and beautiful girls – for a moment I think I’m in Salt Lake City – who take care of the place. The food is very un-American, which means that it’s excellent. I have a filet mignon, the best filet mignon offered on this side of the Atlantic, and I’m so glad that I chose these accommodations.

  I am curious about Joe and Carol. Their own home is on the property and I go to pay them a visit. As I enter I see they are watching a TV program called The Voice, a singing competition in which young singers go on the stage to showcase their “voice.” The show, in its ninth season, is reportedly watched by over twelve million people. Unlike American TV shows of the past, which took artists to create – scriptwriters, actors, various designers – and consisted of storylines,
ideas and messages, the “reality shows” are cheap to produce and have a tendency to kill every cell in the viewer’s brain.

  I watch the competitors sing and I think of Oscar, the soul man of Chicago, aka SoulO. Oscar touched me deeply with his music, with his voice, with his soul. No one here on this screen reaches Oscar’s toenails. Oh, Oscar! “Go south, my man. Go south. Go to Georgia, go to Mississippi, go to Texas. The good people live there. Go south. South is the place,” Oscar said to me then, and his echo rings in my ears now.

  Yes, Oscar: I hear your echo loud and clear. When the sun shines I will head to Texas, to the Lone Star state. Wait for me there!

  Here’s an item from the New York Times:

  The Justice Department will release about 6,000 inmates from federal lockups in less than a month, many of whom were nonviolent drug dealers. It’s part of a bipartisan effort to reduce prison overcrowding in the US, which has a quarter of the world’s prison population.

  A quarter of the world’s prison population is safely housed behind bars in the Land of the Free.

  Gate Twenty

  If you misbehave, the Jews will come and eat you – Fifty million Germans are gone, all melted

  THE FIRST THING I SEE UPON ENTERING TEXAS FROM OKLAHOMA IS A WORLD War II memorial. On the memorial I read: “The German 19th Army surrendered to the [103rd Infantry] Division 5 May 1945 at Innsbruck, Austria.” Why should people think of Nazi Germany as they enter Texas? I don’t know, but this is what it is. I keep on driving, and soon enough I get to Dallas.

  Have you ever driven in Dallas? First off, whoever designed the roads in Dallas is probably either a Talmudic scholar or a Greek philosopher, but he should have been fired on day one. One road melds into another road, and then another road, which then becomes another road that comes out from yet another road – and all these roads are multilane roads.

  But forget the roads; consider the Dallas drivers. They will cut you off from every direction without a second’s hesitation. “Dallas drivers are children of cowboys and they think that cars are horses. That’s why they drive the way they do,” a young man explains to me.

  Lady Luck is with me, and I survive the road. As I reach my hotel, the Highland Hotel, I relax in the smoking area. There I meet a guy who tells me that he’s a Republican. A few feet from me I spot another smoker, a lady, and I invite her to join us. I tell her that the other guy is a flaming Republican and ask her if she’s also a flaming Republican.