By Scott Graber
It’s Friday and I’m in Edenton, N.C. It’s early, Susan is still sleeping, and I have a cup of the hotel’s complimentary coffee and proximity to a television monitor bringing me news from nearby Norfolk.
The news this morning is the pervasive, all-consuming, feels-like-110 degree heat.
Last night Susan and I had “crab bites” at the Waterman’s Grill near Edenton’s waterfront. The owner, Brian Roberts, said his air conditioner “had been cranked-up, full throttle, all night long.”
He then provided some descriptive background on the black and white photographs (on his red-brick walls); some showing the young, life-saving men who once swam into the troubled surf off Cape Hatteras. Eventually our talk came round to the controversial, embattled Confederate soldier standing 50 yards away from Brian’s front door.
Two years ago the Edenton Town Council decided to move the soldier from the town square to a less prominent location. But that move was blocked by a group of Edentonians who said the marble man was “protected by law.” Later Council decided to sell the statue to the County—but the County wanted proof of ownership — and apparently the Town didn’t have that proof. So the wistful soldier remains atop his 20-foot-tall perch silently staring toward Bentonville and Averasboro.
As Roberts described these competing interests — frequently stopping his narrative and hugging departing customers — my eyes wandered over to a television monitor which featured young, small gymnasts silently, solemnly breaking altitude records in Paris. Then, after breaking these records, taking possession of medals the size of your average Krispy Kreme doughnut.
I must admit, here and now, that I follow the Olympics for one reason and one reason only — the women’s beach volleyball competition. Although I once swam competitively, I have little interest in the 200-meter butterfly or the 1,500-meter freestyle. I find my excitement (and wonder) in the bikini-wearing woman who “digs” a volleyball out of the sand; somehow passing that ball to a second, thinly-clad woman; who then smashes the ball into a third woman on the other side of the net.
And, yes, I’m sorry that Misty May Treanor no longer digs balls out of the sand, but volleyball holds my attention better than wall climbing, break dancing or miniature golf. (And, yes, I know that the IOC has not yet approved miniature golf or parallel parking as medal-worthy activities.)
Every four years the Olympic Games remind us — even those who believe that Confederate statues belong in a forgotten warehouse — that the United States produces remarkable teenagers. NBC has this franchise and it unabashedly tells the heart-warming (sometimes heart-wrenching) stories of sacrifice, denial and deprivation that come with these kids. And these stories come none too soon and none too often.
We are, at this very moment, caught up in arguments about our past; about our political leaders; about our national priorities. These arguments are played-out every hour of every day and have taken their toll on our national psyche — many believing we are diminished and divided beyond redemption.
We need these kids to remind us that there are teenagers in the United States who can defy the laws of gravity; who spend years swimming laps and somehow avoid serious shrinkage; and who often endure constant pain.
We need to embrace these young people as products of our own culture; and believers of our own values; and drink the restorative tonic that they bring to the table. We need this tonic to counter the anger and the tragedy that is also part of our culture.
If there is a “face” on these Olympic Games it is the face of the sprinters — the Black, women sprinters who come to the blocks slowly, grim-faced, moving their legs in an effort to shake-off their anxiety.
These young women come to the race with their hair pulled back from their face — faces that seem to be sculpted from the black, striated granite that lies under our tortured continent. They come out of the blocks with an explosion of energy quickly pushing their bodies to the front of the racing phalanx.
And when they win their race, they do not raise their fists in protest — like what happened in Mexico — rather they wrap their sweat-glistened shoulders with the American flag. And with this flag they tell the world who they are, and who they represent, and that would be the United States of America.
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.
