Kick the Tires and Light the Hater Fires

Don't despise the South's golf cart culture. Join it.

 

They see us rollin'... they hatin'...

If they filmed a modern day Gone With the Wind, I’d like to imagine that Rhett Butler shows up to the Wilkes’ residence in the beginning in his 6-inch lifted, custom Bonnie Blue EZ-GO golf cart, drawing disdainful looks from all the beaus trying to court Scarlett. Later, Charles Hamilton would challenge him to a duel in the smoking room because Rhett insinuated that real Southerners shouldn’t be driving their trucks to the neighborhood pool.

And, of course, in the grand finale when Rhett tells Scarlett he frankly doesn’t give a damn, he would flip on his LED underbody lights and drive off into the fog, leaving Scarlett tearful and wondering how she would get a ride up to the Piggly Wiggly later.

While not as sacred as sweet tea or college football, the golf cart culture is quickly becoming one with Southern culture, and similar to how I imagine a boorish Hamilton would grow irate with a cruising Rhett, plenty of our brethren generate irrational ire when they see the four-wheeled armada roll by in their neighborhood.

Golf cart culture has become an arms race in some neighborhoods, particularly in the Charleston area, where our middle age crisis takes the form of trying to out-lift kit, out-LED, out-stereo, and out-custom paint our friends with our carts. If you add that deafening subwoofer to your ride, rest assured Bob will have a new inset Yeti cooler next week on the back of his cart to one-up you.

Looks like freedom.

    The golf cart critics—ah, let’s just call em haters—are correct that we don’t need these absurd methods of transportation. Yeah, I mean, we could just drive our cars to the neighborhood pool. But who wants to do that? While we don’t need em, there’s nothing like a sunset cruise through the hood with the salt breeze running over your bald head. Or pulling up on the big cornhole game with the boys and creating a makeshift bar out of all the golf cart front baskets. Or running the kids to school instead of having to battle the outrageous car pickup line. Or taking a quick trip up to the grocery store and whipping your whip onto the sidewalk for a few beers at the bar nearby. It just feels right, and it makes all those daily activities a lot more convenient.

So, why not make those rides as sexy as possible?

While in the San Francisco airport, my wife overheard a woman discussing their relocation options, and Charleston was one of them. But she said, "There are too many people with golf carts there. They're lazy; they drive their carts everywhere. They're walking their dogs with their carts."

Okay, well, I mean, she's not completely wrong. But if we could just get her on the back of one with a cold drink in her hand and country music blaring as we head up to the pool, she might start guiding little Maggie on her midnight dumps from the comfort of her EZ-GO as well.

The problem with golf cart hate is that haters can’t formulate valid arguments against them. They grasp for any nugget to criticize, and sometimes to the insensitive extreme (some haters tried to cite golf carts as a problem over this tragic story on Folly Beach instead of focusing on the real culprit, which was the drunk driver in a car traveling at 65 mph).

Here, let’s break down the common complaints:

•           “They’re dangerous!” So is every vehicle you operate. Golf cart accidents don’t even make a blip on the radar when compared to real traffic injuries and fatalities.
•       “People let their children drive em!” If they let their 12 year old drive their pick-up truck, would you want trucks banned? Or do want the parents punished for sucking at the parenting thing? That's how it's supposed to work.
  
•         “They drive em at night and you’re not supposed to!” Almost every custom golf cart looks like a low-flying UFO at this point, complete with headlights and taillights. But if it’s a completely dark cart, and you strike it with your car, that’s on them.
•          “They drive em slow on main roads!” Most states forbid carts on any road over 35 mph unless they’re classified as a low-speed vehicle. And this seems to be a fairly made-up complaint; in the past 10 years driving around the Charleston area, I’ve yet to see a golf cart operated on a road with a speed limit higher than 25 mph.
•         “People are drinkin’ beer on em!” Well, okay. Sure. Obviously operating a golf cart while completely shipwrecked isn’t a good idea. And it’s illegal. That’s why there are laws against it, same as with cars, and no one ever seems to blame the car in the DUI accident.
•          “They’re driving em all over the HOA-owned path near my house!” You don’t own the path and it’s built for carts, Karen. Okay, maybe this is a very specific complaint to where I live, but stay in your lane, ma’am! And no, my Tyler Childers is not playing too loudly on my speakers.

What we’re basically left with after shredding all these complaints that foolishly eliminate personal responsibility/blame and place it on a vehicle: They’re just mad they ain’t in the club. They’ve been stuck in the car line at school for an hour and they’re mad little Bailey just got swept away in a matter of minutes on her mom’s Precedent. They’re pissed they had to park far away and walk to the pool and a cart is just chilling right there on the sidewalk by the gate. They want to be on that night ride pumping out Tupac and sporting that rainbow fade LED underbody, laughing and hollering and pounding a White Claw, not knowing what adventurous trail they’ll be going down next.

Dramatic picture is dramatic.

But don’t hate. Join the cult. Yeah, we know we’re ridiculous. We know we’re superfluous. We know we’re pouring money down the drain for something unnecessary. We know we’re tacky. We know we should be mocked. We mock ourselves. The same way we mock our own drawls and our redneckish behavior and our unhealthy food and how we dress. When you can laugh at your own absurdity—and our golf cart culture is absurd—you feel truly comfortable with yourself.

I’m not arguing the golf cart culture is distinctly Southern. I’m not saying it’s a Southern tradition. But we sure are heading on that trajectory at a smooth 21 miles per hour. Why not grab a beverage and hop on the back seat?

Don’t hate what you don’t understand. Bicyclists on busy roads are a far more valid and satisfying target (this is a highway, Gary, not a route for your Spandex parade). Besides, if I gifted you a golf cart right now, would you turn it down or would you start looking up LED kits on Amazon?

Yeah. That's what I thought. Let’s go cruising for friendlies.

Ode to a Good Girl

Already thought she ran the joint.

  
    One year into dating the woman who would one day become my wife, I did something kind of crazy for an anniversary present. I bought her a dog.

    Some may say that’s more of a commitment than a diamond ring. Oh, hey, let me give you a living creature that now demands we either stay together to care for it or have a really awkward discussion about property ownership when we break up.

    I know some friends and family thought I was a little nuts, but I saved up some cash and took her to a breeder. A Sheltie breeder. My future bride didn’t have many canine ownership experiences in her life, but the brief one that she enjoyed was a Sheltie. I surprised her with the news that she could go pick one out, and she had her heart set on a sable and white male puppy.

    But as she lay on the floor with the litter—all tri-colored, no sables—in the home of the breeder, the boy pups just didn’t seem to take to her. I could see disappointment and doubt mounting on her face. My future wife was very selective (which makes it a miracle I somehow made the cut).

    Then, just a bit out of nowhere, the little runt of the litter—a female—waddled over to my wife, took hold of some my wife’s hair in her mouth, and gave it a playful tug. This little clown, who we would learn from the breeders had to be bottle fed because she was so small and finicky about her eating, instantly won my wife’s heart. This is the one, she said.

    And thus we embarked on that incredible journey that always ends in inevitable heartbreak.

    For us, that adventure of companionship ended 15 and a half years later at two in the morning Wednesday in the emergency vet office in Mount Pleasant as we made the decision—that decision that’s so merciful yet laden with so much pain and guilt—to end the final chapter of Lexie’s life.

    Why do we do it? Why do we bring that little fur ball into our lives, knowing full damn well that the end game usually looks something like this? Why do we live with that denial—that our souls won’t be ripped out of our chests—and plow down this road anyway so we can have that cuddle companion, or that big boy to go running with every day, or that playmate for the kids, or just someone to dote over? Knowing all too well that it is cruelly never—never—enough time, and then once that companion is gone, we do it all over again?

    We, of course, didn’t really consider all that when we brought little puppy Lex home to my wife’s apartment. As time passed, she adopted new monikers along with her actual name—Baby Lex, L’il Butt, Lexicus Bratticus, Baby Shelt, and a few words I won’t print here when she misbehaved. But I usually just took to calling her Baby Girl.

    She was pint-sized for a Sheltie, but she oozed attitude. She’d sass us or do something mischievous, and when I would mildly admonish her, she’d flash that Sheltie grin back at me as if to say, “What the hell are you gonna do about it, Daddy?”

"Wake up, Daddy."

    Within a year, Lexie was my wife’s most prized possession in the history of her life. That’s why, when I proposed to her, I knew I had to get Lex in on the act somehow. With my brother in law’s help, we took a beach day to Isle of Palms. I attached the diamond ring to her collar and held Lex in my lap the whole way to the beach. My future wife, thinking I was probably going to propose later that night at dinner, demanded I give her dog to her and couldn’t understand why I refused. When we got to the beach, I feared she would spot the ring too easily, or that Lexie might shake it off somewhere by accident and lose it in the sand, so I immediately urged my future bride to take a walk with Lex to get some of her energy out.

    Several yards down the beach, I told her that something seemed wrong with Lex’s collar. I dropped to one knee, and with the help of the mischievous little Shelt, we asked her to cement our family.

    After she said yes and we kissed, we locked hands and continued our walk. We only made it about four more feet before Lexie stopped to drop a giant poop on the sand.

    That was Aug. 11, 2007. Exactly 14 years to the day before Lexie took her final breath.

    But over those next 14 years, we savored the antics and attitude of Miss Thing in our homes. She loved to smell—and then roll on—my stinky shoes after I took them off for the day. She mounted a table one time to go after my mother in law’s chicken pot pie when she thought no one was looking. She never backed down from a challenge with another dog, and once tried to have a go with a bulldog well out of her weight class. Lexie was our alarm system, and quite a loud and vocal one at that. And it only took a few key phrases uttered by my wife or me to send her into a playful session of talk-back barking.

    Despite her tiny size, Baby Lex came equipped with a powerful heart; one that knew when to give attitude and knew when to give love. Or comfort in hard times.

Chasing her best friend on the beach.

    She was there for us during the worst. Financial hardships in our early years. The loss of people we loved. Moving across the state to start new jobs. Times we had a falling out with friends. Our continued struggles with fertility.

    You know, I’m not someone who tries to draw a comparison to owning dogs and being a parent. I understand there is a monumental and definitive difference between the two. But for childless couples, sometimes that dog is the only damn thing they have.

    And Lexie was always there. Every damn day of the journey. With that Sheltie grin, as if to say, “C’mon, Mommy and Daddy. Let’s show em how tough we are.”

    I guess she was “our” dog, but really, she was my wife’s. I think my wife may have loved her more than me. To be honest, Lexie deserved it more than I did. She seemed to only enjoy being held for prolong periods in my wife’s arms, even tolerating it for three-hour car rides to see family over the holidays. My wife would blare "Rain King" in the bedroom and dance and sing while Lexie pranced and barked on the bed along with her. Lex could read her mind and her moods, and she always knew how to adjust her behavior to give my wife what she needed. Sometimes, all it really took was Lexie coming over to the couch and giving her gentle licks on her hand with her little tongue.

    She never lost her sass even as she slowed in those final years. She no longer broke into carefree sprints on the beach to chase her other household canine companion. Playtime faded away into constant nap time. She received free rides up and down the stairs. She stopped herding people like Shelties are prone to do, but she would still follow us into the kitchen if we were going to get a snack. But every so often in the back yard, she would catch a smell of another dog or a person from over the fence, and the old watch dog in her would come alive with some hoarse barks and a little buck of her hind legs. In the last year of her life, she just enjoyed golf cart rides around the neighborhood, sticking her head out so she could feel the breeze.

A pupcake for her 15th birthday.

    A month ago, she even tried to chase a soccer ball our niece kicked, just like the old days. Somewhere in her, there was still a little left in the tank.

    Her health faded quickly over the last week. She no longer ate, and she could barely walk. In the last day of her life, she couldn’t stand on her own. Her last meal was the only thing we could get her to take, some baby food. My wife held Lexie and bottle fed her, just the way she had been fed as a newborn puppy. Then she just held her and held her. Lexie rested her head on my wife’s shoulder, her breathing short and labored. We knew it was time.

    But in the room at the vet’s office, I held her after they had sedated her. My wife rubbed her head, kissed her, and gently sang a song to her. I felt Lexie’s little powerful heart beating against my chest in an uneven rhythm. The vet prepared us the best he could, and then he inserted the needle.

    I felt Lexie’s little mighty heart beat one final time.

    My wife left the room as soon as she passed; she didn't want to see her after she was gone. The vet left me alone with her. I held her lifeless body gently to my chest, and tried to take in all of the 15 and a half years’ journey. How just a little hair tug from a pup could alter our trajectory. Our path in life. How just an eight-week-old creature could take hold of a few strands of someone’s hair and say, “You’re mine. So is that balding guy with you. And I’m going to be by your side for 15 years through the good and the bad and give you everything I have and be the best damn dog you’ve ever seen. Go pull the car around, Daddy. I’m coming home.”

    I cradled her body tighter to me and I thanked her. I thanked her for all she did for my wife. I thanked her for being more for my wife than I ever was. I thanked her for all the joy and love and memories she gave us, even though I always knew we would end here. Because sometimes the journey is worth the heartbreak.

    Rest easy, Baby Girl.

Let Your Wealth Pour Through the Doors

I decided not to march in Columbia Wednesday.

Not because I don’t believe in the cause—oh believe me, I do—but more so for technical reasons: I’ve missed too many days for field trips, and I’ve exhausted my personal days. Plus, perhaps my school will call upon me to fill in for a teacher who did make the trek to Columbia, or help with some other duty while we’re short on staff. And I will gladly do it for that colleague who sacrificed their time to stand up for the rest of us.

South Carolina hasn’t exactly been a chart topper for public education over the decades. We’re consistent national champion contenders for unsavory titles, such as men killing their spouses or drunk driving, but we generally claw and fight not to finish last in the education rankings. Louisiana has slipped below us thanks to their devastating “school choice” initiatives (more on that later).

Since South Carolina doesn’t rank high, I’ve had people insinuate to me that my colleagues and I must also be subpar teachers. That’s right. According to them, we are a magical sanctuary for bad teachers, and we alone have guided us to the bottom of the rankings.

I’ve worked three careers in my life: reporter, bartender, and teacher. I have a knack for choosing professions where people who have never worked them think they know more about your job than you do.

But people still often ask me what it’s like to teach high school, and most of the time I don’t get into too much detail. I tell them I love my job, which is true, and I love working with the kids. I suppose it was kind of inevitable given my pedigree: three of my grandparents were teachers.

My Papa became an agriculture teacher at Boiling Springs High School after World War II. He farmed as well. He generally taught the kids who had no shot at going to college; back then, society wasn’t convincing desperate parents and anxiety-ridden kids that they were worthless if they didn’t go to higher education.

Papa died suddenly of a heart attack in 1991. I was 12. A lot of those grief-stricken days are a blur, but I do have one very clear memory: his visitation at the funeral home. I remember it because the line stretching out to the parking lot resembled a new iPhone release at an Apple store. The funeral home employees said it may have been a record for them.

Former students of Papa’s comprised the bulk of that line. They told stories of how he had set them straight. How he believed in them when no one else did. How he gave them a purpose in life. One man told me he had given his son Papa’s first name as the boy’s first, and how he had also given his son Papa’s last name as his middle. My last name. The same name that my students, and now most of my friends, call me.

My Papa meant so much to someone as a teacher that he named his son after him.

At the time, I was too young and heartbroken to fully grasp what this all meant. But over the years, and especially now that I am about to finish year 13 as a teacher, I understand. Papa didn’t die a rich man. But his wealth poured through the doors of that funeral home that night.

So when someone really wants to know what it’s like to be a teacher, I suppose I could tell them the following:

I’ve dove into a fight without thinking about my own safety because I was certain one student was about to get hurt badly.

I’ve had crying students tell me I’m the closest thing to a parent they’ve ever really known.

A parent once said my fellow English 2 Honors teachers and I were doing “the devil’s work” with a particular assignment we had given her child.

I’ve helped more than one student catch up on missed assignments because of the time they missed after an unsuccessful suicide attempt.

I’ve looked into a student’s eyes and seen him weigh the pros and cons of punching me in the face.

This year, for mandatory training, I learned how to plug bullet wounds and apply tourniquets. Did you know you’re supposed to keep jamming the cloth into the hole or twisting the strap no matter how much the student screams and cries?

I’ve kept secret stashes of food in my room for a student who went hungry at home.

I had a principal at my last school threaten to send the resource officer to our homes if he suspected us of faking illness when we took a sick day.

I’ve taught Bloods. I’ve taught Crips.

I’ve taught boys who were too terrified to tell their own family that they liked other boys, or girls who couldn’t tell them they liked other girls.

I’ve had a mother blame me for her daughter’s drug use outside of school.

I’ve had more than one parent actively work to make me lose my job rather than hold his or her child accountable for poor behavior.

I’ve had parents tell me that if it wasn’t for my class, their student wouldn’t be alive today.

I have given the eulogy for a beloved student at her funeral.

I don’t really know how you put a price tag on that, or what I’m really worth on paper. I’ve never liked to ask for more money; that’s not how I was raised. I’ve never requested a raise at any job where I’ve worked. I certainly don’t have a good answer to the question of how much teachers should be paid. But what’s happening in Columbia is much, much more than just the issue of our salaries.

Our entire profession is under assault by a faction of politicians and ordinary citizens who believe we are some sinister, organized movement of socialist indoctrination (I still have yet to find the professional development sessions that teach this). “Loser teachers,” as our president’s son called us.

Furthermore, that faction pushes for more public money to be funneled into private education under the guise of this Orwellian term, “school choice.” It causes doe-eyed parents who haven’t properly researched this phenomenon to utter statements like, “But how is more choice bad?”

Because it isn’t choice, really. School voucher programs typically give opportunities to wealthy white families and faith-based initiatives. Minorities and special needs children are left in the dark. Again, I present Louisiana as evidence; “school choice” has crippled their education system, particularly for minorities.

And that’s the point. The true puppet masters in the school voucher movements want a return to faith-based, predominantly white education funded by public money. They want public education to die at the taxpayers’ expense.

And that’s why my colleagues are marching. Among a slew of other problems.

Teachers are leaving the profession at an alarming rate, and South Carolina truly feels the brunt of this problem.

Undoubtedly, some will call us spoiled or whiners after the march is over. Some may even call for those teachers who marched to lose their jobs. I even hesitated writing this piece because two months ago, I discovered someone on my Facebook friend list who believed we were all indoctrinating kids with socialism, and he had only kept me on his list so he could dig up dirt to use against me as a teacher.

That’s the kind of irrational hate we’re up against, ladies and gentlemen. It makes me hesitate to post any other opinions on the profession because I wonder who else is out there whom I can’t trust.

But everyone should push for strong, well-funded public education because the good of our society depends on it. A strong education system will pay tremendous dividends in the long run for all of America. Yet, irrational hate for the profession and the system pours out of politicians and talk show hosts and the average Joe who somehow thinks our jobs are easy because we have two months off in the summer.

Maybe Joe is right. Maybe having that summer makes our jobs cake. But if so, why are so many teachers fleeing to the private sector?

But for any folks who haven’t had the joy of teaching kids in the classroom (and I truly consider it a joy), let me sum up this diatribe in a little more succinct fashion: I don’t want to turn your kid into a socialist. I’m not trying to make your kid vote a certain way. I’m not trying to make your kid abandon the beliefs and values you have taught him or her at home.

I want to stop having to give your kid pointless standardized tests. I want your kid to feel safe when he or she comes to school. I don’t want your kid to feel worthless because he or she isn’t going to a four-year college. I want your kid to go home and not think about taking his or her life because now he or she has something to look forward to tomorrow. I want your kids to realize what they were put on this Earth to do, and I want them to feel like a bad ass because of it.

I want your kid to stand in line at the funeral home one day and say, “You know what? This old man made a difference in my life.”

I’ll be in the classroom Wednesday just like any other day. But my heart will be with my colleagues who march in Columbia, and I hope their courage will help lead us to change. South Carolina desperately needs it. How amazing it would be for us to be a national contender in a poll that truly matters—one that says our state legislature is actively working to make our society a better place. 

I hope my colleagues' wealth pours through the doors and out into the streets to push for change.

Again, I don’t know what dollar amount you can accurately attribute to my coworkers and me. I doubt any of us will ever get rich as teachers. I probably won’t die a wealthy man.

But I hope one day my former students have to show up early to the funeral home so they can avoid the long line. And I hope my wealth pours through the doors.

Let Them Eat Big Macs

"I made Mexico pay for this."

It was a feast fit for a Burger King.

A lot has happened since the last time I dusted off the cobwebs on this blog. Clemson has won not one but two national titles, the latest coming after a complete shellacking of Alabama. No Happy Meal for you, Nick Saban. No, you don’t get the Hot Wheels toy.

The confetti had barely settled and Hunter Renfrow’s 16^th season barely finished when political controversy collided with my beloved Tigers. Our big orange machine met the big orange POTUS for a congratulatory White House visit—and the players were met with stacks of burgers and fries served on the White House’s best silver.

 The social media-o-sphere went more ballistic than that dude who assaulted theMcDonald’s employee.

People slammed our president for such plebian fare offered to the new National Champions. Hilarious memes dropped onto the Internet smoother than Trevor Lawrence tossing a touchdown to Justyn Ross. National media outlets exploded with the story, with publications like the New Yorker offering harsh criticism. Sarah Huckabee Sanders denied that President Trump horded all the Happy Meal toys in his bedroom for play time later on.

But at the end of the day, one must beg the real question: Is it really a big deal?

My unabashed Clemson adoration is no secret here, and back when I wrote this blog more regularly, I tried to keep politics out of it. For the sake of more disclosure than what’s actually in McDonald’s beef, I’ll make it pretty clear: I abhor this presidency and much of what it stands for. It’s not some kind of leftist propaganda; it’s more like recognizing that it’s okay to dip your fries in a Wendy’s Frostie but not okay to put those little tiny onions on your burger without permission like McDonald’s loves to do.

So, now that you know I love my orange alma mater and can’t stand our orange president, my initial and continued reaction to this fast food feast remains this: “So what?”

Folks, these are college men. They just scored the biggest prize in all of college football and they did it with more bravado than KFC when they created those ungodly bowls of chicken and mashed potatoes and corn and Schnauzers. Their emotional high isn’t going to wane until sometime in April. They’re rolling into the White House, they’re meeting the President of the United States, and they’re having the time of their lives.

Do you really think a plate of Big Macs is going to upset them?

Hell, when I was a student at Clemson, and back then our football team struggled to beat Wake Forest regularly, there were times that a fast food cheeseburger was the most nutritious thing I put in my body all week. I helped tear down the goal posts after Clemson beat 1-10 South Carolina and finished 3-8! My standards were pretty low.

But a few details got lost in the mix of this controversy: Clemson actually requested the fast food meal. And the boys loved every minute of it. And for this Tiger fan, that makes me happy no matter who occupies that White House.

Too much controversy surrounds White House visits when a championship team is invited for a congratulations. Some players boycott and create a stir. Others make people upset by attending. Listen, folks. You’ve just been invited to the place where Lincoln used to shoot dice. Where Teddy Roosevelt kept a pet bear. Where William Howard Taft got stuck in a bath tub. Where Bill Clinton got a—eh… nevermind. But you get the point. You don’t have to agree with the politics of the man who resides there. It’s still an honor to visit the White House as a guest and receive praise for your achievements. That’s what an adult does. That’s what your National Champion Clemson Tigers did.

There are plenty of foibles and actions committed by this administration that deserve the sharpest of scrutiny and criticism. Serving college dudes a bunch of cheeseburgers isn’t one of them. Choose your angst wisely lest your more valid protests go ignored like your special requests at a McDonald’s drive thru.

And for the Trumpophiles, the anger over the jokes directed at this event are equally absurd. It's funny. It's quirky. It deserves a good laugh. If anyone on either side of the political spectrum is upset about this feast, it's time for them to visit their nearest fast food joint and play in the ball pit for a little while.

So what does the greatest college football team in history (sorry, but 1897 Penn didn’t play anybody) eat at the White House? Whatever the hell it wants to. Maybe when Clemson returns next year, President Trump will splurge for some Frosties this time. It could be worse. Some people will never get to eat fast food in the White House.

We shouldn’t ignore that history was made with this move, though. President Trump is now the only person in history to collect all the McDonald’s Monopoly pieces with this gesture.