"I Was Just Another Black Face in the Streets."

Alex Landau (AL): I was about 4 years old and a little girl on the playground came up to me and said, "Not all white kids like to play with black kids." You grabbed her and told her, "You don't talk to my son like that, you need to leave."

Patsy Hathaway (PH): Yeah, the one that hurt me the most, you were 8 years old and outside on a really very hot day, covered from head-to-toe with a long-sleeved shirt. And I didn't understand why you were dressed like that and you said, "Because you didn't want your skin to get any darker."

AL: We never talked about race growing up, I just don't think that was ever a conversation.

PH: I thought that love would conquer all and skin color really didn't matter. I had to learn the really hard way when they almost killed you.

AL: Yeah. I was 19 years old. I had picked up a friend and I noticed that we had red and blue lights behind us--we were being pulled over. The officer explained I had made an illegal left turn, and to step out of the car.

So I get out of the car first, he pats me down. And then he goes around to the passenger side and pulls my friend Addison out of the car.

PH: Addison is white.

AL: Yeah, Addison is white, and he had some weed in his coat pocket. So he gets placed in handcuffs. I figure that everything is okay, I’m not in handcuffs I’ve already been patted down, plus there’s three officers on the scene. And I had never had a negative interaction with police in my life.

So I ask them, "Can I please see a warrant before you continue the search?" And they grab me and began to hit me in the face. I could hear Addison in the background yelling, "Stop. Leave him alone." I was hit several times, and I remember gasping for air and spitting and blood flying across the grass.

And then I hear an officer shout out, “He’s reaching for her gun.” I immediately started yelling, “No, I”m not. I’m not reaching for anything.”

And, I remember an officer say, “If he doesn’t calm down, we’re going to have to shoot him.” I could feel the gun pressed against my head, and I expected to be shot. And at that point I lost consciousness.

I woke up to a multitude of officers just standing around me laughing. One officer was like, “Where’s that warrant now you fucking nigger.” And it took 45 stitches to close up the lacerations in my face alone.

How did it feel when you got the call that I was in jail?

PH: I was in the middle of teaching a second grade class. All she said was, “You’d better come see about your son.” She didn’t say anything about what kind of shape you were in.

AL: What about when you finally saw me?

PH: All I remember is involuntarily screaming.

AL: That was the first time I had cried the entire time I had been in there. And it wasn’t my injuries that hurt. It was just seeing how it devastated you.

PH: My whole world view changed that night.

AL: Yeah. For me it was the point of awakening to how the rest of the world is going to look at you. I was just another black face in the streets and I was almost another dead black male.


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When Pigs Swim

Robin Williams on Inside the Actor's Studio (excerpt)

O Captain! My Captain!

I had mixed feelings about devoting a blog post to the death of Robin Williams.

The award-winning actor/comedian, who died yesterday at his home in northern California at the age of 63, has been part of my life since high school. (The television show that made him a star, Mork & Mindy, aired on ABC from 1978 to 1982. I graduated in 1980.) He had appeared in over 80 films – many of which are truly iconic – and has held a steady position near the top of my “People with Whom I’d Love to Hang Out at a Bar” list since I became old enough, legally, to drink.

On the other hand, I’ve been shaken to my core by the slaughter of Palestinian children by the Israeli Defense Forces in Gaza in recent weeks – as my many related Facebook and “What’s the Diehl?” posts attest – and it seemed irresponsible or at least inadvisable to lament the passing of a rich old white American, albeit a brilliantly funny one, when I was still worked up about the distressing violence in the Middle East. (The most recent report on August 6 claims 1,843 Palestinian civilians, including a reported 415 children, have died as a result of Israeli fire.)

I decided to heed Anita’s words of wisdom – although celebrities don’t impress her much, she told me that it’s possible, acceptable and in fact preferable to communicate and have feelings about more than one occurrence or development at a time – and share my surprisingly strong sense of sadness about this gifted man’s death (at his own hand, according to the Marin County Sheriff’s Office).

I really related to Robin Williams. Not, of course, to his gargantuan comedic talent, unparalleled improvisational skills and lightning-fast brain. Not to his wealth and capacity – his films have grossed $5.2 billion worldwide and Comedy Relief, the charity with which he’s closely-associated, has raised $50 million to combat homelessness in America. I related more to how he at times felt alone even when he was surrounded by others. I related to how his first and second marriages didn’t last and he was challenged by an addictive personality (he was a famous alcoholic and former cocaine addict). We were both eco-friendly – he drove a Toyota Prius and I spent years working for environmental causes. He was born in Chicago, my favorite city, in July of 1951, and grew up in Bloomfield Hills, north of Detroit, where I lived for years. And we were both sensitive clowns who knew how to hide our sadness by making others laugh. He just got paid a hell of a lot more than I did – and his severe depression, finally and sadly, proved too strong.

As Sy Parrish in "One Hour Photo"

Robin Williams was a four-time Academy Award nominee who took home the Oscar for his sensitive, layered portrayal of psychology teacher Dr. Sean Maguire in 1997’s “Good Will Hunting.” I loved his performance in 1987’s “Good Morning, Vietnam” (based on real-life Air Force sergeant and disc jockey Adrian Cronauer). I loved him in 1989’s “Dead Poets Society” (see below). He was amazing as Genie in 1992’s “Aladdin,” in the title roles in 1993’s “Mrs. Doubtfire” and 1998’s “Patch Adams,” and in what is my favorite Williams movie, “One Hour Photo.” (His 2002 performance as deranged photo technician Sy Parrish still gives me goosebumps when I think about it.) I even liked him as Alan Parrish in 1995’s “Jumanji” and as Professor Philip Brainard in 1997’s “Flubber,” the not-too-popular remake of the beloved “The Absent-Minded Professor.” Everyone has their own favorite Williams movie(s); if you can’t name at least two or three, you’ve either been comatose or locked up in a maximum-security facility without access to the touchstones of American culture.

I had the television on in the background when I was writing this and Rachel Maddow, Lawrence O’Donnell and their guests used words like “superhuman,” miraculous,” “genius” and “brilliant” to describe Robin Williams. I’m glad the full extent of his talent is known and acknowledged. I just wish he would have known how to get help so I wouldn’t be blogging about him now.

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

The 1989 movie “Dead Poets Society” makes repeated references to this poem – written by Walt Whitman in 1865 about the death of President Abraham Lincoln – especially when English teacher John Keating, played by Robin Williams, tells his students that they can call him "O Captain! My Captain!" if they feel daring. At the end of the movie, the students defiantly show their support for the recently-dismissed Keating by reciting the phrase while standing on their desks.


P.S.  My Facebook friend Kimberly Costello, a television writer/producer, was longtime friends with Robin Williams. She's been kind enough to share several personal anecdotes with her Facebook friends that convey what a truly amazing and one-of-a-kind talent he was. Her loss - and ours - is indeed tremendous.

Kimberly Costello and Robin Williams

 at the Comedy Store in 1980

Sources: International Business Times, Hollywood Reporter, Internet Movie Database.

A Treasure in Gaza

John Lennon: Give Peace a Chance

A Song for Gaza: The Ballad of Rivka and Mohammed

I was watching the news from Gaza
And I fell asleep on my chair
And when I awoke from my slumber
A young girl was standing there.

She said, My name is Rivka
They killed me because I'm a Jew
I died in the ghetto of Vilna
In nineteen forty two.

The ghetto was like a prison
They wouldn't allow us to leave
Some said they were going to kill us all
We didn't know what to believe.

That day I wore my new red dress
My bubbe had made for me
And in that crowded ghetto
It made me feel proud and free.

I looked up at the soldier
I looked him in the eye
I forgot to bow my head down
And so I had to die.

He smashed my head with his rifle
Because I was too bold
I was killed in the Vilna ghetto
When I was seven years old.

And then out of the darkness
A young boy's gaze met mine
He said, My name is Mohammed
My country is Palestine.

I've lived all my life in Gaza
And the only time I feel free
Is when I go down to the harbour
And feel the wind from the sea.

That day I went with my cousins
We ran down to the beach to play
Then the soldier fired a shell at me
And blew my life away.

They want to crush our spirits
They want us to be afraid
Locked up in the prison of Gaza
The prison that they have made.

To them our lives don't matter
They force us to live in a cage
I was killed on the beach in Gaza
At eleven years of age.

They don't think that we deserve freedom
Or belong to the human race.
Mohammed, my brother, said Rivka,
This world is a cold, cold place.

Mohammed, my friend, my brother,
Let us leave this world of war.
Then each took the hand of the other
And then they were seen no more.

But I saw spokesmen and politicians
Lining up to speechify
And every word was a hypocrite
And every word was a lie.

I saw children still being slaughtered
The monster must have its fill
While the people with power sat on their hands
And supplied the weapons that kill.

I weep for the people of Gaza
And they are weeping still
And I curse the ones who did nothing
And enable the monster to kill.

Written and sung by Leon Rosselson. The song was written in July/August 2014 as Israel's bombardment of Gaza slaughtered 2,000 civilians, among them hundreds of children.