Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [90]
On our way up to Harlem, I asked the driver, “Have I ever told you about my rodeo days?”
“No, Dog,” he said.
When I was twenty-two years old, I rode bucking broncos at a farm in Pampa, Texas. I’d never ridden wild horses before, but I knew I could do it. The trainer told me he’d give me seventy dollars for every horse I could tame. It took me two or three days to break the horses I rode, but I did it with ease and comfort. I got so good at it I decided to enter a local rodeo and try my hat at being a real cowboy.
I showed up with my long hair and biker boots on while the other rodeo riders had their hair cut short and wore traditional gear. I thought that my extra tall cowboy hat would help me fit in, but it didn’t. It mostly made me stand out. One of the guys turned to me and said, “What are you doing here, man? You don’t belong here. This is not your world, biker boy. You’re not one of us. Why don’t you get the hell out of here?”
I knew I had the talent to be one of the best rodeo cowboys in the world. I didn’t understand why this guy was telling me to get out before I even had the chance to prove myself. I’ve never been the type of guy to back down from a situation just because someone else tells me I can’t do it. Telling me I shouldn’t do it is the best way to get me to do something.
My driver understood what I was telling him as we made our way up the West Side Highway along the Hudson River toward 125th Street, the heart of Harlem. I wasn’t afraid to go someplace just because someone might not think I belonged. I knew in my heart that the only way to make peace with the people I’d hurt was to be among them. We drove through the historic neighborhood with the darkened windows of our shiny black SUV rolled down so people could see Dog was in the ’hood. That’s when our experience began.
“Dog, Dog! Hey, brother. Don’t worry. We love you!” A young black man chased after the car as we slowly moved up the street. He began shouting to his friends that Dog was in the car. People began walking over and circling the vehicle as we stopped for a red light. I shook as many hands as I could while several people snapped pictures of Beth and me on their cell phones. Our driver was nervous, suggesting we get out of there as soon as we could, but I never felt threatened for one single second. As the light turned green, I heard a woman shout out, “He’s a fricken racist.” I never saw her, but I heard her loud and clear. It broke my heart. Beth could see I was upset.
“It’s OK, Big Daddy. They loved you. They all knew you didn’t mean to use that word…” She did her best to console me, but at the time, I still felt like that woman spoke for so many others. I thought about the experience the whole way back to our hotel. It felt good to see my many brothers and sisters reach out their hands, as if they had accepted my olive branch of peace by being there and loving me that day. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Beth was right. They knew I’m not a racist. One woman’s voice couldn’t drown out the sound of everyone else’s love and forgiveness. Mercy was alive and well and, apparently, living in Harlem!
END OF INTERMISSION TWO
CHAPTER 17
(credit: Chaz)
One of the greatest benefits of being on television is having the chance to give back to the community. One of the ways I do that is by participating in local outreach programs where I can meet and mingle with people who are searching for a reason to change their lives, and need guidance to take those steps and encouragement to get there. A&E started a program called the A&E Recovery Project. Its mission is to reach out to the more than 22 million Americans who suffer from addictions, as well as their family members, friends, and colleagues, who are all touched by the disease. The Recovery Project was “created to break the stigma of addiction, raise awareness that addiction is a treatable disease and prove that recovery is possible.”
In the spring of 2009, I took part in a rally held in Honolulu to help