EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 SURVIVORS

An old friend called me last week. Well over a half-century ago we had been college roommates for a spell. He dropped out of college because, as he put it, “Inertia overtook me.” He fell under the spell of an army recruiter named “Sergeant Goforth.” ( I am not making this up.) This super-salesman sold my friend on the idea of enlisting with a goal of becoming an officer and then a Green Beret.

He made it, and served a tour working with a group of Montagnards in Vietnam. He went through so much training that I had finished my tour there before he ever left the states. When he returned stateside, the Army told him they didn’t need captains that had finished their tour, but he had to fill out the remaining time of his commitment. That resulted in some sad stories for him and other detainees at Fort Hood. But he survived.

The reason for his call was to tell me that he had received a bad medical report with an estimated life expectancy of no more than two or three years. He is currently using oxygen as a medical assistance.

This from a former Green Beret?

That’s a hard pill to swallow. My first question was, “Agent Orange?”

No, years of extensive woodworking without using a mask.

Not service related? Not directly, but maybe. A military experience, particularly one that included a tour in a war zone, tends to make a survivor feel impervious to common, everyday dangers. And though the VA denies most claims, with good reason, those with Agent Orange hovering over them can’t shake the feeling that, at the least, it may serve as a catalyst. It is like an invisible demon, placed above one by a fickle fate to be called into action when we least expect it, a fitting tool for a country that never forgave those who served in that miserable little war.

At any rate, somewhere on the east coast of America, there is an elderly man sitting in public with an oxygen cylinder by his side. Young ones pass by, nudge each other, and manage to hold their giggles until he is out of hearing.

They couldn’t imagine. They just couldn’t imagine.

Morning Thoughts: September 25, 2017

When I first enrolled at the University of Arkansas, African-American students were segregated into one dormitory. I can’t remember its name for the life of me. I seem to remember it was a wood frame building that looked more like a barracks than a dorm.

They had done away with it by the time I left and had integrated the dorms, years after they had integrated the classrooms. Justice came slowly in those days, hardly like a mighty river, more like a sluggish bayou.

Over the years, I have witnessed more than a few incidents that demanded courage. I’ve witnessed some that produced courage. One in particular stands out in my memory. It demonstrated a bravery almost rapturous in its glory.

The U of A had some sort of beauty contest each year in the Greek amphitheater. All the sororities would send their top picks across the stage dressed in their finery, and every male heart in the crowd would spend an evening pining for the unattainable. It was quite a sight. Each fraternity had a favorite sorority and the contest could get raucous at times. The students had a good time.

Then one year, from out of nowhere, the African-American dorm announced that it was entering a contestant. That caused quite a stir and, if I remember, boosted that year’s attendance, more from curiosity and a chance to mock and demean than for any other reasons.

I suspect it was a last-minute decision, for when the contestant’s name was called she appeared in a modest white dress, more suitable for church than a beauty contest. She hurried across the stage without looking at the crowd, then disappeared into the annals of campus history.

The stage was small, as I remember, but that must have been the longest walk a human made that night. The catcalls were, I can only imagine, painful to the core. The laughter must have been worse. The bravery was, to a boy from the segregated South of Arkansas, galvanizing. There are many faces of courage. Rescuing a wounded comrade under fire is one. Making a short walk through an almost visible curtain of hatred is surely another.

There is no chance that this girl received even a scintilla of consideration as winner of the contest. Yet, she towered over all of us there like a colossus. I’ll never forget the ephemeral journey she made from one side of the stage to the other amidst the taunting and disbelief. I still like to believe that it changed my life for the better.

I’ve no idea who she was, or what may have happened to her. If she is still alive, she is at the age where she could have a grandson playing professional sports. As I read the news this morning, she came to mind, and I wondered what she might think of a loved one making a brave stand to bring attention to racism and to produce justice for his people.

Courage: pass it on.

Thinking About Things: Sepember 24, 2017

We are now embroiled in a great controversy about how much respect to pay our national anthem. It is fitting and proper that we do so. Let's think about it.

It doesn’t bother me. I served my country and will never apologize for the matter in which I do or don’t respect her. Those who are watching the Ken Burns/ Lynn Novick documentary on the Vietnam War are seeing evidence that my country sent me into one of the worst strategic blunders in its history. One is free to make up one’s mind as to whether the adventure was immoral or illegal. For me, both at the time and in retrospect, it was both.

But I served. And because of that, I’ll stand or not stand for a human-inspired musical rendition of my country’s worth. And I’ll allow others to do as they see fit as well. Their path to this moment has been different from mine, and that demands empathy.

For example, I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be a man of African-American descent, during my lifetime

A man of my age would have heard their father, a grown man working to provide for his family, called a “boy.”

That person would have attended a substandard school.

That person, having served his country as I did, would have been denied housing of his choice upon return from war.

That person would have seen a presidential aspirant, telecasting a “Southern-Strategy, announce his candidacy in the Mississippi city in which four civil rights were murdered for attempting to register people of his color to vote.

That person, upon entering the job market, would have been denied good jobs and promotions.

The list goes on and on. For women of color, it would have been worse.

With that as a background, the respect paid the national anthem recedes in importance as an issue. Yuval Noah Harari, in his book, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind suggests that our species requires mythology at a certain point to maintain an expansion of our group development. If true, then the myths surrounding patriotic fervor are as much utilitarian as they are morality-based. Showing an almost worshipful respect for a national anthem for example can help a society expand its importance.

To me, it would depend upon the circumstance. At a memorial service for those who stormed the beaches at Normandy, I will stand tall and proud.

For a ceremony celebrating the passage of the Civil Rights Act, I would stand tall and proud, as I would for many other ceremonies celebrating the great moments of our nation’s history as I see them.

For celebrating those activities or individuals that demean or trivialize honor, respect, and duty, I might take a walk. For those celebrating anyone who would seek to destroy the institutions that have guided America through her greatest moments, I might even sit on my butt.

At this moment, we Americans will take sides once more. A percentage of them will choose to show respect for our symbols without restraint. A percentage will continue to protest. Neither change nor contemplation will change those minds. The important group, the group that includes me, will use this opportunity to reflect upon the challenge, and push ourselves to amend and improve our country.

That, it seems to me, would be a good and proper thing.

Just thinking …

Fort Lauderdale

I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It’s not only because Travis McGee’s mythical boat, The Busted Flush, was anchored there in Slip F18 of the Bahia Mar Resort. No, that strengthened my affection, but its source goes all the way back to 1970 when I was a seaman aboard the USS Hunley, AS-31 out of Charleston, South Carolina.

A little over a year before, I had returned from a year with the Naval Security Forces in Da Nang. Around that time—1968—may have been the least popular time to have ever served in the United States Armed Forces while wearing the two ribbons denoting service in Vietnam. It seemed as if the entire nation was divided into those who hated us and those who resented us.

There were the big things, like the angry crowd awaiting us at the airport when we landed from our tour. There were the little things, like segregated seating in airport lounges and our sea bags being thrown down three floors to a basement cage in the San Francisco airport to separate it from the baggage of regular passengers. Airline stewardesses weren't even cordial to us, more than necessary.

My own shipmates aboard the Hunley weren’t above needling us, “We always assign you Vietnam guys to the crappiest job aboard ship so you’ll learn your place." Of course, other military personnel weren’t treated much better when they went “on the beach.”

No, the people of Charleston provided no balm. They hated, in decreasing order of severity, people of color, military personnel, and anyone who had moved into the city since the 1700s. I made two of the three. Some of my shipmates covered them all.

By 1970, I could get dispirited with little encouragement. Then, our ship’s captain, a Captain Anders serving his last cruise and feeling charitable, decided the crew deserved some R and R, thus scheduling a three-day stop in Fort Lauderdale.

That’s when it happened.

After a smooth passage, we reached the city. The harbor pilot took us through the harbor and the ship began moving down a canal, lined with multi-story condos, to our berth. Those of us not on duty were expected to line the main deck in our best “dress whites,” and look as military as possible. We complied, standing at “parade rest” and hiding our desire to get ashore.

At first, nothing happened. Then, it was if something, like the ripple of an ebb tide, was moving along the balconies and windows of the condominiums. There sounded an almost audible buzz. Ahead of us, flags appeared. People materialized on the balconies and began to wave. Old men, so close we could make out their features, saluted. Some groups even clapped.

It was the first time in over a year that anyone, other than family, close friends, and fellow vets of that unfortunate war, had offered a kind gesture for my military service. Tears ran down my face then, as they do now when I think about that moment.

Yes. I’ll always think highly of Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Best wishes, dear city.