Morning Thoughts: November 20, 2017

It’s Monday, and not a great time for monumental thoughts. Thought maybe I would just “practice my ‘nalogies” for a while. That didn’t last long. It was like making love to a mannequin.

Mondays are like foreplay to a redneck, something that has to be endured in order to get to better times. All over America at this time, at least in the eastern half of the country, sour faces are filling rooms that rang with laughter at quitting time Friday. Comparing Mondays to Fridays is like saying that castor oil is like Stella Beer, they are both liquid and supposed to make you feel better.

Reading the news made Monday worse. Calling this “thing” coming out of Washington a “Tax Reform Bill” is like calling a hot dog eating contest a nutrition class.

After pecking away rather aimlessly, I walked around to loosen up a bit. I kicked a dog who was asleep in my pathway, not a mean-spirited act, but rather a gentle restatement of a long-standing philosophical example of the hegemonic positions of the two species. Even that didn’t make me feel better.

I considered playing the Jimmy Hendrix version, at top volume, of what we used to call in the Navy the “Star-Spangled Bananer” That brought back memories. On a Navy base, the sailors on watch had to play certain tunes at certain times of the day to accompany certain actions steeped in history, protocol, and regulations. They took it fairly seriously. Failing it any way would be like spitting on the grave of John Paul Jones himself.

The playing of the tunes was accomplished by finding a miniscule band of grooves on an old vinyl record that must have had every bit of music that the United States Navy had ever considered vital. I’m sure that “Barnacle Bill the Sailor,” was on there somewhere, as was “Roll me over …, no, that was Army. Let me just assure you that finding the appropriate band for “Taps” or “Revile” wasn’t easy for a sleepy or hungover sailor whose indifferent attitude stood out like an “Irish Pendant” on the mainmast.

The punishment, however, for a mishap was offset by the jollity of hearing “Anchors Aweigh” blasted over an entire base at some ungodly hour of the morning in place of the “The Star-Spangled Banner,” or whatever. Sometimes a sleeping Officer of the Deck would jump to attention and start singing the words to beat the band. I think maybe they did that at “The Academy.”

The examples of such loose rigging (that’s what they called them in the Navy) paled in contrast with the act of misjudging the length of the country’s flag at end of day and becoming entwined within its folds to the point of twisting and turning—while it flapped in the wind—like a super patriotic Isadora Duncan. Base commanders in particular eschewed such scenes.

There, memories of sacrifice and valor have brightened my day to the point where I can cope. At least I think I can. First, did I ever tell you about the time, as coxswain of a rescue boat during a drill at sea, I ran completely over the “rescue dummy,” causing our Departmental Bo’sun to stage a mock funeral at assembly the next morning?

"Courage at Sea" and his buddy "Valiant Shipmate"

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.