Americans

 Forcing myself to be optimistic on what may be one of the most important days in American history. If things turn out right, we will continue to have enlightened leadership based on adherence to the law and human kindness. Will there be decisions with which I don’t agree?

Certainly. I’m an American.

If things don’t turn out right, I fear this will be the last election America enjoys. Oh, there will be things called “elections” like in Russia. But we will no longer have the opportunity to vote out fascists who don’t do the things their supporters thought they would. Will I resist?

Certainly. I’m an American.

It isn’t easy trying to imagine an America ruled under a government that mocks the disabled, sets a mob loose on police officers guarding our nation’s capitol, demeans our military and its veterans, denounces science, places women in subservient positions with no control over their own health, and rises to power on bigotry. Will the people grow weary of their rule?

Certainly, they’re Americans.

But I stand by my feeling that this will not come to happen. We have a choice today. Will we stand our ground and speak out with our votes against tyranny and oppression?

Certainly. We’re Americans.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

CHILDLESSNESS

Evidently one political party endorses the view that a childless woman, expanded to a childless couple, doesn’t deserve a role in determining the fate of America.

Having a history involving this concept, I can offer a personal opinion.

This is a political stand of almost unbelievable cruelty.

We, my life’s partner and I, produced no children in our marriage. Once, we were on the path, but a miscarriage ended the process and no further attempts proved successful.

If Cult members could see the look on the face of a woman who has just seen the process of motherhood fail, would it change their minds?

I doubt it. Cults demand the repudiation of empathy as much as they do reason.

There is a larger picture here, though. A couple having suffered through a miscarriage or a failure to procreate doesn’t represent the only childless Americans.

Men have had the opportunity to avoid the responsibility of parenthood for years. Women haven’t. Now they face opprobrium by their personal decision. That should lose the cult half the vote in an election.

It won’t. Cults demand obedience to doctrine over any sense of personhood.

Finaly, the Cult accepts, by non-refutation, the concept that those who have no children don’t deserve the honor of having a stake in the future of America.

Really?

My Redacted Life: Chapter 34 (Cont._2)

 The days leading up to the wedding passed by like gray horses filing through a morning mist. I was apprehensive. Brenda was busy. Friends were inquisitive. I’d never attended a church wedding so I didn’t know what to expect. Ours would be a simple affair by modern standards but an affordable and accessible one. I still harbored a fear of speaking before a group, but I wouldn’t have a lot to say.

Besides, the three harpies had made me go over my lines do many times that I knew I couldn’t fail. The pressure seemed to make Brenda grow prettier every day. I don’t know exactly why. She wasn’t landing the catch of the century or anything. I was overweight from the eating binge that had accompanied my successful decision to quit smoking. I wasn’t above drinking too much. I could summon up a temper when I wished. I still felt I was four years behind my peers who had successfully avoided the draft.

But she stood by me, a trait that would continue.

My neighbor wasn’t so kind. She constantly reminded me that my bride-to-be could have “had her pick of men.” I should, therefore, consider myself lucky and do exactly as I was told. Hadn’t I been to boot camp?

“Well, yeah.”

“Just consider this another boot camp. One for wedding preparations.”

“Now one is not helpless simply because one is a man,” I said. “I have a good job, I served honorably in the military, People are starting to show a great deal of respect for my work and my opinion. I don’t have to stand for being treated like a two-year-old.”

“Shut up and listen,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. She had caught me going to my apartment and stopped me in front of her door. She fastened the top button on her blouse and pinched each side of her bra through the material with her fingers. She tugged it back and forth until she was satisfied with the fit and stuck a finger toward me.

“This is going to be one of the most important nights of her life,” she said. “It’s up to you to help make it happen.”

“I plan to.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“A suit?”

“Not a tuxedo?”

“She said I didn’t have to.”

“I’ll verify that,” she said. “You’d better not be lying.”

“She said we didn’t need any extra extravagances.”

“That sounds like her, but I’ll check anyway.”

"You do that."

“I will. Who’s going to be the best man?”

“My brother.”

“Will he be sober?”

“I suppose so.”

“You’d better know so.”

It went on like this for a while. I became confused. Weren’t weddings supposed to be about love? If so, would not wedding preparations also be about love? I was feeling more like a Marine recruit that a soon-to-be husband. She broke my reverie.

“You know I’m doing this for your own good, don’t you?”

Before I could answer, she continued. “We think an awfully lot of that girl.”

“I do too.”

“Then you’d better pay attention and carry it off like it’s the greatest thing that ever happened to you.” With that, she opened the door to her apartment, went in, and disappeared. I didn’t know what the hell to do next. I was thinking that I wasn’t going to put up with this crap from a bunch of women much longer. I was the man in the group and damned sure ought to let them know who was in charge. It surely wasn’t this neighbor with her lack of attention to dressing skills. We'd get this straightened out. Still, I didn’t move.

She had neglected to dismiss me.

This marriage thing wasn't
going to be as easy as I thought.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 31: (Cont._4)

Women appeared more and more in the news as July of 1972 progressed, along with plans for our wedding. The world began learning what I already knew. Women were shedding their bonds. A strong woman, and they could all be strong when it suited them, would become a force with which to reckon in the future. I learned more about that daily. The guys down at the coffee shop didn’t much like it, but that mattered very little.

That month alone saw some news, front-page and not society-section, that should have alerted the most ardent misogynists to this new tectonic shift in our societal substructure. Signs were that, in the future, the feminine half of our species would lay increasing claim to a place at the table so to speak. Had men been paying attention, they might have noticed.

On the first day of the month, for example Gloria Steinem published the first edition of a feminist magazine, "Ms." It featured Wonder Woman on the cover. Message delivered.

Less than a week later, the FBI swore in Susan Lynn Roley & Joanne E Pierce as its first two female members. What would “Jedger” have thought about that? One can only wonder.

The sports world began to take notice. Tennis star Billy Jean King was drawing attention to women’s tennis, making a bunch of male chauvinists nervous. Women golfers such as American Susie Maxwell Berning drew their own share of attention.

In politics, Jean Westwood became the first woman chosen to head the Democratic National Committee. A wag at the downtown men’s health club wondered, “What next, some babe wanting to run for president?”

“Nah,” another said, “We’ll have a [adjective deleted] president before we have a woman one.”

I paid little attention at the time, I was still fixated on “manly-man” things. Yoko Ono broke up the Beatles with her quiet roar. Paul McCartney responded by forming his own band, something called “Wings.” I gave it little chance of success. In Northern Ireland and England, they were murdering the hell out of one another. Sometimes I wondered if Matthew Arnold hadn’t nailed it when he wrote that, “ … peace has left the upper world. And now keeps only in the grave.” After all, we were still shipping full caskets home from South Vietnam.

All this time, I was an American male, and I had “laid down my sword and shield,” so news slid off me as did concern of any decline in male hegemony. What did I have to fear? I had a good job, and evenings saw me undergoing “groom-training,” taught by Brenda, Vernell, and my neighbor. I had no time for so-called “women’s lib.”

Tonight’s lesson centered on my script. “Three lines is all you have,” Venell said. “How could you blow that? Let’s try again. She took my shoulders, rather roughly I thought, and positioned me next to Brenda, who seemed a bit out of patience. “Now,” said Vernell.

“I will. I do. And I wed you with …”

“Stop, dammit stop,” Venell yelled. “With this ring I do thee wed.”

“Ya’ll are making me nervous,” I said.

My neighbor responded, moving in close to me, “We’re going to make you think ‘nervous,’ Buster.”

I pointed at her blouse and looked at Vernell. She said to her sister, “Button up, dammit, and don’t you own a bra?”

They made adjustments. I turned to Brenda for solace. She looked at me with those sweet eyes that had so captivated me when I met her. “Don’t screw this up,” she said. “My relatives are even coming down from Chicago for it. You’d damn well better be ready, and, … look at me when I’m talking to you, … sober.”

Such soothing balm got me through the evening. Later, I found myself keyed up and not ready for bed, so I flicked on the ten o’clock news. I sat in my most comfortable chair with a beer and waited for some indication that the world was stable and level and I wouldn’t be facing any new challenges to societal norms.

Then, there it was, like an oracle shouting “Get ready for more.”

From war-torn England came another subterranean rumble. That week had seen the international debut of something called a “Gay Pride March.”

"Sweetie, you don't mind if
I call you Sweetie, do you?
You screw this wedding up, and
a ton of bricks will land on you."

My Redacted Life: Chapter 31 (Cont._3)

Marriage loomed a month away. We were stressed by the plans, haunted by doubts, and nervous about the future. Feeling edgy, we went fishing. Lake Conway was nearby and the landings there rented boats and motors. What else could a young couple in love do to settle their nerves?

The bream were biting just enough that day to keep our minds occupied. Still, we made plans for the future. I would become a partner in the firm and gain a reputation for excellence. Maybe I would work on a Master's degree. She would do something someday other than teaching.

Why had she gone into teaching?

“The guidance counselors never told us that girls could do anything else.”

“Oh?”

“Well girls weren’t supposed to go to college in the first place.”

“Oh?”

“Oh no. It was okay to live in a college town, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” if you were there to work on your PhT.”

“PhT?”

“Putting hubby through.”

“Oh.”

She yanked her line and pulled in a small bream, wriggling and thrashing as if its life depended upon it, which it did. She unhooked it, examined it, and said, “Go grow a little.” She tossed it into the lake.

I watched her and said, “Where did you learn to fish?”

She shrugged. “Where did you?”

That caught me off guard. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve just always known how.”

“So you think I am any different? Hand me the cricket box. Then turn around and face the other direction.”

I did as I was told and held onto the sides of the boat as a good deal of commotion occurred at the other end.

What was I getting myself into?

After a few moments, calm returned and she said, “You can turn around now.”

She had already baited her hook and tossed the line into the water. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. Finally, I broke the silence. “Why did you decide to teach the third grade?”

She looked down the boat at me. “Because they wouldn’t let me run the torture ward.”

“Oh.”

She examined her bait and threw it back in. “I’ll bet you were a perfect student, weren’t you?”

“Hardly,” I said. “I was the youngest in the class and easily led astray. How about you?”

“Mostly perfect.”

“Mostly?”

“Except for the time I got sent home in grade school.”

“Sent home? For what?”

“This boy pushed me and called me ‘fatty.’ So I hit him in the face and broke his glasses.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Mama and Daddy had to buy him a new pair.”

“Oh.”

“Know what though?”

“No. What?”

“None of the other kids ever called me ‘fatty’ again.”

“I can imagine.”

We fished in silence as I wondered if rich folks in those big skyscrapers up north ever spent such wonderful times while they were waiting to get married.

Teach a girl to dig her own fish bait
and she'll take care of herself forever.

My Redacted LIfe: Chapter 18 (Cont._3)

 After the near catastrophic incident on the parking lot, I had sold the old Ford sedan, gathered my funds and bought a new car, a green Porsche 914 sports car. I picked it up late Monday afternoon and spent an hour working through the shifting process. By evening, I thought I had it mastered.

To my utter disappointment, there wasn’t a soul outside at the apartment parking lot. I parked in one of the front spaces and stood for a long time admiring the Green Angel and wiping away imaginary specks of dust.

Nobody noticed.

I thought of five reasons during the evening to wander out and check for something I might have left in the car. I did every thing but sing out “Hey, look me over.”

Nobody noticed.

One Tuesday, I drove to work and parked on the farthest back portion of the lot to avoid careless neighbors. The crew at work was interested, but not ecstatic over my new status. No one bothered to walk the five blocks over to see it.

That evening was the Malvern Planning Commission meeting so I honored Interstate-30 with my presence. Other than a few truckers taking my Green Angel as a personal insult, nobody else noticed.

I parked conspicuously in front of the meeting place and told those coming in about my new car. They didn’t seem to understand its appeal to me, so I trudged into the meeting and gave it my best.

On the way home, I took University Avenue from the interstate up to Cantrell. At one intersection, I pulled up to a traffic signal and sat on the right lane of the four-lane. I looked over. Two gorgeous young women sat in a late-model Mercedes adjacent to me. They were talking and laughing, obviously lonely.

Ah, I had a plan. The City of Little Rock has this rule, maybe even a city ordinance, that a vehicle must stop at each traffic signal encountered. Any instance of a vehicle making a green light evidently gets someone at City Hall in hot water. Knowing this, I revved the engine on the Porsche. I would take off in a roar and gain an incredible speed before having to stop at the next traffic signal a block away.

My fantasy continued. Reaching the traffic signal themselves a short time later, the two women would look over, wondering just what kind of man could be driving a wonder car of just power and prestige? Windows would drop. Pleasantries would follow, and admiring looks would abound. The most voluptuous of the two would suggest coffee, and … well, you’ve seen the James Bond movies. Who knew what might follow?

The Green Angel.
Would she be feisty too?

With such a promising plan in mind, I revved the tiny engine again, noticing the short interval between the powerful roar and a whine reminiscent of a dentist's drill. I dropped a few RPMs and waited. The traffic signal seemed to be mocking me. It seemed an hour before I could see the perpendicular lens turn orange, and then.

The Mercedes began to roll forward. I popped the clutch in my car and shot the gas to her, expecting to be slammed back against the seat. I discovered to my dismay and embarrassment that I had put the gearshift into third-gear and not first. The Green Angel shuttered and sputtered as the two women drove away. I imagined that I could hear them laughing.

I didn’t even bother to look over when I reached where they waited at the next light, a block down the street.

Back at the apartment, it was dark and quiet. There wasn’t a light burning in any apartment, not even that of my next-door neighbor. I parked my new car, went in, had a stiff drink of single-malt scotch, and went to bed. I hoped tomorrow would be better.

It was.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Three (Cont._10

I finished the first week of my new job back in 1971, and settled in. Want to know about my love life? There, that sums it up. Nonexistent. On the positive side, it gave me more time to study my adopted profession. I read a lot too, encountering fewer entanglements that way.

There were two women who shared an apartment across the hall. They both worked at Timex Corporation, a large concern that graced the city back when low-skilled jobs were available in the South. One was rather thin and possessed of more inner than outer beauty. The other was ample and possessed a wholesome “stay-away” attitude. Neither seemed overly impressed with my physique, and since we all thrived on scarcity, we became friends without benefits other than cordial conversations.

There was a third woman who lived downstairs, a very attractive person, but lacking a great deal of education. She worked with the other two. They say she was taking night courses at the local college, but before I got to know her, she disappeared. After awhile, the girls told me that she had trusted a supervisor at the plant once too often. He chose to stay married, and she returned to her hometown in the Arkansas Delta. There was a shoe factory there at the time. Maybe she found work therein, but it closed not long after. What happens to such individuals? I wish I knew.

Payday came, and with a small supplement withdrawn from savings, I managed. For the first time in years, I established a routine that wasn’t totally mandated by higher authorities. Tom gave me a key to the office, and I made a decision that would greatly affect both my career and my future.

For the foreseeable future, I mandated to myself that, on normal work days, no one in the company would ever see me get to work, and no one would ever see me leave. You would be amazed at the outcome.

It really wasn’t that hard. No one arrived before 8:00 a.m., so I didn’t have to rush. We usually worked late, but I would simply remain when the others left. On some days, my total sacrifice was less than 45 minutes, but it made me a legend.

I always arrived in time to visit the snack area on the ground floor of the building. It was one of those stands officially known as vending areas established by World Services for the Blind, an institute located in Little Rock. They were operated by visually-challenged folks and known irreverently by a term that would make the Political Correctness Police sail into orbit, “blind stands.” At least that’s all I ever heard them called.

The counter contained a sunken metal bowl where one placed money. The operators could count change like a carnival barker at a striptease show, but only by feel. They say some could tell the difference among paper bills of differing denominations, but I never put that to the test. I seem to remember the operator in our building was named Carl. I’m not quite sure. He was a jolly character who, in addition to selling goods, also served as “gossip-central.” He could tell you by your footsteps, and phrase his daily report accordingly.

The only time I ever remember him and me having a problem with communications, was when he was trying to tell me about a ne’er-do-well tenant who was suffering from “the collapse.” A stroke? No. Muscle problems? No. Back or knee problems? No. After much back and forth banter, we came to the understanding that the poor fellow had “dillyed” with the wrong “dally” and would be back at work following a round of penicillin, a moral lesson from which to be instructed, both in communication and behavior.

I’d buy a breakfast snack, a cup of coffee, and the daily newspaper: the grand old Arkansas Gazette. Then I would go upstairs and prepare to continue my new career.

Life was good. To borrow a line from Dylan Thomas, someone who knew me then would say of those days, “He was almost always happy, I think.”

Morning Thoughts: January 19, 2018

There’s something we need in America. Forget statues of Confederate soldiers. They fought for slavery. The Abandoned Woman: she deserves a monument. That’s who deserves honor and glory.

Who do I mean? Let me give you a composite from my personal experiences over the years. The following is no single person. She is, though, as real as the computer on which I type. Everything I’m going to describe is true. It all just happened to different people I’ve known. Consider a woman’s story.

She didn’t attend college. Instead, she worked so her husband could. Or, perhaps she married straight out of high school to a promising young man and began raising the child they conceived together and she birthed. (Notice I didn’t say “his child.” That term makes me nauseated).

Things went well until after that first child. Then she changed. The change showed on a face beleaguered by the strains put on her by colic, colds, bad tempers, diarrhea, teething, accidents, or the many other trials of nurture that go unseen by husbands and friends.

Perhaps the change manifested itself by a weight gain. Maybe the “ten” her husband described her as, to his friends, while the two had courted slipped to an “eight.” Maybe she wasn’t as “hot to trot” as she had once been. Maybe she just got older.

Her husband changed too. He was becoming successful, a change he felt entitled him to the same marriage benefits as always. Besides, the more successful he became, the more the younger women at work admired him. His wife should as well, even as she washed his dirty underwear.

Then he met “Bambi” and everything changed. He hated to do it, but, dammit, Bambi was still a “ten,” maybe even better. One night his desires and disappointments collided and his wife and child were banished to a friend’s house. She found a cheap apartment for the two of them. Divorce followed.

What’s an abandoned wife to do? First a job. She still had skills, though they were rusty. She found a job typing and sued for child support. The judge, an old friend of the ex-husband’s boss, awarded an amount that was 21 dollars a month less than the cheapest child care center she could find. It cost her “ex” so much that he had to forego membership in a more prestigious duck club. He was kind enough to remind her of that often.

Once a month he would pick up his son for the weekend. It turns out that Bambi’s family owned horses. The son would come home after the weekend spent with his father and talk incessantly about riding horses and how much he looked forward to the next visitation. Oh, and why couldn’t they have a horse?

The “father-son ecstasy” would not persist. Soon, Dad and Bambi had their own child. It drew the attention. Then, the same weak moral standards that caused Dad to abandon his first family finally cost him his job. Both the visits and the child-support payments became “iffy.” In those days, there was little recourse from an all-male judicial system.

The woman just worked harder. Sometimes there was a second job that still allowed her care for the son. Maybe she attended night classes. Maybe she found herself in a better job, training men to fill the position just above hers. She thought of dating, but men wanted an unencumbered “ten” for serious involvements. Even if she were still “hot to trot,” men weren’t interested in long journeys, just short sprints around the track.

Why a monument to her? Just this: she survived, and that survival should be an inspiration to us all. Despite the abandonment, the privation, and the fact that she worked for sixty cents on the dollar compared to a male counterpart, she survived. It was a feat accomplished by a work ethic and a monumental determination that might be compared in some aspects to the strength of African-Americans during the Jim Crow era.

Yeah, I think she deserves a monument. After all, she didn’t start out on her own with a gift of a college education and a million dollars. She’s worth, though, a lot more than that.

Why do I preach about it? Because I’m as guilty as the next person, and maybe self-awareness is the first step toward redemption and reparation. Oh yes, and maybe I respect success produced from a strength that was forged from the heat of adversity more than I respect success by inheritance.

To Moms

Sailing To Oblivion: June 17, 2017

We teach it in public administration classes. “Where you stand depends on where you sit.” We see it a lot lately.

Whether it’s the sexual assault trial of Bill Cosby, the comedian and actor, or the investigation of our presidential administration, there is a temptation to view events from our particular sitting spot. It is the sort of thing that can send social media into an uncontrollable frenzy. It can even lead to mayhem and violence. It is what I think of as I experience what appears to be another tack into the sea of disbelief, as we sail to Oblivion on June 17, 2017.

Where we stand depends on where we sit. That would be “Miles Law,” named after the Truman-era bureaucrat who coined the phrase.

We saw it as a symptom of our patriarchal society recently. While Trey Gowdy and his minions had freedom to unleash whatever fury they chose on Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, somehow the tender sensibilities of current Attorney General Jeff Sessions had to be protected from the tough questioning of Senator Kamala Harris, Democrat of California.

One can only imagine the sort of slobbering venom that hate media would have produced had Secretary Clinton said, “you make me nervous.” Men do tend to get a free ride in our society, many times because strong women do exactly that—make them nervous. Like Ginger Rogers, who matched every dance move of Fred Astaire, only backwards and in high heels, we men expect our sisters, in this travail of life, to accomplish more, with less acknowledgement, while maintaining a soft and compliant smile. Like plantation owners in the old movies felt about their slaves, we are sure that, in their hearts, they love us.

No wonder they—the strong women of America—regard us men as complete idiots. They don’t have to run around yelling “lock him up, lock him up.” They know that, given enough time, he’ll lock himself up.” Or that’s surely how it looks from where they sit. So many times, the truth lies not in the smile but in what is hidden behind the smile. Miles Law is in operation. It’s just that we have no inkling of where they are mentally sitting.

Meanwhile, from where the men reside, that hegemonic position espoused since the writing of the Holy Bible, it seems only natural to be treated as superior, protected from harsh judgement, given a leg up in our endeavor and always given the benefit of the doubt. It’s the way the Universe was formed. It’s the way things are. Justice carries men along like a mighty river carrying a boat. It is only natural

Or is it? There is another actor in this drama: time. And one can’t think of the inexorable role of this particular actor without recalling the famous ending of Fern Hill, perhaps the most famous Dylan Thomas poem,

“Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea.”

You want me to be quiet where?