When I refused further service at Fort Sam Houston (San Antonio), TX, I was sent to the Fort Hood Stockade.
Sentenced to only 6 months - & no Discharge, meaning that this could go on forever.After consulting with an Army lawyer, I further refused to work - in order to get a 2nd trial, a 2nd 6 months - &, as that would put me in Leavenworth, a presumed Discharge. The Commandant, a gentle Black major the size of a small mountain, tried to talk me out of that. When it was clear that he couldn't, he called in his clerk, an NCO, to order me to work - so that I'd be refusing an order from an NCO (6 months) instead of an officer (up to 5 years).
I refused, & had a 2nd trial represented by a Lieutenant Valentine who provoked such a positive image of me among the 3-man judicial panel that I practically had to insist on being found guilty & sentenced to a 2nd 6 months with recommendation for Discharge!The remaining time at Hood was waiting-time till the train to Leavenworth.Later, at Leavenworth, I met 3 guys who came after me, the media-covered Fort Hood 3.
Fort Hood.
All I knew was the Stockade, still in 1967 a fairly county-jail enterprise.I had a cell to myself. The cell across the hall was shared by 2 San Franciscans in on dope charges.
I joined their informal reading-circle, we all took turns reading through The Hobbit & Lord of the Rings out loud.
They also introduced me to Hesse: Siddartha, The Glass-Bead Game, Steppenwolf.
& best of all: the great anthology of The New American Poetry.
One of the rules of our frat-housing was that you ceased to be You & adopted a Tolkien character. I was, it should almost go without saying, Tom Bombadil...
At night, the guards would let us sit out on the porch with them, smoking & listening to music -- I have strong memories of Mitch Ryder & The Detroit Wheels, of Klompen Kloggen pipe tobacco & nonfiltered Lucky Strikes.
In its way, a kind of very twisted paradise.
I guess it still is.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Backward Glance...
In all the canon-izing I've been doing at the other blog, it strikes me that I'm seeing with greater clarity something I've always known:
My heroes have all tended -- as I do regarding myself -- to believe that they're not really all that different from other people, nor other people all that different from them.
"Ain't no difference in talkin ta me," said Bob Dylan, "'s jist th same as talkin ta you."
I certainly, at the lectern & the pulpit, tried everything I could to make that so.
Also in my personal relationships.
When it works, you are seen as an excellent teacher & communicator. Etc.
When it doesn't, you've given others more power (over you) than they can handle.
Like Rousseau & Blake, I've done all that, well & badly.
And especially like Blake (and unlike Rousseau!), I rarely had the urge to Be Somebody, to do I over Us.
Unlike me, I spose, he still wound up Being Somebody -- but it really was always Plan B...
As I age, I'm ever-more attracted to Jefferson's "happy mediocrity" -- realising, of course, of course, that "happy" can take an infinity multiplied by an eternity to sort out...
My heroes have all tended -- as I do regarding myself -- to believe that they're not really all that different from other people, nor other people all that different from them.
"Ain't no difference in talkin ta me," said Bob Dylan, "'s jist th same as talkin ta you."
I certainly, at the lectern & the pulpit, tried everything I could to make that so.
Also in my personal relationships.
When it works, you are seen as an excellent teacher & communicator. Etc.
When it doesn't, you've given others more power (over you) than they can handle.
Like Rousseau & Blake, I've done all that, well & badly.
And especially like Blake (and unlike Rousseau!), I rarely had the urge to Be Somebody, to do I over Us.
Unlike me, I spose, he still wound up Being Somebody -- but it really was always Plan B...
As I age, I'm ever-more attracted to Jefferson's "happy mediocrity" -- realising, of course, of course, that "happy" can take an infinity multiplied by an eternity to sort out...
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Obama, Socialism, and Grade 9
Another angle on The Great Parentheses...
I did Grade 9 in 1962-63 at Ross N Robinson Jr High School in Kingsport, TN. In retrospect, I got a great Before-the-Leftside-Parenthesis education.
Mrs Pilkington, English, treated me like God's gift to Literature -- till I wrote a Ginsburg-esque pome that she thought was "just crazy", which it likely was but helped me start to learn about boundaries.
The Science teacher, a great guy, regularly reminded us that the core of the Biology-portion of the course was "Evolution by Natural Selection, make sure you get that right when you tell your Baptist folks what you're learning here."
Then there was this incredible concentration of young Yankee women, all of whom I had a crush on:
Music Appreciation. My project was a miming to one of Moussorgsky's "Pictures"...How I got away with that without being labelled gay must be a tribute to her seriousness & support.
Her best friend was the Latin teacher from Boston. Who passed me, as she told me privately, as a "courtesy to a very smart kid who has no facility for languages" -- true enuff.
But the other young woman, and the point of this note, was the Civics teacher. I still recall the sketches of The Greats on the classroom walls -- surely the first time any of us had ever heard of, say, Montesquieu! She taught the classic Circle -- go too far Left you turn Right, vice-versa, etc. I specifically recall her explaining that "Swedish-type Socialism, what they call Social Democracy," was a legitimate option for Americans to consider.
Looking back from this vantage, it's like another planet in another galaxy....Lest We Forget.....
I did Grade 9 in 1962-63 at Ross N Robinson Jr High School in Kingsport, TN. In retrospect, I got a great Before-the-Leftside-Parenthesis education.
Mrs Pilkington, English, treated me like God's gift to Literature -- till I wrote a Ginsburg-esque pome that she thought was "just crazy", which it likely was but helped me start to learn about boundaries.
The Science teacher, a great guy, regularly reminded us that the core of the Biology-portion of the course was "Evolution by Natural Selection, make sure you get that right when you tell your Baptist folks what you're learning here."
Then there was this incredible concentration of young Yankee women, all of whom I had a crush on:
Music Appreciation. My project was a miming to one of Moussorgsky's "Pictures"...How I got away with that without being labelled gay must be a tribute to her seriousness & support.
Her best friend was the Latin teacher from Boston. Who passed me, as she told me privately, as a "courtesy to a very smart kid who has no facility for languages" -- true enuff.
But the other young woman, and the point of this note, was the Civics teacher. I still recall the sketches of The Greats on the classroom walls -- surely the first time any of us had ever heard of, say, Montesquieu! She taught the classic Circle -- go too far Left you turn Right, vice-versa, etc. I specifically recall her explaining that "Swedish-type Socialism, what they call Social Democracy," was a legitimate option for Americans to consider.
Looking back from this vantage, it's like another planet in another galaxy....Lest We Forget.....
Saturday, October 17, 2009
It Snowed Yesterday: A Ballade, Like Villon: By the Numbers
For those who haven't been around here a while, some/all of the above titles my Squeak, Memory pieces related to love, sex, romance, 'relationships', etc.
Which are in many ways harder (or at least less fun) to write about from my Tell-All generation forward than they used to be in times that valued a discretion that led to creativity (a point made in a musical context by Frank Zappa).
In any case, a range of recent memories reminds me that part of growing up was learning that not everybody would love you back. But some would, and they can be called 'lovers'.
Later, it got more complicated when 'lovers' was also the word for people you had sex with, whether much love was involved in that or not.
As I reflect prior to any possible writing, I find I'm by now able to recognize where most of Them fit on a graph I don't know how to draw here, but which amounts to a box with 4 quadrants:
1.Love AND Sex
2.Love and NO Sex
3.No Love BUT YES Sex
4.No Love AND No Sex
One might question whether 4 is a relevant category -- till one thinks evolutionarily, that till we die these are all screenplays (cinemasthesially speaking, Johan!) under constant revision... And we float in and out of our own stories, indeed, can be toward OURSELVES a member of any/all of the 4 sets.
Anyway, a little methodological point along The Way....
Which are in many ways harder (or at least less fun) to write about from my Tell-All generation forward than they used to be in times that valued a discretion that led to creativity (a point made in a musical context by Frank Zappa).
In any case, a range of recent memories reminds me that part of growing up was learning that not everybody would love you back. But some would, and they can be called 'lovers'.
Later, it got more complicated when 'lovers' was also the word for people you had sex with, whether much love was involved in that or not.
As I reflect prior to any possible writing, I find I'm by now able to recognize where most of Them fit on a graph I don't know how to draw here, but which amounts to a box with 4 quadrants:
1.Love AND Sex
2.Love and NO Sex
3.No Love BUT YES Sex
4.No Love AND No Sex
One might question whether 4 is a relevant category -- till one thinks evolutionarily, that till we die these are all screenplays (cinemasthesially speaking, Johan!) under constant revision... And we float in and out of our own stories, indeed, can be toward OURSELVES a member of any/all of the 4 sets.
Anyway, a little methodological point along The Way....
Friday, October 16, 2009
A Ballade, Like Villon
By the #s : MJ's son & I're Friends again...on Facebook.
Life really is like a Country Song --
Lookin' back, over my shoulder
I've got a little bit bolder
An' a whole lot older....
Really, it SEEMS, anyway, like
I dumped the best ones
& the worst ones dumped me.
(1) Everybody may feel that way
(2) It could certainly be wrong
But, in any case, it makes Love-Memory a whole lot squeakier n slipperier than Politics-Memory.
Life really is like a Country Song --
Lookin' back, over my shoulder
I've got a little bit bolder
An' a whole lot older....
Really, it SEEMS, anyway, like
I dumped the best ones
& the worst ones dumped me.
(1) Everybody may feel that way
(2) It could certainly be wrong
But, in any case, it makes Love-Memory a whole lot squeakier n slipperier than Politics-Memory.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A Habit of Loving
Re: Nicaragua
There was (is still?) an annual program of Canada's PLURA (Presbyterian, Lutheran, United, RomanCatholic, and Anglican) Churches, called "Ten Days for World Development". It served, obviously, as a development-education enterprise -- and as an extended ad for the member churches' Relief & Development programs. As the Program Officer for the Diocese of Brandon, I was expected to be involved in our local version.
I was also involved by virtue of being President (a shadow-position, the real boss was our hired Director) of The Marquis Project -- a government (CIDA, Canadian International Development Agency) - funded program. The PLURA Churches contracted with Marquis to deliver each year's program.
My favourite year was the one we devoted to Nicaragua. Director Zack and I put together, along with the routine programming, a tour of Rural Manitoba by a middleaged nun from Rural Nicaragua. I was to be her chauffer, roadie, and general factotum.
She was a delight. She also, to my initial surprise, wore the habit of her order, a fairly traditional costume. Why? "well, it combines both shock value and some amount of legitimation. It makes it hard to forget that the speaker is a nun. I've told Ernesto he could help chill the pope if he'd ever wear a collar, but nooo..."
I mentioned that some of the farm-folk, mining-folk, others we'd be seeing might be uncomfortable seeing a sister chain-smoke and (as they'd see it) drink like a man. "OK, I'll keep the smoking in the car & my room, but you and I can surely have a Scotch at the end of the day?" I assured her, in my best attempt at a Latino drawl, "No Problem."
Our weeklong tour of Manitoba, South to North and back, was a success by any measure. What I recall most in general was her ability to talk straight with roomsfull of skeptical, conservative farmers. They could tell The Real Thing when they saw and heard it. She pulled no punches, presented herself as A Sandinista Sister, and had facts and data in her hand and on her lips.
But what I recall most in particular was the meeting/presentation in a village in The North. When the time came for audience input and questions, a twenty-something soft-spoken young man raised his hand.
"How are homosexuals treated in Rural Nicaragua?"
"Frankly, not any better than what's likely in Rural Manitoba."
"What would you do if you were gay in a rural area, there or here?"
"I'd move to a big city."
As we drove away, she said that she was grateful for the skill to create a comfortable room, but worried when that comfort led to disclosures that might be regretted later. I suggested that he was using the situation to make a statement, set up a next step, etc.
A friend from that meeting called me a couple of weeks later to say that the young man had moved to Winnipeg, and seemed happy to be there.
Ten Days ended, and she left. Her parting-gift was a carved hardwood ashtray with a Sandino-medallion embedded in it. I don't smoke any more (dammit!), but I still have the ashtray. Along with the memory of a great example. And a cool Sis.
PS: Back to Marquis....among other things, a great bookstore. Where I bought at Sister's recommendation and read Eduardo Galleano's Open Veins of Latin America -- the book that Hugo Chavez famously gave to Obama. What goes 'round...on that Great Mandala...
There was (is still?) an annual program of Canada's PLURA (Presbyterian, Lutheran, United, RomanCatholic, and Anglican) Churches, called "Ten Days for World Development". It served, obviously, as a development-education enterprise -- and as an extended ad for the member churches' Relief & Development programs. As the Program Officer for the Diocese of Brandon, I was expected to be involved in our local version.
I was also involved by virtue of being President (a shadow-position, the real boss was our hired Director) of The Marquis Project -- a government (CIDA, Canadian International Development Agency) - funded program. The PLURA Churches contracted with Marquis to deliver each year's program.
My favourite year was the one we devoted to Nicaragua. Director Zack and I put together, along with the routine programming, a tour of Rural Manitoba by a middleaged nun from Rural Nicaragua. I was to be her chauffer, roadie, and general factotum.
She was a delight. She also, to my initial surprise, wore the habit of her order, a fairly traditional costume. Why? "well, it combines both shock value and some amount of legitimation. It makes it hard to forget that the speaker is a nun. I've told Ernesto he could help chill the pope if he'd ever wear a collar, but nooo..."
I mentioned that some of the farm-folk, mining-folk, others we'd be seeing might be uncomfortable seeing a sister chain-smoke and (as they'd see it) drink like a man. "OK, I'll keep the smoking in the car & my room, but you and I can surely have a Scotch at the end of the day?" I assured her, in my best attempt at a Latino drawl, "No Problem."
Our weeklong tour of Manitoba, South to North and back, was a success by any measure. What I recall most in general was her ability to talk straight with roomsfull of skeptical, conservative farmers. They could tell The Real Thing when they saw and heard it. She pulled no punches, presented herself as A Sandinista Sister, and had facts and data in her hand and on her lips.
But what I recall most in particular was the meeting/presentation in a village in The North. When the time came for audience input and questions, a twenty-something soft-spoken young man raised his hand.
"How are homosexuals treated in Rural Nicaragua?"
"Frankly, not any better than what's likely in Rural Manitoba."
"What would you do if you were gay in a rural area, there or here?"
"I'd move to a big city."
As we drove away, she said that she was grateful for the skill to create a comfortable room, but worried when that comfort led to disclosures that might be regretted later. I suggested that he was using the situation to make a statement, set up a next step, etc.
A friend from that meeting called me a couple of weeks later to say that the young man had moved to Winnipeg, and seemed happy to be there.
Ten Days ended, and she left. Her parting-gift was a carved hardwood ashtray with a Sandino-medallion embedded in it. I don't smoke any more (dammit!), but I still have the ashtray. Along with the memory of a great example. And a cool Sis.
PS: Back to Marquis....among other things, a great bookstore. Where I bought at Sister's recommendation and read Eduardo Galleano's Open Veins of Latin America -- the book that Hugo Chavez famously gave to Obama. What goes 'round...on that Great Mandala...
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