Re-Print: "Jim"

Friday, July 11, 2008

Remembering Jim, my "other father"

I don't know about now, but in '67 the town of Leavenworth, Kansas was home to 11 different confinement-facilities, from youth-detention and county lock-up to the famous civilian prison; and, too, the maximum-security prison for the Army and Air Force, the USDB (the Navy/Marine equivalent was in Portsmouth, New Hampshire). It was where, along with convicted murderers, rapists, robbers, they sent refusers-to-serve, a mixed bag of conscientious objectors, radical Lefties, hippies, Jehovah's Witnesses, anti-war politicos, Black Muslims, fraggers, etal, a very mixed bag who rarely saw themselves in each others' eyes, regardless of their common sitch.
When I arrived and processed in, nineteen and terrified, I was given my uniform, some toiletries - and a raggedy headset.
"What's this for?"
"For the radio - you'll see."
And I did: each cell contained a bed, a toilet and sink, a small storage-cabinet, and three jacks on the wall near the head of the bed. Plug into one, you got country music. Into another, rhythm & blues. And the third was rock. I asked a guard where this came from -- "from the radio station, down in the basement across from the barber shop."
God takes care of fools like me, I guess. While I was still in the Orientation wing, two of the three inmate DJ's got caught having oral sex with each other and were busted out of their jobs. I was taken to see the civilian who oversaw the station, a grumpy older guy who wanted to fix his problem quick.
"It says on your work-history you were a radio announcer."
"Yes."
"Your file also has you as a politico, you wouldn't normally be eligible for a 'sensitive' job like this, but Jim says I should grab you up before they put you in the laundry. Can I count on you to be professional and not abuse your microphone-privilege with a lotta trash-talk?"
Like at that golden moment I'd say anything but "Sure"...And so I was taken down to get to see the station - and Jim.
Jim was a 40-something Black guy, about five-feet-nothing . Old enough to be my father, but ageless-looking as many Black folks are. Skin a colour that makes me think of him when I see Obama. The radio station was, to all intents and purposes, his creation, his baby, and the project that kept him sane while doing a long bit for manslaughter. No previous experience in radio, he taught himself as he went along.
And he'd done well, very well. A full, professional console with professional turntables - and an incredible record collection he'd built up by writing record companies and getting their monthly commercial sample-packs as goodwill freebies. At the heart of the operation was a large 3-unit transceiver - a unit each for R&B, Rock, and Country, each set permanently at the best outside station available for its kind of music. At any given time between an hour before wake-up and an hour after lights-out, two of the cell-jacks would be playing "outside" stations, one would be live from the basement. And that rotated through the day. There was a Requests-box on the always-locked door, always full.
For a long time, until we eventually found an inmate-DJ to do Country and I went to Rock fulltime, Jim and I were a two-man operation. I did Country ("That'll get you in good with all those white boys who'd wanna break your face otherwise"), Jim did R&B, and we split Rock. I also did a weekly Folk show (read: getting in a lot of anti-war songs, something the then-famous Howard Levy wrote about later in his prison-memoir). Jim did a weekly Jazz show, and we alternated hosting the weekly Classical show. But Jim saw to it that I did also R&B on a fairly-regular basis, and a lot at first, during my Orientation-month and before being put into General Population: "I want you be what you might call a 'known entity' to all the brothers before you get there. Let's call it a safety-measure for your skinny white self."
I think that protecting me, with no strings attached, was in Jim's mind simply the right thing to do. And I think he liked having me around because I was a professional who affirmed the professional quality and calibre of his work as station-manager, announcer, etc. Over time, it was also that we really did evolve into something of a father-son relationship, something we both needed.We were both Tennesseeans, Jim was from Nashville. His daddy had worked till he dropped as a house-carpenter, his mom was a hairdresser. Solid, hard-working, respectable folks.
It made them happy when Jim, after some college, joined the Air Force.And the Air Force fairly early-on recognized his abilities. He was put into a genteel (well, surface-genteel) job. He was a point-man for booking accommodations, travel, etc, for executive (military, political, etc) junkets, tours, etc, and for hosting the bigwigs. "Hosting", it shouldn't surprise, could include getting them fancy-fed, liquored, and laid. "What're you gonna do with an articulate, likable Black guy, " he said to me once, "except to make him a pimp?" But life was good and Jim was young. He'd married and had a kid or two, but that was in the States, and this was Europe, and Jim was young. And hell, you could even think of those prostitutes as job-related research...
Till that one died, accidentally but no less tragically, in a drunken session of rough sex. The German headlines screamed for his head. His wife filed for divorce, he never saw her or the kids again. Jim was so full of remorse he barely was present, except physically, during his trial and conviction and life-sentence for first-degree murder. But the NAACP stepped in, seeing a foolish and arrogant young man being thrown to the wolves. A new trial and a civilian lawyer, and he wound up with the longest-allowed sentence for manslaughter.
He told me I wouldn't want to've known him then, couldn't have known him, years before we met. Alternating between remorse and anger, "I wasn't fit company for anyone, especially for no white folks."
But, somehow and along the way, he'd grown up. And given up his anger, if only for his own sake. Better, maybe, he'd channeled his anger. Into philosophy and politics. In our many, many talks, we taught each other, my reading meeting his experience. Jim said that everything we do for good potentially turns our anger at the bad into a gift.
I only saw him get personally angry twice:First, one lunchtime, in the mess hall. He and I were joined at the table by one of the heavier Lefties. I should say that I was in some transition from Gandhi to fledgling Marxist, and had become something of a sidekick for this guy, so here were two of my favourite people and I, talking politics. The Leftie went into a rhetorical flight about racism. Jim agreed with most of it, but pointed out that the Movement and the Civil Rights legislation were making, or would make, some improvement. "Well, then," spouted the Leftie, "you're a house-nigger." Jim was over the table and they were on the floor before I could slip between them; a few guys saw, and seeing Jim, stood up so the guards couldn't see. One guy helped me pull them apart. We all sat back down, except the Leftie who went to another table, alone. All Jim would say to me is, "I'm mad 'cause I let that jerk make me mad. But maybe you should tell him to stay outta my way from now on."
The other time was at me:I was in the station, he came in scowling. He was having a bad day. Trying to cheer him up, I said something that hit him as insulting and patronizing. He hit me - once - and left. I felt like my world had collapsed, felt sadness and guilt - and fear. For, not even counting the loss of such a friend, if I had to leave the station and his protection, etc, it would be like going to prison a second time. But I wrote him a note, left it for him when I went off-shift. I apologised, of course, and offered to leave the station if he wanted. Later, an inmate slipped me a letter from him:He apologised, of course. And said there's no way he wanted me to leave the station - he'd miss me enough when I got released, no need starting early.
He shared a story about when he was a kid. His daddy came home from one-too-many days of taking shit from white folks, hot and tired. Jim made some smartass remark and his daddy, normally a gentle man, nearly throttled him. Later, when he apologised, he said, "I'm just a man, Son, not a superman." Jim said that sometimes, in my youth and idealism and in our friendship, I sometimes treated him "like a supernigger" - a role he didn't want and shouldn't have to bear. He said maybe "we've both learned something important today."We never mentioned it again, and life went on.
When I got out, Jim and a couple of other brothers managed to get out to the gate to see me off:
One: "You be careful out there, Man."
Another: "Now, don't you come back, Nigger."
Jim: "Good-bye, Son."