On the eve of graduation, I felt the world opening up before
me as have so many youths in the
same position. But where most were looking for their place in
society, I was casting my gaze away from a society toward which I felt
totally alienated. While others foresaw college, careers, homes and
families, I dreamed of traveling the countryside and forming a commune
out in the mountains. While others looked for their place in society,
I sought to either transform society or escape it, for even then I knew
that (wo)mankind will either experience what amounts to an evolution of
consciousness or die by its own hands.
I will ask why I was so alienated, though perhaps a better question
would be: why hasn’t anyone
joined me? By the mid- to late-seventies the truth was out there
for all to see. The punk scene was
anarchistic due to exposure to that truth. There was a strong
organization of activists due to the civil rights and anti-war movements.
Why would the left all but fold up and vanish in the early eighties.
More direct to this narrative, growing up in the age of Watergate, Vietnam,
Woodstock and Wounded Knee, why were most of my peers so much more conservative
than I was?
There are several factors at work here. First there is the
fact that the left never had a toe hold in
the mass media. It was always out there, but you had to hunt
for it. And so these major issues were left to some extent, unresolved
as the sources of these social problems went unaddressed. People
were left confused, to draw their conclusions uninformed. The simplest
conclusion to draw was that we needed a return to values.
The human species has a xenophobic tendency which grows stronger
with age. We do not like
change. Once we have established a routine, we do not like to
vary from it. This is our greatest weakness. We would rather
not challenge society, especially in light of the input offered us by the
mass media. It is too easy simply to acquiesce, blissfully ignorant
of the injustices being forced upon others, and upon ourselves, in our
own name. Even those of us who were rebellious would not know what
we were rebelling against, and so our rebellion was misdirected and lost
its wind.
Considering all this, how was it that I became radicalized?
I don’t know. I guess that’s just who I
am. There are some specific events in my life that I can point
to and say, “This played a part,” but nothing that I can actually declare
was the radicalizing event in my life. And I’m sure that another
person could have experienced these same events and responded in a more
conservative manner. Be that as it may, my special awareness developed
quite early, while I was in the second grade. I was just reflecting
upon this last January 19th, on the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr.
Mediatating upon this theme, I wrote the words which follow.
I am remembering the day Martin Luther King was assassinated. I was in fourth grade at the time. We had a teacher named Mrs. Walker who was heavily involved in the civil rights movement. She was one of the few black teachers in the Pontiac School system (if you can believe that). I had her for second grade and fourth grade. She told us stories about her family's past and the institution of slavery. The stories she told us disturbed the class and sent a lot of us home with hard questions for our parents. She invoked a vivid image of her grandmother at about our age standing on the auction block. I was fascinated by her stories, moved, and disturbed by the injustice of it all.
Our parents were appalled by our exposure to black history. They had a meeting at somebody's house, and a delegation was chosen to confront the principal, Mr. Stanley. Mr. Stanley looked a little like Colonel Sanders, but he must have had something of the radical in him because he resisted our parents. My folks didn't understand why I should be exposed to her stories; it wasn't part of a well-rounded education and they considered it as punishing me for what somebody else did. They told me to find something to read while Mrs. Walker lectured about black history. In class, I would dutifully take out a book and open it up, and then listen to my teacher with rapt attention. She was very pleased. I seem to recall that she talked a bit about Ghandi as well, and the topic of civil disobedience.
Not all of the parents disagreed with her. My mother was friendly with a couple who defended Mrs. Walker; my dad didn't really know where he stood. Their real crime was in going along with the majority, which I suppose is a crime of which most of us are guilty to some extent or another. If we would only look to our hearts for what is right, this world would be a much better place. My mother used to say that she had nothing against blacks, but she wouldn't want a child of hers to marry one. She used this argument on her friend who was defending Mrs. Walker. In their behalf, I must say that my parents did weigh in against the more reactionary adults who wanted to take the law into their own hands.
It was certainly a time for questioning values and social mores. I wonder what my parents think when they look back on those days; no doubt they find no fault with themselves. Mr. Stanley sat in on a couple of Mrs. Walker's history sessions with members of the school board, and then they announced that there was nothing wrong with what she had to say. They found that, in fact, the students were quite interested and involved in the whole thing. We even drew her out with our questions. Mrs. Walker was allowed to continue teaching in the school and her lectures on black history were not censured. This was probably the beginning of my radicalization. I do know that Mrs. Walker was the first person to state that I would grow up to be an author.
The day that Martin Luther King died, we were all very quiet in class. Mrs. Walker was crushed and we could not interrupt her sorrow. We simply sat in class and watched her sitting at her desk with her head hung down, crying. She couldn't conduct class that day. Mr. Stanley relieved her so that she could go home and mourn. I remember telling my parents that when I grew up I would fight for the rights of black people. My mother replied that this was not my battle and I should let the black people look for their own leaders.
These opposing viewpoints troubled me for a good deal of my life. I have vacillated from social activist to self-interest many times. But that is not strictly true. I have always been a radical. Even in my most conservative periods, I was far to the left of the mainstream. If fact, my conservative moments were not marked by right wing ideas, but rather by a lack of action and the crime of complacency (which is a great evil in its own rights). I do sometimes have to deal with the more subtle prejudices which were bred into me, though I like to think that it is something I have overcome. I try to see all of mankind, indeed all life on this planet as part of one close-knit brotherhood.
And so this is how my life was touched by Dr. Martin Luther King, and by my teacher Mrs. Walker. If my children ever ask me, I will tell them this story and let the chips fall where they may. The other day I explained to them what the word brotherhood meant. I said that it means that we are all brothers and sisters; all human beings are related, no matter the color of our skin. My eight year old added, "But some people forget that."
"Yes," I agreed, "especially adults. But it is something that we should always try to remember."
Mrs. Walker, wherever you might be, I was listening.
There was one student who was tied through two instances to my awareness of social injustice. This was a boy named David who was slow in the mind; these days he would probably be diagnosed with ADD. I paid little attention to him, yet I never harassed him as did some of the other students. One winter day he returned to the class after going to the bathroom, seeking our teacher’s aid in fastening up his pants. The teacher refused to help him, busying herself at her desk as he stood in front of the class futilely trying to button his pants until they fell down around his knees. He was humiliated while the class roared with laughter. Only I and two other classmates did not laugh. If I could have done so without being punished, I would have helped him; but all I could do was direct a hard and cold glare at our teacher. Finally she helped him to fasten his pants, though not without ridiculing him for his inability.
In the following year of school, Mrs. Walker asked me to watch
over David out on the playground, and keep him out of trouble. And
so during recess I found myself standing alone with this boy around the
corner of the school, listening to his strange ideas which made no sense
to me. Among other things, he warned me that a bunch of kids would
come and try to beat us up. Sure enough, a gang of kids came around
the corner and attacked us. We fought them off until the playground
attendants broke up the fight and took the two of us to the principal’s
office, where we were unjustly punished. Mrs. Walker released me
from watching over David, expressing her disappointment that I had not
been able to keep him from violence.
A couple of years later, on a nice spring day when the elementary
was not holding classes, a friend and I went to the ‘woods’ and there found
three older kids who were skipping school. They were hungry, missing
their lunch, and we promised to bring them some food from our homes.
When the two of us met up on our way back to the woods, we admitted to
each other that we held some apprehensions about these older boys, but
we had given our word and so we brought them food. After eating,
they decided to entertain themselves by having my friend and I fight each
other. We refused, but they insisted that either we fight each other
or they would beat us both up. We pleaded, and I believe one of the
three boys protested in our behalf though he was outvoted by the other
two. Only after their threats became more direct did we follow their
orders. It was with the greatest difficulty that I could swing my
fists at my friend, me crying as I did so, he crying as he did so.
There was little strength in any of our blows, but that made them no less
painful. In order that the fight should end, I allowed my friend
to win, and I do not remember how we escaped these bullies.
As a youth, I was blessed with a number of outstanding teachers, but the teacher who had the greatest influence on my life was my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Strachurski. Mr. Strachurski extolled the model of the whole (wo)man, and he did indeed go a long way toward exemplifying this model. He was an athlete and a musician, a scientist and a poet; above all, he was a scholar most erudite. Though my interests in science and wilderness survival had already been sparked, he did fan these sparks into glowing flames.
In addition to the academics, Mr. Strachurski opened my eyes to the
problems of environmental degradation and political corruption. Between
he, Mrs. Walker, and my own personal inclination, I did by this time identify
myself as a radical--though I had no idea what the word meant. The
year was 1970. Everyone at this time was learning to question authority;
Mr. Strachurski taught me to question authority in an intelligent manner.
In sixth grade, Mr. Strachurski introduced us to Orwell’s “1984” and Huxley’s
“Brave New World” not by reading them to us, but by talking about them
and so stirring our interest. He taught us of Leeuwenhoek and the
poetry of William Blake. He gave us a taste of the world.
There was a boy in the junior high, named Bob Sawyer, who was ridiculed by many. He was short, round, and developing a persistent stubble. He was intelligent, and was possessed of a well-developed sense of humor and a powerful imagination. He was also legally blind, requiring thick glasses to improve his vision to the point where he could see anything at all. I had seen how students pointed at him with his face buried in a large print book, snickering at his coke-bottle glasses.
In study hall, I was assigned to sit next to Bob up toward the front of the lunch room. We became great good friends, passing notes with our teacher’s approval. Bob had to write on special big line paper, and I had to write in large, block letters which he could hold up to the end of his nose and read. We traded stories, and even collaborated on a few. Though I was only in seventh grade (while Bob was a ninth grader), they allowed me to watch over Bob and take him outside at lunch.
On the day of the spring track meet they let Bob attend. It was a hot, sunny day, where the junior high had adjourned across the street to the bleachers overlooking the football field, where students were competing in field and track events. Like many students, I never watched the events but, instead, wandered around and socialized. Tom found his favorite spot underneath the bleachers, where he could stand and look up the skirts of the girls in the stands overhead. I don’t know whether he was actually spotting the sites he claimed to see or whether his adolescent imagination was affecting his bad vision; I didn’t catch half the peeks he claimed to view. When they passed around cups and turned on a faucet, I fought my way through the crowd of students and then fought my way out with a cup of water for Bob. He stayed under the bleachers, like some perverted troll under a bridge.
At the end of the school year, I told Bob that I would see him again
in two years, when I went over to the high school. We planned to
renew our friendship then, little knowing how things can change in two
years. By the time I went to high school, I was a drug-taking, long-haired
freak. I avoided Bob in the halls, counting on his bad eye sight
to help cloak me. Friends told me that he had been asking about me,
and I thought how I really should speak to him. One day he cornered
me in a hallway, studying me coldly through his thick glasses. I
said nothing, nor did he, but he uttered a sniff of contempt and walked
away. This was one of the low points of my life. I wanted to
speak to him; I wanted to tell him that I avoided him not because I was
ashamed of him, but because I was ashamed of myself. I was no longer
the nice little boy he had known in junior high, and I did not want to
expose him to my life style. Bob was one of the best people I ever
knew; I never saw him again.
Let me caution anyone from taking my words here as an absolute
statement or as my official
position. Some of my views presented here are thought out, but
much is off the top of my head. This is a record of my thoughts as
I am thinking them. As such, any thought contained herein is subject
to change.
Although this writing is focused upon the examination and interpretation
of my past (and present),
it is not, strictly speaking, a chronological autobiography.
This narrative freely skips back and forth between the present and the
past, written largely as a reflection from the past upon the present.
This narrative also travels along associative pathways as well as chronological.
The record skims over my childhood years, pulling out a few events of seeming
importance. I have also allowed myself a free hand in recounting
these events so that they are fictionalized to quite a degree. Bear
in mind, this is an ephemeral narrative, being a record of my thoughts
upon the radicalization of my life.