The Radical (a rerun of sorts)

It looks like we're stuck with another four years of, well, I don't want to say his name so I'll just stick to calling him The Orange Blob.  Some Progressives swear they're going to leave the country. However, a large number of us plan to stay and fight. I've been what right-wingers call a Radical for some time (I actually consider myself a moderate). Although I've been on picket lines and various protest rallies through the years, nowadays I mainly just write letters to editors or blog. So with the next fight about to begin, I thought I'd rerun a blog from seven years ago about how I became "Radical." Sort of a statement to let the MAGAts know that "we Radicals ain't going nowhere."

Although today it seems rather odd given that I consider myself a Progressive, as a youth one of my heroes was John Wayne.  Everyone knows his politics leaned to the right.  However, looking at some of his movies from a political aspect, he starred in numerous ones that espoused Liberal issues.

For example, one of my favorites is “The Sons of Katie Elder.”  Oh sure, on the surface it may seem to be the story of wayward boys returning home to pay respects to their departed mother, but if you look a little deeper, you'll find progressive themes.  Basically, these rough boys stand up against an unjust system and fight a ruthless corporation who is backed by local law enforcement. In other words, the little guy against a plutocracy.

I know, you missed that too.  I didn't really grasp this message until I aged a bit (hey, don’t say grew old). As a kid, I just saw it as standing up to injustice no matter the odds.

So the seeds of my radicalization (the view of my conservative friends on anyone who doesn't hold their views) had begun.  Yes, standing up for the little guy against injustice, instead of just concerning yourself with what benefits you, is radical here in the U.S. You are a bleeding heart Liberal.

Well, those seeds that had been planted began to blossom while in college.  Nope, not over the Vietnam War.  It began with tennis.  Women's tennis.  Yes, true to The Thurber Brigade theme, it turns out women made me that raging, radical Liberal.

In my sophomore year at Texas Tech (eventually got my degree from the University of Texas; another story), my friends and I went out to play tennis at the spanking new student tennis courts.  However, they had been taken over by the women’s tennis team for some match against another school.  I should point out that at this time the men’s team had some really nice courts they used exclusively, while the women’s courts were, well, they were crappier than something you’d find in a public park. 

For some reason, the men’s team was unwilling to share their nice courts. The women’s team, not wishing to irritate them or the athletic department (controlled by men), decided to instead make a move on the common students—who probably had even less power or voice with those in charge.  Historical note: Title IX had only recently kicked in (1972) and women’s sports across the US were very slowly getting their due.  Very, very slowly.

Outraged at this, I did the only thing voiceless and powerless people have done for years: I wrote a letter to the editor of the school newspaper.  Although I’m sure it was an explosive and moving letter, the only part I remember is that I used the phrase “the students get screwed again.”  Probably the only reason I remember that phrase is because I heard some “suits” repeat it as they walked out of the rowdy hearing that resulted from said letter.

That’s right, my first attempt at social justice somehow touched a nerve across campus.  Soon other angry letters flooded the paper, and with some threatening to organize a protest rally the administration decided the way to calm things would be to have an open discussion between students, the women’s team and the administration.

My friends and I joined the packed house and even got to sit at the front table opposite the suits.  Because the student courts were paid for by a special fee assigned to us, we believed we had the upper-hand and we attempted to stress that although we supported the women’s team and thought they were treated unfairly, it wasn’t right to be equally unfair to us.  We also, numerous times, asked why the men and women teams couldn’t share the men’s team courts.

To this day I proudly declare to everyone that we had an impact.  The women’s team only played on the student courts one more time after that, supposedly because they didn’t have enough time to reschedule.  However, I wouldn’t be surprised if the administration had begun to feel pressure because of Title IX and relented to have the men and women’s teams share until something new could be built for the women.

So my radicalization had begun.  I would fight for justice and the little guy thereafter.  As mentioned in a previous blog, I worked for enlisted people’s rights while in the Army, I took part in several civil rights demonstrations and well, let’s just say I fought for issues in which John Wayne would not show up for the rallies.  You know, radical Liberal ideas like clean air and water, fair pay, feed the poor, etc.

Now before you say it also began my opposition to women, let me point out that half of the crowd supporting my friends and I were women. Plus, I have—and always will—support women’s rights, from equal pay to their right to choose what happens to their bodies.  However, I’m also willing to make fun of them and say sarcastic things about their habits.  Yes, the Brigade marches on. 

James Thurber!  

The Thurber Brigade does not believe that having Progressive ideals makes a person radical.  However, thanks to Fox News relentless war on Liberals many people now believe that standing for clean air and water, equal rights, fair pay, well, anything not approved by the Neocon pundits is just short of being card-carrying Communists.  However, if standing up for the welfare of others throws us into that crowd, then we're proud to be radical.

 

He is Really NOT Popular

Trump has never won an election.

This is not a lie nor misinformation. He lost both presidential elections by a lot of votes. By over three million to Clinton, by over seven million to Biden.  He did win the electoral college vote. However, the electoral college is not an election.

The electoral college was a compromise by the Founding Fathers to placate the slave holders so that they’d agree to the Constitution. It would give states electors based on population and states could count slaves as 3/5 of a person. Okay, it was also for taxation and legislative representation policies, but you get the drift.

He lost those elections because he is not popular. He has never been popular and so The Thurber Brigade thought now would be a good time to remind people about how unpopular he is. This was inspired because there recently was an article stating that Biden is unpopular, but that article seemed to avoid mentioning how much Trump is despised.

I don’t know of any presidents who have had protests against them in other countries except Trump. 

He was hated in France.

Germany despised him.

In England, they really despised him, with some of the largest protests the country has seen in decades. 

They so disliked him they created floats and a gigantic Trump balloon to deride him.

Even little Belgium was not a fan.

However, those were nothing compared to the protests here in the U.S.

Millions came out to participate in the Women’s March across the country.  “Welcome to your first day, we will not go away!” they chanted in Washington.

There were marches against his refusal to release his taxes.

Of course, there were marches against him for all sorts of other reasons.

There was a George Floyd protest outside the White House that so scared Trump, that he ran and hid in the bunker. The only president to ever seek refuge there.

So don't fret when you see the polls that show The Orange One in the lead or tied with Biden. As we near the election, people will begin to remember how bad he was, how incoherent he was and especially, how unpopular he IS. It's our job to make sure they do remember.

 

The Wilmington 10 Incident

During my time in the 82nd Airborne I had a number of wild adventures and experiences. However, one incident that I thought minor when it began, became a big learning experience. It involved a protest rally for The Wilmington 10.

A guy I was working with to try and bring about an enlisted person union (mentioned in a previous blog) asked me one time to go to this protest rally. At the time, I didn't know anything about The Wilmington 10. So, he filled me in.

I took this in 1976, not that long ago

They were these 10 high school kids (nine boys, one girl) who made the “mistake” of being outspoken advocates for civil rights while being black in North Carolina in 1971. Oh, the Klan didn't parade openly in the state anymore, but their racism and violence permeated the state nonetheless. 

Basically, what happened to these kids was that they got arrested for an arson of a local store. At the time of the arson they were in a meeting about how to train for civil rights advocacy. That didn’t matter as the prosecution got three people to accuse them. Turns out later we learned that one of the witnesses was given a mini bike to get him to testify. Plus, later all three recanted their testimony. That came much later after the 10 had served years of their 29-year sentence.

The protest I was going to take part in was in 1976 or 1977 when people were trying to get them freed. President Jimmy Carter was coming to Fayetteville where I was stationed. As my Army buddy Rick and the guy who got me involved (I think his name was Mike, but can't be sure) we’re driving to the protest, he told me he slightly felt bad about this because the reason Carter was coming to town was to attend a wedding of some relative. We needed to try to get attention to the cause though, so this seemed the best way.

The protest was pretty big and vocal. We had tons of signs and banners that were pre-made and we waved them vigorously. We were kept on the sidewalk across from the church by a number of police officers, but they didn’t have but a few barricades. They didn't really need more as we weren't unruly, just loud. 

As we stood there, one policeman walked brazenly down the line of protestors taking our pictures. No doubt to go into some file labeled “commie, pinko agitators” stuck in a file cabinet at HQ. 

One exciting thing about the protest was that I got to see Jimmy Carter's arm. He waved at us through an open window of the limo, apparently realizing we weren't dangerous enough to keep the bullet proof window up.

Another exciting thing was that I spotted a lieutenant from my company hanging out behind the crowd. He was the only black officer in the company (maybe battalion) so I guessed the Army thought he might be better able to fit in. I nudged my buddy Rick and pointed out the LT, so we turned, smiled broadly, and waved at him shouting “Hi LT!” He looked sheepishly at us, waved faintly, then tried to move away. Yeah, we had a good laugh.

This was one of the big lessons I got from this though. I had suspected the Army was spying on me because of my GI right’s advocacy and this proved it. It didn't stop me from doing it, but it did make me a little more nervous.

Rick and Jay at Wilmington 10 protest

The protest didn’t get Jimmy Carter to do anything about The Wilmington 10, but it did give the cause publicity. We made the front page of the paper the next day. Lo and behold, Rick and I had our picture on the story. I thought it was cool, but doubt the Army felt the same way.

 

I will say this positive thing about the Army, they didn't overreact. I think they (or their lawyers) knew that I was protected by the First Amendment as the protest was off base and on my own time and of course, I wore “civies.”

This was the other thing the incident taught me: the media and the police work together. Oh, I doubt it's all the time and a lot has changed from the 70s, but I'm sure it still happens from time to time. You see, there were no other photographers at the protest who could have taken the picture that was in the paper. It was straight on and really close.

Although we didn’t get the result we wanted from the protest I'm sure the publicity helped emboldened others to also take on the cause. Plus, several big organizations eventually got involved (we can't take credit for that) like the ACLU and Amnesty International. Eventually, the kids were released from prison early. For some of them, it took up to 10 years, so it's sad they paid such a big price, even though innocent. After much effort and time, they were eventually pardoned. 

I still often think about that minor incident. Sadly, I don't think the US has changed that much. I mean, just look at all the people gunned down by police for the crime of being black in a racist nation. Yeah, I've blogged about that, a lot, and probably will continue. Now you know about my first experience with government secrecy (the LT spying) and why although I support the media and see them as the Fourth Estate who play an important part in helping us keep an eye on our government, I also know to be cautious about their intentions. 

Ahhh, James Thurber

Set Your Soul On Fire

Back in the 80s, AIDS protestors (protesting lack of funding/concern by the government) took to the streets across the country. Police were so afraid they might get the disease—even though the protestors may not have it and ignoring the science that stated you couldn't get it by mere contact—that they wore gloves in case they needed to touch one of the demonstrators.

Obviously, this enraged the protesters even more as it showed how they were treated as less than human. I remember seeing newscasts about these and the image stayed in my subconscious. When I thought about a follow up to my book TAX BREAK, these images came back. My mind played around with it all and finally suggested to me “what if these protestors decided to kick it up a notch?”

So SOULS ON FIRE tells that story. These activists decide to resort to terrorism to make their point. They embrace the Viking belief that it's better to die fighting for your beliefs than whither away in bed. They attack banks to get money to support themselves and attack the police to get revenge.

In a way, it also reflects the mindset of the people in the Warsaw ghetto during WWII. The people knew the Nazis would inevitably kill them, so they might as well fight back to the best of their ability.

 AIDS is a major theme of the book, but a more subtle one, albeit just as important, is PTSD.  I modeled the story a bit like “Soldier's Home” by Ernest Hemingway. An engrossing (and depressing) story about a young man who returns from WWI and is drastically changed from his prewar self.

This doesn't hit you in the face, but you can begin to see it in the character by the flashbacks he experiences. I won't say much more about this as I don't want to spoil it for you (and it's important when you read any book that you discover what the author is saying) but when you read it think about whether anything is odd or if his judgement has changed.

This book also delves more into Austin then the previous book. I'm in love with this city and you get to learn about its politics, environment, well, the nature of the city. Of course, I also had to mention a great musician who graced the city (and one of its great music venues from the day).

A writing point about the book: it's really short. According to one book seller you should be able to read it within three hours. As I wrote it I kept having this weird internal battle that on one hand said go into more detail, but on the other said, well, the kids today have an attention span of five seconds, so keep it short buster. Okay, I admit that even I sometimes skim books these days so I can get to the grist. So it was for me too.

On a personal note, this took me a long time to write.  I began the project in 2008 and slowly worked on completing it over the next 10 years.  I could blame that because a few years before beginning I got hit by a car while biking and my house burned down, but I am not sure those still weighed on my thoughts. 

It might have also stemmed from being depressed about lack of sales for my other books or how difficult it had been to get short stories published (I have quite a few that succeeded).  However, I have a feeling it’s more likely that it’s that I seem to get distracted easily these days.  Oh, is there a football game on right now?  Maybe.

I hope this insight into SOULS ON FIRE intrigued you enough to give it a try.  Think of it as a great distraction you can complete reading on your next long flight.  Or that you believe you’ll be dragged into this action-packed novel because it delves into important social issues. Whatever your reason, I hope you enjoy it and that it does more than entertains you, but also causes you to pause and think.  It sure did that to me as I wrote it.

Ahhh, James Thurber

 A short description of SOULS ON FIRE:

In 1985 AIDS activists slaughter police and terrorize Austin in the new blockbuster mystery SOULS ON FIRE.  Buy it now to discover if a movie-addicted police detective and his former CIA agent and bar-owner friend can stop the violence that engulfs the city.

FaceBook page:

https://www.facebook.com/SoulsOnFire.JayW/

Equinox

A Thurber Brigade Short Story

Eating ice cream.  Drinking beer.  Shooting hoops.  Watching baseball.  All of these things would be a lot more fun than going to MiddleTown to visit his brother and sister-in-law. 

Sam Unis assured himself that he would be doing all of them this weekend if he hadn’t been talked into making this trip.  But nooooo, he was too softhearted to tell Ronald and Hillary he couldn’t make it and so now he sat on this train heading to sure misery. 

Oh, make no mistake, he loved both of them as well as their kids, Libby and Justin.  In fact, having all of them at his place enjoying the aforementioned activities would please him to no end.  However, going to MiddleTown, which he preferred to call “Plainville,” did not please him.  Especially now.

Ronnie and Hill were one fight away from filing for divorce.

Inevitably, he’d have to pick a side.  Most people assumed he’d side with Ronnie because, after all, he was a blood relation.  The majority of the time though Sam preferred hanging with Hill.  She always seemed pleasant.  She liked the outdoors, liked helping people whether they were dirt poor or standard middle-class, liked loud rock music and hitting dive bars.  Ronnie preferred going to military museums, always told the homeless guy on the corner to “get a job,” and usually insisted on going to some high-class formal dinner where he knew half the crowd when Sam just wanted to go grab a beer at a diner.  Ronnie also seemed to always be angry or upset.

How they had managed to stay together this long really puzzled Sam.  They argued all the time.  They would argue about what TV show to watch.  They would argue about which TV to buy.  They’d disagree about the meaning of a movie.  They’d disagree about how much to tip a waitress.  One time Sam even caught them arguing about how to pronounce “potato.”  They didn’t ever argue in front of the children, and Sam guessed that maybe their love of those kids kept them together.  Or maybe they just had great sex together.  Sam never asked them about the latter.

The train slowly rolled into MiddleTown.  What a funny place, Sam thought.  The city capitalized the “T” because they wanted to set themselves apart from other towns with the same name. Sam hadn’t been to any other “Middletowns,” but he imagined they were no different.  They all probably had the same boring suburban neighborhoods, the same small, unglamorous downtowns, same small parks with pre-measured dimensions and set number of trees and playground equipment, same national chain restaurants, same cookie cutout shopping malls, same bowling alleys, theaters and bakeries.  They all had the same.  They were an actual “Middle” town. 

Sam groaned softly to himself.  “Same.”

“Sam, Sam!”  Ronnie yelled, waving from the back of the train platform.

Sam stepped down from the train and headed toward his brother and the smiling Hill.  “Hey, great to see you guys.”

“We are so glad to see you,” Hill said as she gave Sam a friendly hug.

“You do not know how glad,” Ronnie added.

“Well, it’s good to be here,” Sam lied.

“We have so much to catch up on,” Hill said.

Ronnie slapped his younger brother on the back.  “So, I see you still haven’t got your driver’s license back.”

Sam looked askance at his brother.  Was this a start of the usual goading routine they engaged in each time they met?  “Yeah, still not driving.”

A judge took Sam’s license away several years ago because he had accumulated too many tickets.  In passing the sentence, the judge stated that he didn’t want the city to waste any more resources.  Apparently, having a cop write a ticket every now and then was a resource.  Sam didn’t protest the illogic.  After all, the city wasted resources in so many other ways.  However, he knew no one could win against the law.  People in power could interpret the law anyway they chose and those interpretations always seemed to change depending on who held power.  The “little guy” didn’t get to express an opinion.  At least, not and have it affect anything.

The three made small talk as they walked to the car.  It included the usual updates of their various jobs; music concerts or movies they may have hit; the vacations that they forgot to send pictures of; and Sam even managed to get in a dig or two about MiddleTown.  At the car, Sam found the button that began the real conversation.

“So where are the kids?  he asked.

Hill and Ronnie glanced at each other then both gave Sam a half smile.

“Oh, you know kids," Hill said.  "They thought picking up an uncle would be similar to having several teeth removed."

“Even a favorite uncle," Ronnie chimed in.

This last response seemed a little odd to Sam.  Admittedly, in most families this would be an off-hand compliment to a relative.  However, that wasn’t Ronnie's style.

“Okay, what's the real reason?”  Sam asked.  "Did you finally go psycho and turn them into barbecue or something?"

“Oh, funny," Ronnie said, shoving Sam in the shoulder.  "No, they really did say it would be boring..."

"However, um, we wanted to ask a big favor," Hill broke in.  "And it concerns them."

Sam didn't like the sound of this, but ventured forward.  "Big favor?"

“Oh, nothing bad," Ronnie assured.

“Yeah, we would just like you to take them out for the afternoon, early evening.  Maybe take them to the zoo and then for burgers afterwards," Hill added.

Sam looked askance at them as he climbed into the back of their car.  "You want me to babysit them?"

“Um, well..." the two possible combatants said in unison.

“So you asked me to come all the way here to be a babysitter?”  Sam reiterated. 

“No.  We DO want your help in our situation.  Maybe act as a sounding board for ideas.  Right now though we also need your help in a different way.  Which means getting the kids away while we talk this out a bit,” Hill explained.

Sam frowned as the two stared hopefully from the front seat.  "Wouldn't it be better for you to get a real babysitter and the three of us go somewhere to talk?"

“For this united family to go forward, we have to reach some consensus.  We have to work together to make it work.  So a little alone time would help us,” Ronnie said.

Sam sighed, but knew his fate was cast.  He agreed he'd take the kids out for a while and let his brother and sister-in-law meet in conference to hash out their differences.  Of course, this may not have been the difficult part.  Getting two preteens to leave the comfort zone of their panic rooms—also known as private, messy bedrooms—would be a challenge.  

He decided to use the old tried-and-true method used for generations: bribery.  

The children really did like the company of their favorite uncle (only one, but one prone to showering them with gifts). However, the offer to secretly feed them the food and drinks their folks would never agree to added to the incentive.  So after the usual greetings, banter and friendly teasing on his arrival to the house, Sam, Justin and Libby headed out for the wild.  In this case, the MiddleTown Zoo and local pizzeria.

Of course, since Sam couldn't drive them it meant taking public transportation.  They hiked three blocks to one of MiddleTown's light rail stations.  This was the Congress Avenue Station, one of the larger stations in the city.  It had a few little kiosks selling everything from road maps to toy cars, had clean waiting areas and even piped-in music over the loud speakers.  Sam didn't really notice the music, but almost subconsciously began to hum along with what played.

“What’s that you’re humming?”  Libby asked.

“Oh, I’m just humming along with the Muzak coming from the speaker.  It’s an old Styx song.”

“Who is Styx?” they asked, simultaneously wrinkling their noses at the music.

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Never mind.”

He knew that this was just the usual generational differences, but didn't realize that a much bigger problem loomed ahead:  MiddleTown had only two rail lines, The Red and the Blue.

Sam studied the transit map that hung on the wall separating the two lines.  It looked like a painting of red and blue spaghetti.  Where most cities had maps that showed rail lines going in straight lines to distant destinations, the Red and Blue lines seemed to crisscross repeatedly with a few sections going in far different directions, only to cross once again.  Such as at this station.  The names of each station didn’t indicate city destinations, so he decided the best bet would be to ask for directions. 

As he bought three tickets, he asked the seller how to get to the zoo.  The man didn’t look up at all.  “Take the Blue line to Willow,” he said, continuing to count the coins in front of him.

“And that will get me to the zoo?”  Sam asked.

“Sure,” the ticket agent said unemotionally.

“Oh, boy, we’re going to the zoo!” the kids yelled excitedly as they all clamored aboard the Blue line.

When they got to the Willow station, they left the station only to discover they had wound up at a demonstration in support of stronger environmental laws.  Sam asked one of the protestors on the edge of the mob which way to go for the zoo.

“Oh, you’re nowhere near the zoo,” he said helpfully.  “You shouldn’t go there with children anyway.  Caging wild animals is no way to treat our fellow creatures.”

Sam frowned and herded Libby and Justin back down to the Willow station.  Once there, he saw a policeman who he was sure would know the directions needed.

“Yes, you need to take the Red Line to Lincoln Station.  You can get to the zoo easily from there.”

So the three hopped on the Red Line train, which not surprisingly intersected here with the Blue Line, and headed out once more.  At Lincoln Station, they climbed the stairs out only to discover they had stumbled upon another demonstration.  This one apparently demanding the city government stop excessive spending and reduce property taxes. Again, they were told they were nowhere near the zoo.

The trio retreated back to Lincoln Station dejected that they had yet to encounter any wildlife other then angry citizens of MiddleTown.  As usual, both the Red and Blue lines met at Lincoln.  Sam felt irritated at the situation, but also perplexed.  Why did he keep getting misguided directions?  He was hesitant, but walked up to two transit officials who stood on the platform separating the two lines. 

“Um, do you guys know which train to take to get to the zoo,” Sam asked apprehensively.

The man on the left smiled and nodded.  “Sure, you hop on the Blue Line there,” he said pointing.  “And take it to Dedicated Station.  There you change to the Red Line and head to Livermore Station.  The zoo’s right there.”

“No, no, not that way,” the other man broke in.  “You take the Red line over there to Giddings Station, then take the Blue Line to Musgrove Station.  The zoo’s just blocks away.”

The two officials walked away from Sam and the kids, arguing directions as they went.

Almost in tears, Libby and Justin looked up at Sam.  “Uncle Sam, which way do we go?”

Sam let out a deep sigh, frowned and shrugged at his doting niece and nephew who relied on him for guidance.  “I am completely and utterly lost.”

Ahhh, James Thurber

The Thurber Brigade decided that instead of a sidestep, to try a different tack and present a short satirical story (On politics. Did you get that?).  Of course, it also stems from that this story wasn’t accepted at several contests and publications and we got too lazy to keep trying.  However, we hope you enjoy this interlude and we promise to get back to the War between Men and women next time. Maybe.