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.

 

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

I'm A Runner

Years ago my family was driving around and we passed by Jim Ryan on some back road in Kansas. He was running. I thought how impressive to be running alone on some out of the way road in the boonies.  For some reason that stuck with me

When I was in junior high my gym coach got angry with my class for leaving a few towels out in the locker room and for punishment led the entire class on a so called “fun run.” We ran over rolling hills on the school ground, through the athletic fields and even past a few classrooms. I loved it.

A friend and I began to do our own fun runs. We loved running long distances, seeing various neighborhoods and passing all sorts of friends and strangers surprised by two running kids (this was before jogging was a thing).

I continued running. Obviously, I ran while participating in various sports, but also ran on my own fun runs. Jogging not just to stay in shape for sports, but because running felt good. I could think clearer. I felt uplifted. Often great ideas for stories came to me. Or maybe I was stuck on a scene and the jog would present how to write out that scene. 

I'd run around nearby neighborhoods, if I saw something in the distance that looked interesting, I'd run toward it. If I noticed a hill that looked difficult, I'd test myself. Pushing myself to make it.

After I got out of the army (82nd Airborne, where we ran as a group,  but I'd still jog later on my own) and came back to Texas, I kept running. Often would do it twice a day. I remember telling a friend that I liked running in the heat, even when it was 90-100 degrees. “It makes me tougher.” (See my macho blog)

As much as I loved sports—I got a degree in physical education—I never joined a running type team. Never took part in races. I just ran. I ran every day until I got older and decided I was getting too many little injuries from over training. As I mentioned, I loved sports, so it wouldn't be odd for me to run during two games of soccer in a day, then do a short night jog just to unwind. Yeah, that may have been overdoing it.

In 1999 I was riding my bike to the Posse East. A bar I liked to hang out at to drink beer and write stories and some of my books. A car hit me while en route.

Both my legs were broken, I had numerous cuts and scrapes and a light concussion. My left leg had a small break to the fibula.  The doctor didn't even set it. However, my right leg's tibia was broken in five places. The doctor put a rod and appropriate screws in to rejoin the bone. It's still there today as once the bone had healed, he didn't think it was worth another surgery to take it out and wouldn’t bother the leg to remain.

After about five days in the hospital (during Christmas no less) and  around ten days in a rehab hospital I went home. I could barely walk with crutches and used a wheel chair around the house.

I feared that I would never run again.

On a follow-up exam with the doctor, who just so happened to specialize in sports medicine, I asked him if he thought that I'd be able to run once the bone completely healed and I regained my strength in the leg. He said that was up to me.

And so I became determined to run again. I did rehab. I did extra exercises on my own at home. I walked with crutches longer and longer distances no matter the pain. As a gained strength, I went to a lap pool at my gym that was only about five feet deep and walked back and forth, practicing how to move my legs without the aid of crutches. I also watched movies for inspiration. No, not whole ones, scenes of running.

There was a scene in “Rob Roy” (1995) where Rob and his clan are running up a hill to escape the British invaders. The music crescendos as the men desperately scramble up that hill. It's a great scene, well, except where Rob's brother gets shot. I played that over and over. I may have seen that scene 1,000 times.

Another inspiration was a scene from “The Last of the Mohicans”(1992).  It's at the beginning of the movie where Hawkeye and his blood brother Uncas are hunting. They're hurtling through woods, jumping over ravines and scrambling up hills, again with stirring music building as they approach their prey. Yes, that probably got viewed 1,000 times too.

After a number of months, I could walk without crutches. I began with easy walks, then lengthened them. In the pool I would run (as best as I could against the resistance of the water). I finally decided I needed to try to run, no matter if it hurt. So I went to a nearby sports complex that I knew had perfect fields. Long, well-groomed grass that I knew would be like running on a cushion. I ran five feet. It was a little painful, but not excruciating. I walked a little ways and did it again. Basically, I did intervals. I advanced to ten feet, then twenty. Each day I'd extend the distance, alternating with walking. Eventually, I could do a complete lap around the field, then the entire complex.

 

So I soon was back to running. My fear that it would never happen overcome by determination and inspiration. 

A long time ago while running around an indoor track at the gym, I noticed an old man running. He must have been 80 or more. No, not a speed demon, just a steady, slow pace. Years from now if you encounter such a man, who may be one step from his grave, look closely. It'll be me.

Untold Stories

In the Spielberg movie “Lincoln,” the president often regales visitors with stories to make a point. A funny scene happens when he begins a story and one of his cabinet members runs from the room decrying “oh no, not another one of his blasted stories.”

We all have stories we like to tell from time to time, but often we don't tell all of them. I seldom verbalize  my stories anymore for a number of reasons.

One is that I don't want friends running from the room. Also, I think that nowadays, because of our fascination with the instantaneous and fast media storm we get from modern devices, we no longer have an attention span longer than a minute (or less).

So many great stories are missed by my friends, who might really like them if they heard a few. So a blog is a perfect place to tell them, even if briefly, and then you can either skim them or jump to the witty conclusion.

For example, there's the story from one of my Australian trips when I got picked up by security. I had been hiking along the seaside through some thick brush on a skimpy trail when I came upon a large facility. It had a fence topped by barbed wire and looked like some electric or energy plant, or maybe even a discreet military site. When I got to a more open area, I was confronted by two armed guards. They hadn't drawn their weapons, but did grill me about what I was doing there.

I told them I was just hiking and hadn’t entered the facility. They led me to their Jeep though and after examining my Texas driver's license must have guessed I was just a kooky American and harmless. They drove me back to a road so I could head back to town and admonished me about hiking in dangerous remote areas.

“What would you have done if you fell down one of those cliffs?” One chided. Admittedly, the cliffs I hiked along were pretty steep and high, but hey, that's what adventures are all about.

Another adventure dealt with a female I liked. I discussed this in detail in one of my “near miss” blogs.  Crazy about a waitress in a Sixth Street bar, I made numerous visits to the place hoping for the courage to ask for her number. I finally did gain that courage and got her phone number, but because of weird circumstances lost it on the very same night. Although I attempted to regain it (and my courage) it never came to fruition again.

Some stories aren’t so melancholy, but frustrating.  While in the army (82^nd Airborne) I advocated for an enlisted person union. A pretty radical idea that someone should advocate for enlisted rights/needs in congress rather than some general who might go on to be a lobbyist for a corporation. Anyway, one of the methods the group I worked with used to gain acceptance, was a petition for a union.

One day we tried to gather signatures at a local shopping mall. We were tucked away in a back area (the mall couldn’t deny our request, but could make it less offensive to themselves) and some grisly older guy, who I assumed was a retired master sergeant, came up and began arguing. I became more hostile as I argued back, but I suddenly noticed that my friends had sat back and didn’t respond at all. Since they were more experienced and knowledgeable it surprised me.

Eventually the old guy gave up or lost his energy and left, so I asked them why they didn’t fight back.

“There are just some people you will never get to listen.  No matter the facts, they will never change their minds. There’s  no need to even try.”

That became one of my best lessons over the years and has helped guide me in discussions as well as attempts to meet females.

I have a large number of hiking stories similar to the Australian one above. For example, on visiting Mount St. Helens, I took a hiking trail from an observation point that wended around several hills and included parts of a path that was mere inches wide. At one point, there was a 1,000 foot drop down a rocky slope if you missed a step. I did get a better and closer look at the dormant volcano and so thought it worth the danger.

Jim Croce plays a big part in one or two of my stories as noted in another blog.  The best again deals with hiking. Most of the time that I go hiking I’m alone and in the back country.  Bears do not like to be surprised, and so when you hike in their areas, you should always make a lot of noise. Easier if you hike with friends and can chat about fun times in bars, etc, but more challenging when alone.

So I not only wear a bear bell attached to my belt, but I sing Jim Croce. So far, no bears have complained about my singing, although one time one came close to check out which song I was singing.

Of course, I also have stories in which I will only reveal part of the adventure.  One such happened on my birthday.  I believe it was my big Three Five.  Anyway, we had been out celebrating my birthday, mainly drinking Magnums at The Chili Parlor, and finally heading home.

Unlike many males, I tend to get super cautious when I drink and then drive. However, we were still going highway speed on I-35 in my old Datsun pickup when my friend, Lance, decided to continue being crazy. He opened the window on the passenger side and began to crawl out, headed for the bed of the pickup.  I shouted at him to stop, but he continued on. 

Amazingly he made it, and after screaming and shouting at passing traffic, repeated the dangerous maneuver back into the cab.  That exciting point of the story does not end the wild tale, but it’s the most I’ll relate at this time. The craziest part came later, but that I’ll save until I’m on my death bed. You’ll just have to visit then.

These are just a few of the many stories I have but never talk about (although I sometimes blog them).  I believe everyone has the same situation and have untold treasures just waiting to be described to anyone willing to listen. 

As a writer, I love hearing most of these, and so I often try to elicit them from people while hiking, when I hit bars or while I wait for a bus. 

So if you can stand putting away your cell phone for a few minutes, give it a try yourself sometime. You may hear some really funny or intense tales.  Even if not, at least you have made a connection that will provide a pleasant memory years from now. Maybe that encounter will become one of your stories.

James Thurber told some great stories