Monday, May 31, 2004
Memorial Day
I had the opportunity to visit the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in Washington, DC several years ago. I didn't know anyone who died during that war; and have only met a few that served in it. But I can never forget how "the wall" affected me when I first saw it.
The following song affects me today as much as seeing the actual "wall" did when I was 18.
AFTER THE WAR
by Tim Irvine
My name is Billy Johnson. Indiana's my state.
I turned 21 back in '68.
Drafted into the army, sent to Fort Leonard Wood.
When I left my hometown, I prayed it wasn't for good.
His name was Hector Gonzalez, from San Jose.
We got stuck with KP the very first day.
After peelin' potatoes for hours on end,
Hector and I were the closest of friends.
When they put us on a troop jet, and flew us to 'Nam,
Some guy stood up in the back and read the twenty-third psalm.
He talked about walkin' through that valley of death.
I said, "Hector I'm scared." He said, "Just take a deep breath."
When we got off the plane and our assignments came in,
I got sent to Pleiku, he got sent to Long Binh.
He hugged me goodbye and turned around at the door,
And he said, "Don't forget look me up, after the war."
About three months later, he wrote me a letter.
He said some days are rough and some days are better,
And a kid named Gilardo we knew from basic training,
Was missing in action up north. "By the way, I meant what I said before:
Don't forget to look me up, after the war."
I was out on patrol in the spring of '69,
I stepped on a trip wire, took some shrapnel from a mine.
Spent the rest of my tour in a hospital bed,
With a pin in my leg, and a plate in my head.
On the plane ride home, I thought of all I'd been through.
I'd lived nine lives and I was just 22.
And I thought about Hector and what I'd promised before,
And I planned to look him up, right after the war.
Twenty-one years later in Washington, DC,
I was there on vacation with my family.
I went out to that park to see that wall,
And face up to a past I didn't want to recall.
First, I looked for that guy that Hector wrote me about,
He wasn't on the list, I guess he lucked out.
Then my eyes caught a name at the top of the page,
Corporal Hector Gonzalez, 21 years of age.
My throat got tight. My mouth went dry.
I looked up at that wall and I started to cry.
And the memories hit me like incoming fire,
From a time when we were so-o-o young,
Hector wavin' at me from the door,
Sayin', "Don't forget to look me up, after the war."
I lay awake some nights. I can still hear the guns,
Still hear the screams, I can still taste the blood.
I can still see Hector wavin' goodbye from the door,
Sayin', "Don't forget to look me up, after the war."
I had the opportunity to visit the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in Washington, DC several years ago. I didn't know anyone who died during that war; and have only met a few that served in it. But I can never forget how "the wall" affected me when I first saw it.
The following song affects me today as much as seeing the actual "wall" did when I was 18.
AFTER THE WAR
by Tim Irvine
My name is Billy Johnson. Indiana's my state.
I turned 21 back in '68.
Drafted into the army, sent to Fort Leonard Wood.
When I left my hometown, I prayed it wasn't for good.
His name was Hector Gonzalez, from San Jose.
We got stuck with KP the very first day.
After peelin' potatoes for hours on end,
Hector and I were the closest of friends.
When they put us on a troop jet, and flew us to 'Nam,
Some guy stood up in the back and read the twenty-third psalm.
He talked about walkin' through that valley of death.
I said, "Hector I'm scared." He said, "Just take a deep breath."
When we got off the plane and our assignments came in,
I got sent to Pleiku, he got sent to Long Binh.
He hugged me goodbye and turned around at the door,
And he said, "Don't forget look me up, after the war."
About three months later, he wrote me a letter.
He said some days are rough and some days are better,
And a kid named Gilardo we knew from basic training,
Was missing in action up north. "By the way, I meant what I said before:
Don't forget to look me up, after the war."
I was out on patrol in the spring of '69,
I stepped on a trip wire, took some shrapnel from a mine.
Spent the rest of my tour in a hospital bed,
With a pin in my leg, and a plate in my head.
On the plane ride home, I thought of all I'd been through.
I'd lived nine lives and I was just 22.
And I thought about Hector and what I'd promised before,
And I planned to look him up, right after the war.
Twenty-one years later in Washington, DC,
I was there on vacation with my family.
I went out to that park to see that wall,
And face up to a past I didn't want to recall.
First, I looked for that guy that Hector wrote me about,
He wasn't on the list, I guess he lucked out.
Then my eyes caught a name at the top of the page,
Corporal Hector Gonzalez, 21 years of age.
My throat got tight. My mouth went dry.
I looked up at that wall and I started to cry.
And the memories hit me like incoming fire,
From a time when we were so-o-o young,
Hector wavin' at me from the door,
Sayin', "Don't forget to look me up, after the war."
I lay awake some nights. I can still hear the guns,
Still hear the screams, I can still taste the blood.
I can still see Hector wavin' goodbye from the door,
Sayin', "Don't forget to look me up, after the war."
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Today, coming back from Wal-Mart, a man was standing in the median with a small cardboard sign. I didn’t have my glasses on but the sign mentioned something about a family (which I took to be his) and 2 children. He didn’t look like your typical “homeless” person. He wore a shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. In fact, I had seen him earlier on my way in to the store and – not seeing his sign – figured he might be having car trouble. But as I came to find out that wasn’t the case – he might not even own a car anymore.
I don’t know if this guy and I share any other similarities in life other than the fact that we both spend a considerable amount of time outdoors in the sun. I’m sensitive to that and had just bought a huge pack of Ozarka bottled water for that very reason. Walking around neighborhoods in the middle of the day – which is what I do – makes you kind of thirsty. So I rolled down the window and gave him a bottle.
Now whenever I see someone like that, I like probably 99% of America, wonder why he’s not working. And that seems like a valid question. But, in this case, does the question really matter since we can’t know (or won’t take the time to find out) the answer? If someone is on the streets begging for money, why do we naturally turn away from, in fact downright ignore his/her presence, and rationalize it by suggesting he/she would use the money for alcohol, drugs, etc. It’s ignorant cynicism based on perception and nothing more. And it’s that very thing – perception – which clouds and distorts our reality.
I watched a really good movie which was suggested to me by a friend: American Splendor. It’s the true story of Harvey Pikar, the pessimistic/depressive creator of the comic book “American Splendor.” In one scene, Pikar is approached by a woman who recognizes him from college (he dropped out after 2 semesters on account of, he says, the required math courses he was inevitably going to have to take). She’s heard about his success as a comic book creator/jazz reviewer (a side-job of his) and suggests that he’s doing well for himself. “You’re famous,” she says. We find out that she completed college and is a little unhappy being a stay-at-home mom. “I’m not doing as great as you think,” says Pikar. “My second wife divorced me, I work a dead end job as a file clerk; sometimes I hang out with the guys in the corner but most of the time I stay at home by myself and I read.” Her perception of Pikar’s life was different from the reality.
Solaris, the 2002 science fiction movie, had a more abstract take on the same theme of perception. George Clooney plays a psychologist (I think) who is sent to an orbiting ship to help with figure out the anomalies that are taking place there. As it turns out, each crew member is seeing and interacting with a person from his/her past. Clooney is affected too, when his dead wife comes back to him. But the entity which comes back is only the construction that the real person created. Which is to say, Clooney is seeing his wife not as she was, but as he perceived her to be. The major theme in the movie is that truly knowing someone is very difficult because we view their lives and our interaction with them through the clouded lens of our own biases, prejudgments, etc. (for better or worse).
Which brings me back to the homeless man on the median. I don’t know his life- which means I don’t know if he is to blame for his situation or not. Its probably a mixture. But I don’t know that for sure – so why be cynical about it. Why pass these people by without a second thought? Maybe it’s because we have our own problems to deal with – and that may be true. But can we rationalize our own inaction based on our own shaky perceptions?
I don’t know if this guy and I share any other similarities in life other than the fact that we both spend a considerable amount of time outdoors in the sun. I’m sensitive to that and had just bought a huge pack of Ozarka bottled water for that very reason. Walking around neighborhoods in the middle of the day – which is what I do – makes you kind of thirsty. So I rolled down the window and gave him a bottle.
Now whenever I see someone like that, I like probably 99% of America, wonder why he’s not working. And that seems like a valid question. But, in this case, does the question really matter since we can’t know (or won’t take the time to find out) the answer? If someone is on the streets begging for money, why do we naturally turn away from, in fact downright ignore his/her presence, and rationalize it by suggesting he/she would use the money for alcohol, drugs, etc. It’s ignorant cynicism based on perception and nothing more. And it’s that very thing – perception – which clouds and distorts our reality.
I watched a really good movie which was suggested to me by a friend: American Splendor. It’s the true story of Harvey Pikar, the pessimistic/depressive creator of the comic book “American Splendor.” In one scene, Pikar is approached by a woman who recognizes him from college (he dropped out after 2 semesters on account of, he says, the required math courses he was inevitably going to have to take). She’s heard about his success as a comic book creator/jazz reviewer (a side-job of his) and suggests that he’s doing well for himself. “You’re famous,” she says. We find out that she completed college and is a little unhappy being a stay-at-home mom. “I’m not doing as great as you think,” says Pikar. “My second wife divorced me, I work a dead end job as a file clerk; sometimes I hang out with the guys in the corner but most of the time I stay at home by myself and I read.” Her perception of Pikar’s life was different from the reality.
Solaris, the 2002 science fiction movie, had a more abstract take on the same theme of perception. George Clooney plays a psychologist (I think) who is sent to an orbiting ship to help with figure out the anomalies that are taking place there. As it turns out, each crew member is seeing and interacting with a person from his/her past. Clooney is affected too, when his dead wife comes back to him. But the entity which comes back is only the construction that the real person created. Which is to say, Clooney is seeing his wife not as she was, but as he perceived her to be. The major theme in the movie is that truly knowing someone is very difficult because we view their lives and our interaction with them through the clouded lens of our own biases, prejudgments, etc. (for better or worse).
Which brings me back to the homeless man on the median. I don’t know his life- which means I don’t know if he is to blame for his situation or not. Its probably a mixture. But I don’t know that for sure – so why be cynical about it. Why pass these people by without a second thought? Maybe it’s because we have our own problems to deal with – and that may be true. But can we rationalize our own inaction based on our own shaky perceptions?
Friday, May 14, 2004
Driving Through the Delta in Winter
Phillips County, Arkansas
As the fog rests its feet
Upon the delta soil, and the road
Meandering through the land
Is silent save for the old tires’
Low hum on the pavement,
And the remnants of the rain
Rest between the rows
Of cotton and the cotton left
Droops and hangs from the rain,
An old house lies in the field,
Writhing and dying alone
Among the trees.
The cracked glass
And broken boards,
Warped and twisted, like scars
Marking up a body,
Grow with the cotton – Season
To season – just as the vine
Snakes up along its side,
Griping each scar and crawls
A little more. The house knows
No time. In a few moments,
I will be gone (just passing through),
But the fog will be there,
Anyway, it will always be there –
The house that is.
Phillips County, Arkansas
As the fog rests its feet
Upon the delta soil, and the road
Meandering through the land
Is silent save for the old tires’
Low hum on the pavement,
And the remnants of the rain
Rest between the rows
Of cotton and the cotton left
Droops and hangs from the rain,
An old house lies in the field,
Writhing and dying alone
Among the trees.
The cracked glass
And broken boards,
Warped and twisted, like scars
Marking up a body,
Grow with the cotton – Season
To season – just as the vine
Snakes up along its side,
Griping each scar and crawls
A little more. The house knows
No time. In a few moments,
I will be gone (just passing through),
But the fog will be there,
Anyway, it will always be there –
The house that is.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Wearing red shorts and a small sleeveless shirt, she walks pointedly around my neighborhood. Each day she takes what seems to be the same path; her pace is so precise on both trips (she makes the one block-by-one block loop twice) that watching her is almost hypnotic. Her face is steady and blank and her mouth is slightly parted as her tongue rests slightly on her lower lip. She has Downs Syndrome.
I was never taught how to interact/associate with mentally/physically handicapped people. Over the years, I have learned how to deal with “mean” people and “nice” people, “loud” people and “shy” people, etc. But I somehow missed the lesson(s) where I learn how to associate respectfully with someone whose general mental capacity is severely hampered for whatever reason. Maybe that is why I’m unable to understand my feeling when I come across this sort of person.
A few nights ago, PBS ran a somewhat strange show. I missed the first part, but from the lighting and setting used, I could tell it was a relatively low-budget production. Apparently the show centered on the life of two sisters. One sister was a fully functioning “normal” person who cared for her physically handicapped sister. The handicapped sister seemed to be mentally fine, but her speech was severely slurred, one arm was in a semi-paralyzed state, and she shook violently as she walked with her feet turned slightly inward. She is the sort of person that one would instantly notice if she walked into the room. (I suspect most eyes would quickly look, evaluate, and gaze away quickly so as not to appear to be starring.)
So these sisters seemed about the same age, mid-30s, and when I said the one sister “cared” for the other, I mean that in a loose sense. The handicapped sister was fiercely independent, to such a degree in fact that she began writing poetry to a young man who worked behind a counter of a coffee shop the two sisters frequented. Understandably insecure, the poet-sister wrote anonymously. To make a long story short, her identity was revealed and a conversation between her and the man ensued.
“You were disappointed?” She asked him. He tells her that he was a little; she understands. But he also added that he would like her to keep writing and he wants to get to know her better but can’t promise anything more than a friendship will come of it. She accepted this graciously.
Perhaps I turned the channel for a moment and missed a few seconds because the next scene – the final scene in the show – had the onetime physically handicapped sister suddenly “normal.” Her walk was normal; she had control of her entire body and was no longer shaking uncontrollably. She walked into the coffee shop and smiles at the man behind the counter; he smiles back.
I didn’t know what to make of this. Was this a dream sequence, the first part of which I had missed in those brief seconds? Or was this part fantasy? But clearly the suggestion was that these two people will now get together because one person basically changed her “look.” I don’t know if that’s the best message to send, but I don’t think anyone could argue that it isn’t reality.
So I occasionally watch the young girl circling the block in my neighborhood and wonder if she is lonely. Perhaps she, like the one sister on the program, longs for someone she sees each day. Maybe he’s the grocery clerk at Albertson’s or a kid down the street.
And as one thought often leads to another, I wonder how I would react under similar circumstances as the coffee shop guy. It's then that I'm confronted with my own insecurities and the reality: How could I react any differently?
I was never taught how to interact/associate with mentally/physically handicapped people. Over the years, I have learned how to deal with “mean” people and “nice” people, “loud” people and “shy” people, etc. But I somehow missed the lesson(s) where I learn how to associate respectfully with someone whose general mental capacity is severely hampered for whatever reason. Maybe that is why I’m unable to understand my feeling when I come across this sort of person.
A few nights ago, PBS ran a somewhat strange show. I missed the first part, but from the lighting and setting used, I could tell it was a relatively low-budget production. Apparently the show centered on the life of two sisters. One sister was a fully functioning “normal” person who cared for her physically handicapped sister. The handicapped sister seemed to be mentally fine, but her speech was severely slurred, one arm was in a semi-paralyzed state, and she shook violently as she walked with her feet turned slightly inward. She is the sort of person that one would instantly notice if she walked into the room. (I suspect most eyes would quickly look, evaluate, and gaze away quickly so as not to appear to be starring.)
So these sisters seemed about the same age, mid-30s, and when I said the one sister “cared” for the other, I mean that in a loose sense. The handicapped sister was fiercely independent, to such a degree in fact that she began writing poetry to a young man who worked behind a counter of a coffee shop the two sisters frequented. Understandably insecure, the poet-sister wrote anonymously. To make a long story short, her identity was revealed and a conversation between her and the man ensued.
“You were disappointed?” She asked him. He tells her that he was a little; she understands. But he also added that he would like her to keep writing and he wants to get to know her better but can’t promise anything more than a friendship will come of it. She accepted this graciously.
Perhaps I turned the channel for a moment and missed a few seconds because the next scene – the final scene in the show – had the onetime physically handicapped sister suddenly “normal.” Her walk was normal; she had control of her entire body and was no longer shaking uncontrollably. She walked into the coffee shop and smiles at the man behind the counter; he smiles back.
I didn’t know what to make of this. Was this a dream sequence, the first part of which I had missed in those brief seconds? Or was this part fantasy? But clearly the suggestion was that these two people will now get together because one person basically changed her “look.” I don’t know if that’s the best message to send, but I don’t think anyone could argue that it isn’t reality.
So I occasionally watch the young girl circling the block in my neighborhood and wonder if she is lonely. Perhaps she, like the one sister on the program, longs for someone she sees each day. Maybe he’s the grocery clerk at Albertson’s or a kid down the street.
And as one thought often leads to another, I wonder how I would react under similar circumstances as the coffee shop guy. It's then that I'm confronted with my own insecurities and the reality: How could I react any differently?
Friday, May 07, 2004
Sitting in a hot car at the intersection of Highway 377 and FM 1709, I watch the cars pass. Mostly it’s large trucks heading to and from construction sites. In a way, 377 forms a de facto border. To the west is the largely undeveloped land to which I figure most of the trucks are heading. New homes are waiting to be built or finished and soon the land will look much like the land to the east – relatively developed and thriving – as Ft. Worth’s newest northern suburb.
Yet from my car it is not a truck that captures my eye but a bicycle. Two bicycles to be accurate, traveling east to west across 377 and continuing on down the ever narrowing 1709 as it meanders and snakes across the land. They don’t realize, I’m sure, that they will inevitably cause frustration for drivers who happen to be behind them as the road does narrow and thus taking with it any option to pass the bicyclers. And I also figure, that the as drivers soon notice that the two riding the bikes are dressed in black slacks, white shirts, necktie, and helmet, they might just scoff.
Indeed, this scene of two Mormon missionaries crossing a bustling commercial road gave me pause to think not only about them and their lives, it also caused me to rethink this whole “blog” thing. So after hearing from a couple of friends and regular bloggers that I, too, should set-up a blog, it was two Mormons, whom I have never met nor probably will ever meet, who gave me that final push. Why?
I’m reading Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of Heaven, which chronicles the 1984 killing of a mother and child and the hands of Mormon Fundamentalists. Without going into detail, the book has caused me to question the validity of the religion given its unusual history. (NOTE: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is wholly different from Mormon Fundamentalism but my views are applicable to both.) But I don’t like it. I don’t like to question someone’s religious beliefs but I find myself doing it and feeling guilty for it.
So what exactly, given that digression, about those two Mormons would spark this blog? The answer is two fold. It was their belief in their religion, not my belief in mine. Here were two guys probably around 20 years old on a mission. They are willing to suffer the scoffs, and the spit which inevitably flies their way, the crude hollers and honks for their religion, not mine.
And it was then that I realized we three shared a belief in something bigger than ourselves. And that that was enough. Regardless of what I think about Mormonism as a faith, here were two of its strongest adherents and me with my faith. Their faith may be wrong; my faith may be wrong; but its in believing in something that I think we shared everything. (I suppose I’m ecumenical like that.)
And it was that brief moment in time at that busy intersection and the realization – however minor – that occurred there that sparked this blog. I hope to fill this blog with similar ideas and stories. The blog is called “Requiem for a Thought” because I want to put to rest my many thoughts in hope that they may be remembered as they were and continue to live as they are.
Soon thereafter the light turned green and my car was still hot. The trucks next to me clunked into gear, spitting smoke and reverberating ugly noise. The bikes and their riders were gone, as I looked down the road watching it narrow and snake into the horizon.
Yet from my car it is not a truck that captures my eye but a bicycle. Two bicycles to be accurate, traveling east to west across 377 and continuing on down the ever narrowing 1709 as it meanders and snakes across the land. They don’t realize, I’m sure, that they will inevitably cause frustration for drivers who happen to be behind them as the road does narrow and thus taking with it any option to pass the bicyclers. And I also figure, that the as drivers soon notice that the two riding the bikes are dressed in black slacks, white shirts, necktie, and helmet, they might just scoff.
Indeed, this scene of two Mormon missionaries crossing a bustling commercial road gave me pause to think not only about them and their lives, it also caused me to rethink this whole “blog” thing. So after hearing from a couple of friends and regular bloggers that I, too, should set-up a blog, it was two Mormons, whom I have never met nor probably will ever meet, who gave me that final push. Why?
I’m reading Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of Heaven, which chronicles the 1984 killing of a mother and child and the hands of Mormon Fundamentalists. Without going into detail, the book has caused me to question the validity of the religion given its unusual history. (NOTE: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is wholly different from Mormon Fundamentalism but my views are applicable to both.) But I don’t like it. I don’t like to question someone’s religious beliefs but I find myself doing it and feeling guilty for it.
So what exactly, given that digression, about those two Mormons would spark this blog? The answer is two fold. It was their belief in their religion, not my belief in mine. Here were two guys probably around 20 years old on a mission. They are willing to suffer the scoffs, and the spit which inevitably flies their way, the crude hollers and honks for their religion, not mine.
And it was then that I realized we three shared a belief in something bigger than ourselves. And that that was enough. Regardless of what I think about Mormonism as a faith, here were two of its strongest adherents and me with my faith. Their faith may be wrong; my faith may be wrong; but its in believing in something that I think we shared everything. (I suppose I’m ecumenical like that.)
And it was that brief moment in time at that busy intersection and the realization – however minor – that occurred there that sparked this blog. I hope to fill this blog with similar ideas and stories. The blog is called “Requiem for a Thought” because I want to put to rest my many thoughts in hope that they may be remembered as they were and continue to live as they are.
Soon thereafter the light turned green and my car was still hot. The trucks next to me clunked into gear, spitting smoke and reverberating ugly noise. The bikes and their riders were gone, as I looked down the road watching it narrow and snake into the horizon.
