Political Correctness Run Amok

I’ve waited a few weeks to comment on the events at Ft. Hood in which Maj Nadil Hasan gunned down his fellow soldiers in a processing center there. The inevitable gnashing of teeth, finger pointing and the “how could this have happened?”elicit a big “Duh” from me. For anyone who has served not only in the military but in any other public/governmental agency, it is no surprise: political correctness.
Personnel in Maj Hasan’s chain of command were aware of his radical Islamic leanings, but no one did anything. Why? Simple, it was a matter of self preservation. Had anyone complained about him, his career would have been over. He/she would have been branded racist and if not summarily dismissed, would have been referred to sensitivity training and the resulting comment on their records would have prevented any further advancement.
In the American military, one cannot remain, say, at the rank of captain even if that is the level he or she is most comfortable or competent. All must stand for promotion and if not selected, they are removed from active duty. So absurd is the system that promotions are often based on a mandatory full length picture of the applicant. If one “does not look like a major,” that person can be denied promotion. Thus a comment on one efficiency report can finish a person who has rendered good and faithful service for many years. The easiest way to kill a person’s career, it is said, is to “condemn with faint praise.” Only water walkers need apply.
And what about Maj. Hasan himself? His performance had been described as “inadequate” but he was nevertheless promoted to the rank of major. There are many former officers not promoted thus, simply because it was noted that 12 years before as a brand new lieutenant, their uniforms did not fit exactly as the rater wanted. This in spite of the fact that their service had been exemplary. Again to not promote someone in a minority group would be career suicide for someone.
I often wonder what has happened to our meritocracy, when promotions can be made based on racial quotas rather than skill and quality of performance. Discrimination against any group is wrong. In this case the political correcting of our society has ended the lives of 14 good people and ruined the lives of many more.

The Thoughts Of An Old Army Friend

I thought I would share the kind words of an old Army friend, with whom I was stationed at Ft. Hood and after our tours in Vietnam at the Army Intelligence School at Ft. Holabird, MD. I received it in an email a week or so ago. I am humbled.
"…when I read it, I went into an unusual (for me) slow-down mode. As agonizing as it was to read your experiences (much worse than my being a REMF who only spent about 12 days and nights with ground-pounding units), I needed to read every line carefully to get the full flavor… I loved the book and only wonder why you didn’t call it a memoir rather than a novel. Even though I knew the author had survived, my heart was in my throat every time I started a new chapter. I agonized over every firefight, even every decision you had to make. I had fewer worries about my ability to function under fire, which I had to do a few times. I was less confident of my ability to lead troops without getting anyone killed unnecessarily. I would have been glad to have been led by a leader like you developed into. I know command is not a popularity contest, but I enjoyed the interaction of you and your men. There seemed to be a far smaller asshole quotient in the field, even with your first six, than what you faced in the rear. I anguished over your plight with the 191st and grieved when some soldiers I’d come to respect in your old unit were killed. I share your feeling of helplessness and rage at the injustice…
Your book has inspired me to dig out the series of taped messages I sent my parents during my year in the Nam. Not to write a memoir, but to see what I had to say at that time and recall some names of people I admired as well as those I didn’t."

Political Correctness: Quatsch!

Down at the shore I found a seagull feather stuck upright in the cultch facing, trembling into the southwest wind like a weathervane. The sou’westerly was driving the late autumn gray water up the channel against Wilson Ledge out in the middle of the bay, and the motion of the white caps looked like the white manes of horses racing up towards Brunswick where the ocean ends. And it made me think of how the ancient sea peoples all had beliefs of sea gods and spirits either astride horses or driving them in chariots. Sometimes when the air is more still you can hear the clucking and cooing of distant sea ducks, sounding like human voices. It is easy to see where the myths came from.
But I digress. I can do that, along with starting a sentence with a conjunction, because this is my space, and I am not submitting it for a grade. Besides, my two favorite story tellers, Garrison Keillor and Gary Anderson of the Harpswell Anchor newspaper, do it all the time, much to the enrichment of their tales. Mind you, I have nothing against English teachers. My instructors from junior and senior years in high school, Bob Hart and John Smith, members of the Greatest Generation, were truly inspiring and taught an immature kid how to write and think like an adult, even if he didn’t act like one. (I still don’t!)
But it wasn’t ancient sea myths that caught my attention. It was the fact that as a kid, I would have picked up the feather, tied a ribbon around my head and lit up into the woods to pretend I was an Indian. Now, playing that role was certainly not to denigrate Native Americans. We thought they were really cool. We wanted to be them.
Anyway, that thought led quickly, as my synapses started clicking, to the fact that kids can’t enjoy being kids. Those of my generation remember the excitement of cutting witches, ghosts and jack o’lanterns out of construction paper and plastering our classroom with them. Can’t do that anymore. Inappropriate. It promotes witchcraft. The Germans have a great word for that: Quatsch! It is pronounced, Kvatsch, by the way, and is a polite substitute for “Bull Shit.”
Christmas? The kids can’t even wish each other a merry one. My kids were not allowed to sing Christmas Carols, but they were made to sing Hanukah songs, and the Christmas assembly was watered down to a “winter assembly.” Am I missing something here? As I remember the one Jewish boy in my class, a friend to everyone and all round good guy, had as much fun with it as we did.
Valentines Day? Nope, can’t do that either. We spent days cutting out pink and red hearts, turned doilies into what passed as greetings and had a nice afternoon party. No one was excluded. We all, even us unpopular and ugly ones, looked forward to it. Grade school kids don’t care what you look like. We all got cards punched out of cheap sheets and all ate cake with pink icing, so that our mothers didn’t need to plan for supper that night.
Easter? Forget it. I don’t even need to go there.
The fact is, in our society’s wimpy and pathetic attempts to offend absolutely no one, we have watered everything down to the point where kids of today will have no memories.
I’ve got news: Life has winners and losers. I don’t believe in telling an eight year old he or she is already a loser, but our timid approach to everything is not a learning moment.

Influenza

I think I am the only person of my age who has any memories of the influenza pandemic of 1918. The memories of which I speak, are passed down, for there is no one left alive in my family who was old enough to have actually experienced it first hand. There are, however, vivid reminders of it at my aunt’s house in New Hampshire in the form of a small, white christening dress and a china headed doll, which once belonged to my Aunt Grace.
Grace was the oldest child of my grandparents, a bright, honey haired child, the darling of the neighborhood according to all accounts. In 1918, she and my uncle, who was about four years old and my two grandparents were the beginnings of a family which would, over the years, produce six children. My grandfather was working in Memphis, TN, designing sporting equipment, and my grandmother had returned with the two children to Chicopee, MA to be with her parents while she awaited the arrival of my father, whom she was carrying at the time.
Coincidently, my maternal grandfather was working in Springfield, MA as a civil engineer for the Boston and Maine Railroad.
The epidemic, by all accounts was frightening and ugly, for it cut down children and young adults in their prime, with extreme swiftness. Combat operations in World War I were held up as both sides dealt with devastating casualties, not from bullets but from viruses. It spread with such an alarming speed that it is still not known today, how and why it spread as fast as it did. Many, who would contract the disease, would survive and start to recover only to be stricken with pneumonia, which their weakened bodies could not resist.
Among those stricken were my Aunt Grace and Uncle Jim. My frantic grandmother called the local doctor, who came and made his assessment, “The little girl will be fine, but I’m afraid for the lad.” Grace began to recover but quickly worsened and became a casualty of the great epidemic. My uncle, however, did survive. But in her way, Grace lived on. When I was small, the whole family spoke of her as if she were just someone living too far away to visit, even though Uncle Jim was the only one who had known her. In that doll and small dress, she is still present in the family home.
My other grandfather, in the meantime, fell ill, and while lying abed in the front room of the house he was renting, could see the continuous funeral processions going by his window. Not a comforting sight, I am sure. Every home on his street lost someone.
Now, perhaps to even the score, I have never had the flu at all. In fact, I have only had one flu shot, inflicted on my by the Army in 1968 when there was fear of another big outbreak. In Vietnam, a medic flew out to the field to re-inoculate us against bubonic plague, but not the flu. As a 6th grader (1957-58), the Asian flu swept through emptying out schools. In my class of 25 or so, only Billy Field, who came to school in the winter with no socks, ill fitting hand-me-down shoes and no lunch, and I were the only ones untouched. In the panic of the ‘70’s even though, as a teacher I lived in the bacterial/viral soup that is an old school building, I was unaffected. And, I’m not losing sleep over H1N1. Maybe Aunt Grace is looking out for me. If she is, “Thank you.”

Leaf Peepers

I have spent the last two weekends in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, which are well known for the brilliant colors produced by the deciduous trees as one last orgasm before they go into suspended animation for the winter. Maples, poplars, birches and beeches turn from their various hues of green into gold, yellow and bright red. The oaks, meanwhile, less boisterous turn a dignified rust. The mountains, once stripped of their trees for a voracious timber industry have recovered, and are more than eager to show off that they have not been defeated. In the valleys, the small, gravel bottomed rivers are alive with the yellow and red boats the leaves make as they drift away toward the ocean on the gold water.
It is beauty such as this, that people from the world over come to marvel. But do they really see anything? The main highways coming in and out can be bumper to bumper with crawling traffic. But out in the mountains, one can still be very much alone, sometimes within feet of even the inter-state which follows the Pemigewassett River up into the mountains. Why?
The answer is simple: the people who come to see the beauty of nature flock into the several tourist towns along the road to buy trinkets made in the orient and decide which faux Nordic sweater or piece of Scotland they are going to take home with them. I suppose the area needs the business, and retail is what keeps the economy going, but I have never been able to fathom why folks would want to drive into such a special place and just shop. Why not stay home and do it, for God’s sake.
Ah but wait. If those who came for the foliage actually wanted to see it, I would not be able to enjoy the easy solitude of the mountains even on Columbus Day. Keep shopping, people.

The Songs My Grandmother Sang

My grandmother was the quintessential grandmother. She was jolly, rotund, and since we could never get her angry, we never tried. One of the things I will never forget about her, is how she suddenly would burst into song. Sometimes it was a hymn; “Come Thou Almighty King” was a frequent, or songs from long ago wars such as “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the boys are marching;” from the Civil War or “I have come to say goodbye Dolly Gray,” from the Spanish American War, a time she experienced as a child. The frustrating thing about these tunes, was she would usually only belt out the first lines or perhaps, in the case of a hymn, the first verse.
Often the songs she sang were from her school days. “Dicky Bird, Dicky Bird, Dicky Dicky Bird; How I’d like to fly with you; Dicky, Dicky Bird,” would come echoing out of the old camp window into the surrounding beech wood, where she and my grandfather lived. “Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen; We dare not go a’hunting for fear of little men,” I later learned was from a poem by William Butler Yeats. “A hunter on the hill, who gallops forth at early dawn to shoot the startled deer; All fresh at early dawn;” was a German folk song, “Der Jaeger aus Kurpfalz.” Her elementary education predated World War I when things German fell out of fashion.
But there was one little song she sang, and again, only the first verse, that always touched something with me. “Come little leaves, said the wind, one day; Come over the meadows with me and play.” I could always picture the leaves of past summers being blown over the fields as summer ended. Even now I remember the tune, and recently found the entire poem, which I am attaching. If I close my eyes, I can still recall past autumns and meadows, long since disappeared under construction, and hear my grandmother singing to us the lament of a dying summer.
Come Little Leaves
COME LITTLE LEAVES
by George Cooper

"Come, little leaves" said the wind one day,
"Come over the meadows with me, and play;
Put on your dresses of red and gold;
Summer is gone, and the days grow cold."

Soon as the leaves heard the wind's loud call,
Down they came fluttering, one and all;
Over the brown fields they danced and flew,
Singing the soft little songs they knew.

"Cricket, good-bye, we've been friends so long;
Little brook, sing us your farewell song-
Say you're sorry to see us go;
Ah! you are sorry, right well we know.

"Dear little lambs, in your fleecy fold,
Mother will keep you from harm and cold;
Fondly we've watched you in vale and glade;
Say, will you dream of our loving shade?"

Dancing and whirling the little leaves went;
Winter had called them and they were content-
Soon fast asleep in their earthly beds,
The snow laid a soft mantle over their heads.

My Grandfather's Favorite Joke

You never think that your grandparents were once young, at least when you are young yourself. However my mother's father was young at one time, and the glimmers of his younger days would creep through in stories in which he usually referred to himself as "an observer."
He was a civil engineer, and oddity in the 1920's being a college graduate from the University of Connecticut in 1912. After working for several railroads and the United Fruit Company in Jamaica he ended up working for the Maine Highway Department, surveying and planning the roads that would push through the distant farmlands and forests to connect Maine's far flung towns. Often the survey crews were gone for weeks at a time, particularly in the winter, when travel home was impossible and they would be holed up in some northern town where the sole source of entertainment was the bar in the local "hotel." Many hotels in Maine, back in the day, were just bars with a few cots upstairs so that they could meet the letter of the law and sell hard liquor. I stayed in one such hotel back in 1964, but that is another story for another time.
At any rate, to fight boredom, the crew would invent things to do, and sometimes form "societies" and "clubs" which required an initiation, something the founders never did themselves, and the new guys were none the wiser. One such club was the Order of the Burning Straw. The initiate, probably well oiled by the time, would be required to drop his pants and hold a broom straw between the cheeks of his butt while it burned down to a stub.
But I digress. I remembered Poppa's favorite joke the other night just as I was falling asleep, and my chuckling forced my long suffering wife to ask why I was laughing at such an odd time.
The story goes as follows: There once was a medical student, who was prone to wild binge drinking, which usually left him hurling violently and then comatose. His friends admonished him telling him that some day he would "puke his guts out."
One weekend came, and after a particularly spectacular spewing event, he passed out. His fellow students went to the lab, and brought back some preserved intestines and organs, which they had been studying, laid them around the inebriate and left.
The next morning he appeared ghostly white and said, "You fellows were right. Last night I threw up my guts, but with the aid of God and a long handled tooth brush I got them back in."