The year was 1961, in May of that year. My brother closest to me in age, (one of 6) came home to the dinner table with blood and the beginnings of swelling on his face. My dad, did not tolerate coming home late to the dinner table, ever. When the door shut behind my brother and he came in late, my dad said:
"Come on in, we've all been waiting for you and our food had gotten cold and I've been waiting to say grace.' My mother immediately said when she saw my brother's face: 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph' got up to tend to him, and my dad, told her to sit down, and she did. Such were the days in the early 60's. Women did what they were told. The rest us children (all 9 of us) just stared at my brother, and glared at him. May 18th was my dad's birthday, and it was rare that he was home at all, and my mom and the rest of us children has been waiting 5 months for him to come home.
Prior to my dad finally coming homes, we all had been out the two days before collecting crabs (at the time we were stationed at MacDill AFB, a SAC base, which is what is known as the Strategic Air Command in those days), and we had gone down to the beach and collected three bushels of crabs and picked them clean, and my mom had made her usual amazing gumbo, to welcome my dad home, who had just been made Major at that time, having served his nation in WWII, Korea, and soon, after we moved to Otis AFB, Cape Cod, another SAC base, Vietnam.)
Daddy was often sent to a place called the Mole Hill, in Greenland, Scotland and the Azores, in Portugal. (Secret bases where he was constantly on call in case the Russians or whoever where going to drop the big ones on us, before they 'got us.') He would not allow us to ask about what he did there, that was verboten. He was often gone 2 to 4 to 6 months at a time in these places, so when he was home, it was a treasure for us all. Back to dinner and my brother.
My mom said, I'm going to warm the Gumbo back up, and the cheese grits and rice. My dad shook his head at her, and she got up to do so. There were always three things we discussed at the dinner table:
Current events, what we learned at school that day, and the art of debate, regardless if my dad was home or not. There was no excuse for saying, 'I didn't learn nothing, or I've got nothing to say.' You were expected to take your turn, and you were expected to contribute. (No Ipods, no extra TV's in our rooms or our own special phones, none of that shit was ever tolerated. TV was tolerated for two hours a day, on the PBS station, the national news) and only if we VERIFY OUR HOMEWORK WAS DONE. The word: Whatever, would have meant with grounding or a worse.
When my Mom came back with the warmed up dinner, we said our exceedingly long Catholic Grace, (as we all glared at my brother) and started to eat our wonderful birthday dinner for my dad. He buttered some cornbread and looked at my brother, who would not meet his eyes, and Daddy finally said looking at my brother: "So tell us all, what did you learn from that fight you got into today, and it would appear to me that whoever you fought got 90 percent of you, while you only got 10 percent of them.' (All my other brothers laughed out loud, and my Dad gave them 'THE LOOK,'...they shut up right away.) By brother would not speak, and my dad, said: Go on, you start the conversation, since I just got home after four months and you kept us waiting nearly half an hour.
My brother (was was most like my dad in personality: stubborn, willful and born at birth with anger in his heart) looked straight at my dad and said: 'It was that guy, the black guy (I will not use the N word here) who has been hiding behind the coach, and keeps telling me I'm a loser.' My brother stood up from his chair, and it fell back. 'He hates me, and I'm sick of it. He just keeps pushing me, for the last few months into a fight, because he gets treated differently, and I'm sick of it.'
My dad remained calm, and he gave my brother, what we called in our family, the 'deadly strange smile.' He said: "Ok, sit back down and collect yourself, and try to pretend that at this table, you will first and foremost act as if you are a gentleman.' My brother knew he was skating on very thin ice, and he did so. While my brother was collecting himself, my dad told a few stories and jokes, that we had all heard a million times, but still laughed at, no matter what. That is what dad's do so well. When my brother had some dinner, my dad said to him:
'You know that word you used against your so called rival, has never been allowed in this house, don't you?' My brother looked up, and said 'Yes Sir' (In the south is was always yes, sir and no mam'). My dad said, 'would you care to tell us all why that is, because that will start tonight's discussion and debate son.' My brother looked at him with deep shame in his eyes, and my dad said, 'I'll help you out of the confusion you are in here now, and how you have lost your inner principals we discuss here son, not that you deserve it, but because I can see you lost your way once again. Do you remember how I taught you how me and your grandmother got through the Great Depression?'
My brother was fully humiliated at this point, because we had all heard this same story my dad had told many many times. My brother's eyes filled with tears and he got up from the table and started to run towards his room. We all gasped. My dad got up, and dragged his ass back to the table. He yelled, 'sit down and take your medicine like a man.' My mother started to cry and he gave her 'the look.' My dad let my brother settle back down again, as he sat back down again, and my dad looked kindly at my Mom and said 'dam that Gumbo is great, asked for a second helping of the Gumbo.' (slimy Okra and all...lol)
He patiently waited for my brother to collect himself, and then he started the story we had all heard so many times:
'In the winter of 1931, my dad, left our home, promising to come back after he found work. There were 5 younger than me, and my mother. We all knew after three months, at least I did, that he was never coming back, and I was left to be the 'daddy' of the family. I was ten years old, the eldest. My baby sister was dying, from lack of milk, and the a black woman, names Meme, who lived down the street from us, with six children of her own, came and took care of us, as my own mother became basically catatonic. That black woman, came and took care of us. She was nursing her own young baby and shared her own milk with my own baby sister, who today is alive and one of the world's most treasured, renowned Genealogists alive today in America. Meme took care of my mother when I went out onto the streets and became, what was called in those days as a 'newsie.' I sold newspapers on the streets, and any apples I could steal off of the vendors carts, to bring a few potatoes home, to the rest of our families. Meme, taught me everything I ever needed to know about life. Meme laughed all the time, and taught us about the what the Irish and Black people shared, she brought us the gift of the great music we shared: the blues, the great new jazz that was coming up, the great spirituals that kept our two races alive in the the past centuries, and more than that, she brought my own mother, back to life. She nursed her, as she nursed my youngest sister, and when my second youngest sister died, from mentigitis in the dark of night, as I watched her trying to save her, looked over at me, said: She's gone honey. That night we made a pact. She said to me, 'your mama can not take this, so what we are going to tell her is a good story ok?' We are going to tell her that we found a really sorry rich couple who you found on the streets while selling your papers who could not have children, who were willing to take her for a while, and take care of her, and will be bringing her back soon, ok son? My sister, who's name was Ora Cecilia was carried out into the dead of night, as Meme promised me that we could convince my own mother, that this MUST be the true story. We took Ora to Meme's back yard and buried her with her own children and neighbors standing by. They all came and comforted me, they all came and told me that I was doing the only thing we could do in times like these. That the strong stay strong, to hold up each other, when we have no other choice. Meme held me in her arms that night, as I lost what was left of my childhood I never wanted to give up. She taught me how to be a man, and she taught me how to face what was to come next. She let me cry in her arms, and told me this: You have no other choice but to go on and save yourself and those around you. Sometimes certain people are picked for certain lessons, but what we just cannot question that fact. We put one foot in front of another, and we have faith, that no matter what, we must above all be grateful for what we have in the here in and now, and never look back on what we have lost, because if we do not learn that one lesson, it will swallow us whole. Meme, rocked me to sleep that night, and in the morning when I woke up, I could smell those great biscuits and gravy she was cooking. I came in, and she said to me in an off hand way....go one, new big man, and face the day, you've been changed, and I'm here with you, ok Sugar? I looked at her, and she said: Go one and get washed up, there's business at hand, I have no time for foolishness. I smiled at her, and knew at what path she had sent me to, and I was thankful for that.
My dad looked over at my brother, who still had his head bent down. He said: Do you understand that son? My brother said, 'yes daddy.' My dad said, 'then I will let you, as a young man tell the rest of the story, because I know that you remember it, ok? This will tell us all, that you remember what was left to become at this point in my own families life, and what we can all learn from that, and once you find the courage in your heart to tell the rest of my and your families story, you will never ever forget where you came from and where your own dignity shall lay for the rest of of your life, do you understand son?'
My brother took his napkin, and he wiped the blood off his face, and he stood up tall in his chair. He looked straight at my dad, and then around the table at us all. He took a deep breath and a drink of water, and gained his family bearings again. He took the courage back that my father had given him again, and swallowed deeply before he finally spoke:
The rest of us children were all so silent and this was truly an amazing moment in our family. I remember, looking around the table and trying to remember, all the mixed emotions I was feeling that night. To this day I really cannot describe it in my heart. There was humility, there was a deep connection, there was an amazing understanding that took me such a long time to really understand, what my dad was doing the night of his birthday. I looked over at my mother, and she was smiling at my dad and all of us, but she was looking over at my brother, and she said:
'Speak your truth and speak your peace son, because we all love you so much, don't ever forget that.' My brother told the rest of the sad story:
He said to my dad, 'I'm sorry daddy. I remember what happened. Three weeks after that, there was no more food, and your mother had to send you all off to the Catholic Orphanages in Georgia, where you all stayed for three years, until you were nearly 14. I remember how Meme stayed and took care of Granny, and I remember, everything now. I just forgot. I'm sorry for calling using that name today in school, and that guy, Darrell beating the ever loving hell out of me, but he weights twice as much as me and he's 4 inches taller.'
My dad, gave him 'the look again'....we all quivered in our chairs. But then my dad, patient as always, gave him a break (something he rarely gave at all):
My dad, smiled at him, and said, 'I'm so proud of you son, more proud than I've ever been, so now I want you to do three things: I want you to go to the bathroom and clean yourself you, I want you to go and light the candles on my birthday cake and bring it in, cause you are going to get the first piece tonight (a TOTAL HONOR IN OUR HOUSE) and I want you to to first go put on Meme's favorite song:
My brother, all cleaned up, and looking like a new young man, a new person, did as he was told, and we all had an amazing birthday celebration for my dad. The candles were lite, by my brother, most of eyes were filled with both tears and laughter (funny how that all happens at the same time), and my dad was in rare form. He'd been gone for such a long long time before he came home this time, so it was sweet, special, awful all at the same time...but he was not done with us, by the least...
But this was my dad's way...
The next morning he kicked us all out of bed at 5 am (military time to get up) and informed us we were all going on a 'educational road trip' (OMG....we had so many of those).....he said: pack it up and get ready and remember: this is a no complaining or bullshit whining area....this is going to be a lesson in your life you will never forget, and so let's pack a loaf of bread and baloney and water...there will be no stops for peeing and that other crap. (He turned to me and said: make a list of songs we going to sing and make it long)...LOL.
This is where he took us:
On Sunday, May 21, Martin Luther King, Jr., C.K. Steele, and SCLC officers[4] came to support the Freedom Riders. That evening, they and the riders joined the evening service in Ralph Abernathy's First Baptist Church on North Ripley Street[6] while some 3000 angry protesters yelled outside, burning a car and threatening to burn the church.[2] From inside the church, King telephoned Robert Kennedy, who urged the activists to "cool down," a proposal refused first by Diane Nash, and then by James Farmer (on behalf of CORE) and King.[4] Kennedy had sent 500 U.S. Marshals, headed by United States Deputy Attorney General Byron White. Airborne troops were on standby at Fort Benning,[2] just across the Georgia state line. The Kennedy Administration's decision that it would send US troops to restore order was protested by city and state officials.[7] The marshals, with the help of Floyd Mann and his state troopers, managed to keep the mob at bay;[2] it was finally dispersed with the help of the National Guard at midnight.[8]The Freedom Ride again went on the road, and travelled to Jackson, Mississippi, where the students, which by now included Nashville Student Movement activists Bernard Lafayette, James Bevel, and others, were arrested as they attempted to segregate the "Black" and "White" waiting rooms in the bus terminal.
As a result of the unrest and the nationwide publicity generated by the Freedom Rides, in late May Robert Kennedy was able to successfully petition the Interstate Commerce Commission to adopt stronger regulations and desegregate interstate transportation.[9]
http://en.wikipedia.org/...
My dad, had called ahead, and put us all up in a safe hotel (on a top floor so we could all look down and watch) and we were protected by his military pals. But I will never forget what happened that day, ever.
Here is more of what happened that day:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/...
While we were sitting in that hotel room, my dad was explaining to all of us what was really going on, (with great, great awesome binoculars) and he kept calling his most stubborn son back into the room...same son, same theme...because my brother was not paying attention, and was rebelling. He never wanted to go on this adventure or trip. My dad made a phone call, and about 10 minutes later, three guys showed up who all looked like the cheesy crazed Charles "Lucky" Luciano kind of guys. My dad when into the back bedroom, where my brother was watching 'bullshit TV' games, and dragged his ass out, and took him down to see the real action. The rest of us were told to stay put.
His military friends took care of us: we got fried chicken, hush puppies and coleslaw for dinner and we played cards: Go Fishing, until they all got sick of us, and put us to bed, where we just jumped on the beds and giggled until the final curtain.
When my Dad came home with my brother, sans the 'Mafia friends' my brother came back to our hotel room and was a white as a sheet. He didn't speak to any of us for weeks on end. He and my dad slept in the living room on the pull out sofa, and we were not.....allowed in there.
My Dad, was the strangest man I ever met in my life, and even to this day, he is still an enigma to me. He endured pain, and heartache, I can not even imagine now. To be forced into being the father of a family at he age of 10, when there is no food left, and my granny from Kilkenny, Ireland, was left with 6 children, when her husband left her is one thing, but later on throughout all that, my dad, after he got out of the Orphanage, still supported his family and brought all his brothers and sisters home. He was a true Renaissance man, because he was a highly gifted musician, and was immediately brought into the USAF, as a the number one man in his class, trained by the RAF (no American Air Force in those days) and was actually after the RAF, with Chuck Yeager and those 'guys' ...In those days they were called 'crazy Fly-Boys'...
In July 1942, General Yeager was selected for pilot training and graduated March 10, 1943, from Luke Field, Phoenix, Arizona. He was promoted from corporal to flight officer. My dad was shot down over Frankfurt, Germany, as a part of the great and mighty
I was born in Arizona, and I know Luke AFB, very well. As a matter of fact I know a ton of AFBases, very well, too well. But that was not my dad's dream. He wanted, always wanted to be a journalist and a writer. But then, we must make the decisions we must make. For the 30 years of my Dad's life in the military, except when he did not reenlist after Korea, he owned a huge newspaper that he bought. But then he was in the Reserves even then, and when they called him back (4th fucking time) he left his idiot brother, in charge how my Uncle bankrupted it for him. But during that whole time, my dad had a change with GI bill and he got his Masters in Education and a double Ph.D in English and Philosophy.
My dad was an original member of the Mighty Eight out of Savannah, Georgia on Bull St. Remember hearing about the Memphis Bell? Very few men came home from that mission, and my dad was held in Stalag 11 for a year an a half, and came home a broken man. He weighed half as much as he normally did, and my momma said, he was never the same after that. I know what PTSD is, because my dad usually screamed in his sleep every night. Back then they called it battle fatigue, back when General Patton slapped men in the face for being weak. I got the real deal, but my great Dad.............carried on, as best he could, and he hated to hear about some soldiers calling themselves heroes and TV. He would walk out of the room disgusted and whisper to himself: 'they are not honoring the code.'
http://www.b17sam.com/...
This is probably the most personal diary I have ever written, but I wanted to write it tonight, because I am so thankful to have had a strange and wonderful Dad like my dad, who taught me so much, and he died at the age of 57, in 1976 after three heart attacks. His doctors told him it was because of the early days in aviation, there never enough correct amount of Oxygen, and he was told this in 1968 when he ws grounded at Otis AFB, as they gave him the Byrd Commander Title, and this was had damaged his heart early on from the time he was a young fly boy.
He loved to fly, it was his life. He loved aviation and the freedom it gave him, he loved being 'up there' and he loved, the great experience of literally traveling all over the world and he loved his children and the great gift of all the great Irish writers, and he could quote poetry from Yeats, to Socrates, to Aristotle, to Shakespeare, he could quote JFK, and Robert Kennedy and he most especially loved Martin Luther King, Jr.
Together we shared a secret, because more often than not, I was the one caught in his favorite and only room...his library, which was 'off limits' to all of us. He would often find me there under his desk, hiding under his chair. At first I got yelled out, but then, he just came in and said, 'are you there?' I was pretty fearless from the beginning (with 6 brothers you get used to it), and I'd stand up and say yes, Daddy, please don't throw me out again, ok? He'd give me the look, that soon melted into understanding, and he made me go sit in the corner and immediately ask me what book was I reading. Usually it was Dickens and Plato, and something called Dante's Inferno, and the Iliad and Odyssey, by Homer. I was about 14 at the time. My dad also had an amazing collection of the history of Art, from the Egyptians, to the Greeks and Rome, to the pre-Renaissance and Renaissance, it went far beyond that into the Barbizon School, which is what my dad loved, and into the further impressionist, and then some.
Most of these amazing books were rare. He collected them overseas, in places like England, Scotland, France, Spain, Germany and Ireland. They all were bound in leather, with gold on the pages. The art books were too big for me to even hold. After about 3 months of me being allowed to sit in the corner, not saying a word as he studied for his PH.d's, he started asking me questions. I felt stupid and shy, and he saw that right away. He was kinder than I can ever remember: he said to me, 'you child are a born writer, and a music master, who understands art, and you always have been, I've read every paper you've written in your classes, so now is the time to ask you questions. Don't be afraid, ask your questions now, we have three hours to discuss this before it time for us to hit the sack.'
I was stunned, but I stood up and asked him right away, my main question: Why is tragedy and humor and the way we treat each other in the world so intertwined and what is the difference between good and evil when it seems most times evil always wins, and what does religion have to do with that in the end, if it doesn't do any good?
He did something I never expected in a million years: he laughed his ass off until tears came into his eyes. I wanted most of all to leave the room, I felt almost humiliated. I could feel my face turning red. He saw this, and stopped himself. He picked a book off the shelf and handed it to me: It was the Merchant of Venice, by Shakespeare.
My daddy come over and kissed me, on the cheek, and he whispered in my ear: You are your father's daughter girl, and for that I am very thankful, so in this book you will find what I hope that you will find: Life is never fair, and it never will be, and good and evil and religion are all intertwined into lies, that other men call just, and use as a reason for their own nefarious egos, so go to bed now child and we'll talk again soon, ok?
As I was walking out he said to me, 'but don't ever forget your sense of humor child, because in the end that is what will keep you above the treachery of how life comes at us....that is the Irish in you, that is the gift of our ancestors. That is what kept your granny and me, our old beloved Meme and my brothers and sisters alive in the darkest days of our lives, that and poetry, literature and art.'
As I walked out of the 'forbidden library' my Daddy's only place to be by himself, with that big heavy book he stopped me as I opened to the door to go to bed. He said, do you remember this, all the times granny came to visit us and said it to us:
May your joys be as bright as the morning, and your sorrows merely be shadows that fade in the sunlight of love. May you have enough happiness to keep you sweet, enough trials to keep you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human, enough hope to keep you happy, enough failure to keep you humble, enough success to keep you eager, enough friends to give you comfort, enough faith and courage in yourself to banish sadness, enough wealth to meet your needs and one thing more; enough determination to make each day a wonderful day than the one before.
I turned back at him and said yes, Daddy I remember, she said it so often. He said, 'that is what she put me to bed with every night that I had her. I'm going to write it down, and I expect you to memorize it and pass it on to your own children. Do you understand? I just shook my head yes, and and said: I love you Daddy, and left the sacred library.
Thanks for listening....as always.
Ms. B.