America is full of real heroes. She does not need to make them up. There are many different types of heroes. There are those that do a heroic act in war, during disasters, and responding to circumstances of accidents. Then there are those unsung heroes who meet the challenges of daily living in an unforgiving world for their children, for their future and hopes. The media does not make heroes. The media shows the actions of ordinary people reacting to extraordinary situations that create heroes.
In Vietnam during combat daily heroic acts kept most men alive. Someone who charged the enemy without regard to their personal danger, threw their bodies on a grenade to protect their fellow soldiers, or exposed themselves to enemy fire to drag a wounded man to safety. Acts done with no thought of being a hero but because something someone had to do at that moment to save lives. Someone who was willing to give up their life so others men could live. No thoughts of the consequence just the act that needed to be done. I was a corpsman with a Marine long range recon unit. When a man was wounded my only thought was to get to him as soon as possible no matter what was happening around me. Part of it was my training to respond, it was my job. Facing death continuously was not part of the job description. Yet, when a man yelled “Doc, I’m hit” without thinking I ran or crawled to him. I was scared, though fear screamed in my mind I didn’t hesitant. The need to help overrode the fear. There were times I didn’t know how I survived. No matter how often it happened, I was ready to do it again. To some these actions would be considered heroic acts, or just crazy, to me and men I served with it was my job.
Mother’s and fathers are heroes. They face a world everyday they have no control over to feed, clothe, and protect their children from harm. Some days it seems impossible but they make it to the next day to meet new challenges. They strive to give tomorrows to their children. The personal sacrifices, the pain, the suffering they endure quietly most of the time. For most it is their love and job.
America is who she is today because of her heroes. Some we know about, most we don’t. After most heroic acts, heroes look forward to a normal life. There is no hero’s life style. The heroic act happens at a time and place, one of many events that happen in a life.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Iles school – Writer's conference - Springfield, Illinois
I was invited to participate in Iles school’s fourth annual writers’ conference on Friday, April 20 2007. The theme of the conference was “Writing Is Out of This World”. The purpose was to enable children to become excited about being both writers and readers. I spoke to 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade classes, six classes all together. My remarks were about the purpose, structure, and elements of a story. Iles school is for gifted children. The children were very bright and witty. All had a sense of what writing was about in terms of a story has a beginning, middle and end. It has character, plot and conflict. I was very impressed with their knowledge, their expression, ideas and structure of thought. They were full of energy, with bright eyes and excitement on their faces. I really enjoyed interacting with them. It was a great experience sharing time with such hopes for the future.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
The Journey: Decatur, last night in Illinois
I called Chicago and talked to my mother. Actually, she talked mostly about the foolish things I had done in my life. Giving up a stable good life for something unknown had to be one of the top foolish things. We ended the call planning to meet the next day at her brother’s house in Markham, Illinois which wasn’t too far from route I-80 we would be taking east.
It took a while for me to go to sleep. At first I thought it was because I was in a strange bed. But, in the middle of the night it came to me that the reason was because I knew we wouldn’t be getting up and going home. Breakfast the next morning was like a last meal, emphasizing our doubts of the next time we would have a cooked meal in our home.
We took I-72 east from Decatur to Champaign then north up I-57, which ran into the Dan Ryan expressway. We didn’t talk much on the drive, just looked at the flat countryside pass by.
I was named after my Uncle, Thomas. My mother’s brother had been the first black electrical contractor in Peoria, Illinois. A very courageous act back then, the white labor leaders in town worked hard to make it as difficult as possible for him. There were no black electrical people in the union so most of his workers were non-union common laborers. I worked during the summer with him when I was a teenager.
After a tight hug my mother didn’t try to hide her concerns or her anger. As usual, the word crazy was used quite a bit. Like Carol’s mother she didn’t understand where we lost our senses. We not knowing how to explain it didn’t help. Mother’s love is a special thing. Not matter how dumb or crazy you are they love you and wish you the best.
My life started with my mother when she was a teenager, a scared black unmarried girl with a baby in a small southern river town. My father’s family thought he should go to college without the distraction of a family. She left that town and went North ending up in Chicago. Many of the street folks called her “The Queen of 63rd street” when I was growing up. She had survived a hard life and knew the strangeness of people. When we left, my mother had no tears, but I could see the coils of fear tightening her face and in her eyes.
We were finally on the road. We had said goodbye to family and friends. The only people we could expect to see would be strangers. We were on our own with no expectations of familiar faces, sights or scenery.
We took Route 80 east when we left Markham. Living in central Illinois, even if you’re black, you had a sense of cornfields. You couldn’t go very far without seeing one. If you worked in state government, which most folks did in Springfield, you had conversations with farmers who talked about crops, bitched about the weather and their kids. We laughed as we talked about not expecting to see anymore fertilizer commercials.
It took a while for me to go to sleep. At first I thought it was because I was in a strange bed. But, in the middle of the night it came to me that the reason was because I knew we wouldn’t be getting up and going home. Breakfast the next morning was like a last meal, emphasizing our doubts of the next time we would have a cooked meal in our home.
We took I-72 east from Decatur to Champaign then north up I-57, which ran into the Dan Ryan expressway. We didn’t talk much on the drive, just looked at the flat countryside pass by.
I was named after my Uncle, Thomas. My mother’s brother had been the first black electrical contractor in Peoria, Illinois. A very courageous act back then, the white labor leaders in town worked hard to make it as difficult as possible for him. There were no black electrical people in the union so most of his workers were non-union common laborers. I worked during the summer with him when I was a teenager.
After a tight hug my mother didn’t try to hide her concerns or her anger. As usual, the word crazy was used quite a bit. Like Carol’s mother she didn’t understand where we lost our senses. We not knowing how to explain it didn’t help. Mother’s love is a special thing. Not matter how dumb or crazy you are they love you and wish you the best.
My life started with my mother when she was a teenager, a scared black unmarried girl with a baby in a small southern river town. My father’s family thought he should go to college without the distraction of a family. She left that town and went North ending up in Chicago. Many of the street folks called her “The Queen of 63rd street” when I was growing up. She had survived a hard life and knew the strangeness of people. When we left, my mother had no tears, but I could see the coils of fear tightening her face and in her eyes.
We were finally on the road. We had said goodbye to family and friends. The only people we could expect to see would be strangers. We were on our own with no expectations of familiar faces, sights or scenery.
We took Route 80 east when we left Markham. Living in central Illinois, even if you’re black, you had a sense of cornfields. You couldn’t go very far without seeing one. If you worked in state government, which most folks did in Springfield, you had conversations with farmers who talked about crops, bitched about the weather and their kids. We laughed as we talked about not expecting to see anymore fertilizer commercials.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
The Journey: Goodbye Springfield
We left Springfield with two thousand dollars in travel checks and five hundred dollars in cash. The spinning bottle pointed east when it stopped. One of Carol's friends knew the owner of a radio station in Stamford Connecticut. So, that became our destination. We did not personally know anyone in that city. But the words we read in the full color brochures about the city from their tourist bureau described the essentials we wanted in our life. A great community life, good place to work and raise a family. The pictures showed happy people doing things in nice looking places.
August 2, 1986 was a usual bright hot humid central Illinois’ day. Our apartment, at least until the end of the day, was bare except for two boxes Carol was packing in the middle of the living room. They were filled with sheets, pillow cases, matching towels, washcloths and table place mats. The car was already sagging heavy. I figured the boxes would take up space and add more weight. I questioned taking those things. We could get those things wherever we decide to settle down.
She had a look on her faced that served notice there would be no discussion as she said, "I go, they go." I didn't argue. We didn’t need to add any more anxiety to leaving. After carrying one of the boxes to the car she told me her grandmother taught her to take personal stuff with you in the car when you move. No matter what happens you would be able to wash your body and sleep on your sheets. It was a way of carrying home with us. I smiled, and took the other box to the car.
Our car, a Peugeot 505, was a four cylinder, five speed automatic French car designed to be a luxury four-door sport's car. The smallest car I have ever owned. The gas mileage was great. The car's small interior would be our transportation, home and storage space until we found a place to live.
Finally, the apartment was empty and the car loaded. The bare rooms held nothing personal except our memories. Stripped of personality, the rooms seemed larger. My mind could see the colors and images that used to fill the spaces, but each blink of my eyes erased them leaving dark vacant places. Talking about leaving a place is a thought. Walking out the door of your home, knowing you are not going to return is a feeling of lost. The closing of the apartment door was like the lid of a casket coming down, the final act to a life. Our home was now just a collection of rooms for strangers to rent.
Our first stop, Carol's mother's house. She lived on the east side of Springfield, the black side of town, located across the railroad tracks at Tenth Street.
Her mother was a light skin, small frame woman witty and graceful with a smile on her face most of the time. Not this time though. Neither she nor my mother could understand why two smart people like us would do something so crazy. We had heard the word crazy a lot during the weeks before we left.
Finally, we were on Route 72 heading to Decatur. We had declined our Springfield's family and friends offers to spend the night with them. Since we were out of our home, we decided to hit the road rather than engage in long painful good-byes with them. We would spend the night in Decatur, about thirty miles east of Springfield with old friends of Carol. They would call us crazy, but feed and put us up for the night with few questions, and send us off with love.
Decatur was having a street fair downtown. We embraced the festive mood of the street fair as the first event of our adventure. We ate, drank and danced in the street like it was a going away party just for us.
August 2, 1986 was a usual bright hot humid central Illinois’ day. Our apartment, at least until the end of the day, was bare except for two boxes Carol was packing in the middle of the living room. They were filled with sheets, pillow cases, matching towels, washcloths and table place mats. The car was already sagging heavy. I figured the boxes would take up space and add more weight. I questioned taking those things. We could get those things wherever we decide to settle down.
She had a look on her faced that served notice there would be no discussion as she said, "I go, they go." I didn't argue. We didn’t need to add any more anxiety to leaving. After carrying one of the boxes to the car she told me her grandmother taught her to take personal stuff with you in the car when you move. No matter what happens you would be able to wash your body and sleep on your sheets. It was a way of carrying home with us. I smiled, and took the other box to the car.
Our car, a Peugeot 505, was a four cylinder, five speed automatic French car designed to be a luxury four-door sport's car. The smallest car I have ever owned. The gas mileage was great. The car's small interior would be our transportation, home and storage space until we found a place to live.
Finally, the apartment was empty and the car loaded. The bare rooms held nothing personal except our memories. Stripped of personality, the rooms seemed larger. My mind could see the colors and images that used to fill the spaces, but each blink of my eyes erased them leaving dark vacant places. Talking about leaving a place is a thought. Walking out the door of your home, knowing you are not going to return is a feeling of lost. The closing of the apartment door was like the lid of a casket coming down, the final act to a life. Our home was now just a collection of rooms for strangers to rent.
Our first stop, Carol's mother's house. She lived on the east side of Springfield, the black side of town, located across the railroad tracks at Tenth Street.
Her mother was a light skin, small frame woman witty and graceful with a smile on her face most of the time. Not this time though. Neither she nor my mother could understand why two smart people like us would do something so crazy. We had heard the word crazy a lot during the weeks before we left.
Finally, we were on Route 72 heading to Decatur. We had declined our Springfield's family and friends offers to spend the night with them. Since we were out of our home, we decided to hit the road rather than engage in long painful good-byes with them. We would spend the night in Decatur, about thirty miles east of Springfield with old friends of Carol. They would call us crazy, but feed and put us up for the night with few questions, and send us off with love.
Decatur was having a street fair downtown. We embraced the festive mood of the street fair as the first event of our adventure. We ate, drank and danced in the street like it was a going away party just for us.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Journey: Leaving Thoughts
I thought it would be more difficult for Carol to leave Springfield than me. She was born and raised in the city, attended grammar and High School there. Grew up in a neighborhood of Italians, Jewish, and Black families. Involved in civic, community, and political activities. She was considered a successful black person by family and friends. Yet, it was she that suggested leaving Springfield.
I had a more difficult time leaving. It took me a while to understand. I was a state brat, born in Quincy, raised in Peoria and Chicago, Illinois. Joined the Navy traveled to strange and exotic lands. I was use to leaving. I had people love me, but not around me to form a support group since I was seventeen years old. Just me, my mind, heart, and soul. I faced the world on my own among strangers. Along the way, I was blessed to have people enter my life with guidance. Not many, but they showed up when I needed a clear thought. I had worked at job since I was twelve years old.
Now I was going to quit my good job, take everything from our beautiful apartment sell or give it away if it did fit in a small car? Find a better life in another city we had never been? This was more than leaving! This was giving up everything that defined who we were. For what? That was the question we had to answer. Carol resigned her position. It took me a month to resign.
What will happen to us was an unknown, but it was the only option in our known world to discover different paths.
I had a more difficult time leaving. It took me a while to understand. I was a state brat, born in Quincy, raised in Peoria and Chicago, Illinois. Joined the Navy traveled to strange and exotic lands. I was use to leaving. I had people love me, but not around me to form a support group since I was seventeen years old. Just me, my mind, heart, and soul. I faced the world on my own among strangers. Along the way, I was blessed to have people enter my life with guidance. Not many, but they showed up when I needed a clear thought. I had worked at job since I was twelve years old.
Now I was going to quit my good job, take everything from our beautiful apartment sell or give it away if it did fit in a small car? Find a better life in another city we had never been? This was more than leaving! This was giving up everything that defined who we were. For what? That was the question we had to answer. Carol resigned her position. It took me a month to resign.
What will happen to us was an unknown, but it was the only option in our known world to discover different paths.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Journey: Why leave?
When we took off on our journey the question most asked by family and friends was why? Why leave Springfield? By all accounts we were living a good life. We had good jobs, well regarded by the local powers, lived in a very nice apartment building. Springfield, Illinois is a government, political town. As the state capital of Illinois, the Governor, the state legislature, agency directors, and lobbyists were all located there. We were comfortable, both of us had ran for public office. I had served on the Peoria County Board and had several appointments by Presidents and Governors. Both of us served on government and community boards.
Why were we leaving? Our basic answer was that we had a belief in our skills and talent that we could go anywhere in America and make a living. It was after we were on the road a few days that we begin to really understand. I think the first inkling was in a cheap hotel after we had been on the road for three days. We noticed that we had not heard a phone ring in days. We started laughing. We couldn't remember a day not hearing a phone.
Why were we leaving? Our basic answer was that we had a belief in our skills and talent that we could go anywhere in America and make a living. It was after we were on the road a few days that we begin to really understand. I think the first inkling was in a cheap hotel after we had been on the road for three days. We noticed that we had not heard a phone ring in days. We started laughing. We couldn't remember a day not hearing a phone.
That's when we understood why we left. The feeling of freedom to take choices we make, not on what we were allowed to do or according to choices given us by others. It was exciting and scary. No family support network or friends. The two of us, our minds and prayers in a vast land filled with strangers.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Thought Blip: Magic/Illusion
Magic and illusion are not the same. though there are times when their results might seem to be. magic is not just the fantasy of old. thinking that way entraps you in a world of illusions. Things projected to you for your reflections to think something is real.
Magic is today as yesterday, making something real beyond ourselves, a thought outside our heads we created within our minds.
Magic is today as yesterday, making something real beyond ourselves, a thought outside our heads we created within our minds.
The beginning of an adventure
My wife (Carol) and I in 1986 quit our great jobs (I was a member of the Governor's cabinet and my wife a member of the Secretary of State's Front office) load what we could into a car, sold or gave away everything else, spun a bottle and took off in the direction the bottle pointed. Crazy, people said, our mothers told us first. For two black people to leave their good paying jobs, friends and family, support network and go off to America. It was dangerous. We believed that we had the skills and talent to make a living anywhere. It turned into a three year adventure story.
The bottle pointed east. So, began the journey. When travel across the country by car you begin to notice how the same things looks different as you travel. We left Springfield, Illinois on a bright sunny August day. Spending many years in central Illinois, farmer's country, you are use to seeing miles of corn and bean fields. Farmer's talk spice your conversations, like corn knee high by July good crop on the way. The further east we traveled the large fields of tall standing corn became small patches of midget corn stalks. Flat farm land took on more contour with rolling hills covered with trees.
Travel long distances with someone teaches you a lot about yourself and the other person. The places you go, the things you see, the people you meet add elements of wonder and adventure. But being inside a car for thousand of miles with one person becomes also a journey of self discovery. During that trip we learned what love was really about. Being confined to a car for long periods of time with someone clearly lays out your emotions. And if you don't get along, someone can be sitting on the side of the road. Love can express itself many ways, but its when you share pain, strange places and people, struggles and fears do you realize how much the comfort of love is. During that trip we learned we loved each other. I will be writing more about that trip, lessons learned, and the freedom we found.
The bottle pointed east. So, began the journey. When travel across the country by car you begin to notice how the same things looks different as you travel. We left Springfield, Illinois on a bright sunny August day. Spending many years in central Illinois, farmer's country, you are use to seeing miles of corn and bean fields. Farmer's talk spice your conversations, like corn knee high by July good crop on the way. The further east we traveled the large fields of tall standing corn became small patches of midget corn stalks. Flat farm land took on more contour with rolling hills covered with trees.
Travel long distances with someone teaches you a lot about yourself and the other person. The places you go, the things you see, the people you meet add elements of wonder and adventure. But being inside a car for thousand of miles with one person becomes also a journey of self discovery. During that trip we learned what love was really about. Being confined to a car for long periods of time with someone clearly lays out your emotions. And if you don't get along, someone can be sitting on the side of the road. Love can express itself many ways, but its when you share pain, strange places and people, struggles and fears do you realize how much the comfort of love is. During that trip we learned we loved each other. I will be writing more about that trip, lessons learned, and the freedom we found.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Reason for a caring life
Feel free to join me as I ride the seams of my mind. The best view to see all sides of a point. So this first time I will ask a question and why it needs an answer. The question? Why don't people care?
We come from the same source. Born weak and fragile. Unable to care for our selves. Needing others to protect our lives. Even when we are older, we reach back for advise from those who care about us. Yet, Yet, inside of some us are dark areas we use to flee the world. Away from those who love us to those we want to be. Caring gave us life, kept us alive, and reason to become more human.
I think people don't care because they have forgotten what gave them reason to be. That they took caring as someone else's responsibility to them. We have all experienced moments of lost caring from our lives. Why would we want our everyday lives be wrapped around such moments?
We come from the same source. Born weak and fragile. Unable to care for our selves. Needing others to protect our lives. Even when we are older, we reach back for advise from those who care about us. Yet, Yet, inside of some us are dark areas we use to flee the world. Away from those who love us to those we want to be. Caring gave us life, kept us alive, and reason to become more human.
I think people don't care because they have forgotten what gave them reason to be. That they took caring as someone else's responsibility to them. We have all experienced moments of lost caring from our lives. Why would we want our everyday lives be wrapped around such moments?
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