and so it begins

thanks to my #1 son, my favorite son, my only son patrick i am now blogging. first thing to post is an essay just completed for a creative writing class. time trip coming up:

DREAMWRECK

Favorite essays of mine are read again and again. George Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” is one of those. Just one time, I thought, I would like to write a first sentence so marvelous (“In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me.”). During my latest reading it dawned on me: George and I have something in common.
Philadelphia is a long way from Moulmein in Lower Burma. Philadelphia is where I was once important enough to be hated by large numbers of people. Six months after my Vietnam tour ended I went back to college: Temple University—smack–dab in the innards of The City of Brotherly Love.
Those three years in uniform afforded me little time or opportunity to observe the civilian milieu, where cataclysmic change contrasted with the stability and stasis of military life. Upon my return I quickly adjusted to and absorbed these modifications: guys had hair longer than girls; pants were wider at the cuffs than at the waist; female attire was far more revealing. I cheered.
Those were mere fads. How fleeting and facile they seem now, even though vestiges remain. Add to them one with meaning—a rejection of prior perception. Skin color mattered only to those stodgy, staid curmudgeons that deservedly belonged to another era. My generation ignored race. This was a period where blacks and whites all called each other “brother.” One day we were fighting and dying together 10,000 miles away, the next we were back home gathering on street corners, laughing and back–slapping (or was it hand–slapping?). Prejudice had somehow evaporated. The songs symbolized the era. The Youngbloods sang sweetly, “Get Together.” Canned Heat growled, “Let’s Get Together.” And we did. For a time. I can only think that the man most responsible for this sea change was the Man with a Dream.
I knew nothing of the civil rights struggle. A major topic of the day, larger than life, it blossomed during my enlistment. I grew up in West Hartford, CT, then a town of 50,000 white people. I was as attuned to the plight of Blacks at 18 (1962) as I was to the dalliances of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly when I was nine. I knew of black culture via Amos 'n' Andy and doo–wop. Just in case television had not been invented, our mailman was black so I had concrete proof of their existence.
My first encounters with "real” blacks came when I enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1964. They turned out to be people that were just like me. Sure, some of them had chips; some even carried a damned redwood on their shoulders. But maybe, just maybe, some of that resentment was justified. I wasn't worldly enough to speculate on that, but the question intrigued.
Yet, even this teen tyro knew of The Good Doctor. His marches, rallies, and calls for non–violent action were bringing a nation together. His "I Have a Dream" speech set a whole country to thinking, "Dreams can come true." Even old hearts were young. Like most of the greatest utterances, it took time to realize that this was one for the ages. Did anyone walk away from Gettysburg thinking?, "Wow! They'll be quoting that one until the end of time."
I saw excerpts of Dr. King’s "Dream” speech on the news shortly after it was delivered. His message was so full of hope and unity that, in a span of a few years, he had begun to make sense to a multitude that was quietly pro–segregation even if publicly disdainful of unfair practices. The man J. Edgar Hoover denigrated and deemed a rabble–rouser morphed into destiny’s darling. His memorable speeches have the elements necessary to ensure their durability. The eyes and ears of a nation did not and could not ignore him.
Dr. King’s “I Have A Dream” speech inspired Curtis Mayfield to write “People Get Ready.” NPR’s Juan Williams said, “The train that is coming in the song speaks to a chance for redemption—the long–sought chance to rise above racism, to stand apart from despair and any desire for retaliation—an end to the cycle of pain.”
In the Public Speakers Hall of Fame, a select few have their own room. Think Abraham, Martin, and John. As Dion said, “All of them, gone too soon.” Dr. King’s power of persuasion combined with passionate belief and the intangible ability to "connect" with others is what set him apart. All the orators there are stars; he is the Northern Lights.
Then he was gone. The Peace Train got derailed. I became important. Black enclaves surround Temple University and I drove through them daily with the top down, 8–tracks of Smokey/Temptations/Supremes blaring. I always passed smiling faces; little ones often waved. For nearly five years Dr. King’s message of hope continued to reverberate from the Lincoln Memorial to every village and hamlet. We all saw clearly then. April 4, 1968 was a bright (Bright), bright (Bright), sunshiny day. I drove home that afternoon and young kids threw rocks at me. I struggled to put the top up, not daring to slow while I wrestled with it. Children yelled things I couldn't understand, but I knew they were words of hate. Rubbish cans were overturned on the sidewalks, their vile contents slithering into the streets. Hearts and minds went topsy–turvy.
What happened? I got home and found out Dr. King had been assassinated. A white man pulled the trigger. I understood the stones; the words of wrath; and I somehow knew that it was the end of an era. It was. (Ironically, an old Dylan song often played during this time said, “They’ll stone ya when you’re trying to go home… They’ll stone ya when you’re riding in your car.”) The world became a poorer place that day. Once again, they’d shot the messenger. That pestilent prejudice, on its way to extinction, returned to pervade society anew. Factions formed along race lines, fractious and ugly. Brother sounded like a mockery.
I’ve been saying, “People get ready, there’s a train a–comin’” for almost four decades now. Still, racial tensions thrive, racial tranquility tenuous. I haven't given up hope, but I may not have four more decades to wait. Hurry up, prove to me that period of harmony wasn't just a mug’s game. Send another to show us the stuff that dreams are made of. Please, a reprise.