Aftermath – Winter Solstice 2020

 

Some of my friends have tattoos to remind them of significant chapters in their life stories. I have scars.

 

I am not talking about the kind of scars we all pick up through accident, injury or misfortune. I am talking about the four I laid down myself in neat, straight, parallel lines, first three then one. The set that look like a wildcat raked my forearm with razor sharp claws.

 

In previous essays, I’ve alluded to these scars and what they stand for. The closing essay of this very strange year seems like a good time to tell the rest of the story.

 

As people who read “Switching Sides” may remember, twenty-nine years ago I was deeply questioning my life choices. I had just finished a two-year tour of hell where I worked (Mr. Wizard, I don’t want to be an engineer anymore). Even after that environment had finally calmed down, things weren’t working out quite as I’d hoped. Most of my friends had picked up and moved to Seattle without warning. None were much interested in helping me find a job out there so I might join them. I needed to figure out what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go.

 

So, I decided to embark on a vision quest.

 

The week of Thanksgiving that year, I scheduled vacation so I could head into the mountains of North Carolina. When I was a teenager, I had begun a personal tradition of going camping the first weekend it got cold. Cold in Florida meant lows in the 40s. But that year, I really wanted to go somewhere more remote. I’d been to the North Carolina mountains several times by then, first on a family vacation when I was under ten, then for two weeks at a Boy Scout camp when I was a young teen, and again on a hiking and camping weekend with friends five or six years later.

 

I love the mountains, whether the Carolinas, Virginia, Vermont, or the Olympic National Forest. Something about the esthetic of wood, water and stone resonates with my soul. Perhaps my Abenaki heritage shining through. For me, they are a perfect place to retreat and reflect.

 

From my North Carolina travel atlas, I picked out a camping area in a national forest with an intriguing name: Hanging Dog. It was right outside a town named Murphy in the far southwest corner of the state. Karen and I had done a driving tour through that area and adjoining Tennessee the year before. So, I packed up my camping gear in the Jeep and headed north. I planned to stay up there for several days, hoping to get back before Thanksgiving Day. Having never before undertaken a vision quest and having no training, I had no idea how long it might take.

 

My plan was simple. The first part of most vision quests involves a fast. The drive to Hanging Dog would take twelve or so hours. I figured if I ate a decent breakfast on my way out of town that my time on the road would be a good jumpstart on that portion of the ritual. I brought rations up with me, knowing that driving back while still fasting after possibly several days would be an insanely bad idea.

 

When I got there that night, the campground was almost abandoned. I think there was one other person there. I chose a campsite as far away from him as I could get. Something I didn’t know until I was unloading the Jeep was that the park had designated, bordered areas filled with chipped gravel where you were required to setup your tent. Because it was dark when I arrived, I didn’t have time to gather pine needles to insulate and cushion my sleeping area. Which made for a very cold and somewhat uncomfortable night. As I remember, the temperatures dropped into the lower teens. The daytime highs were just above freezing. Normally not a problem. I own decent equipment and have more than a little experience.

 

But funny thing: when you don’t eat, your body doesn’t have fuel to generate heat. Which meant when I woke up the first morning, I couldn’t feel my feet. Very literally, everything below my ankles was numb, as if encased in ice. It took several minutes stomping and walking around in boots before they warmed enough to recover sensation. Even keeping a fire and wearing wool socks inside my sleeping bag the next night didn’t make much difference.

 

None of that mattered. Cold went with hungry as part of the ordeal.

 

I spent most of my days hiking around the area, exploring the shore of a lake that had been flooded as a part of a TVA dam project. Mostly, I just poked within a mile or so of my campsite, understanding it might not be the best time to get lost out in the wilderness. At some point I stumbled across graveyard with headstones that predated the Civil War, which I was pretty sure had been moved up from the valley floor when the lake was flooded. This place felt old with human habitation although the mountains in this area were still sparsely populated.

 

I found I had a lot more time on my hands than normal. It might surprise some of you how much time camping is spent in food preparation, between tending a fire, cooking and cleaning up. Usually two hot meals a day, at least in winter, breakfast and dinner. Without that chore, I suddenly had a fair bit of unoccupied time to think and meditate alone. Which was pretty much the point of the exercise.

 

With nothing else to distract you, you really begin to understand what hunger feels like. That dull ache becomes a sharp sensation when you know food is stashed a few feet away in your vehicle. By the second day, that taunting becomes torture. Except by then, you have a hard time focusing on it. Or really much of anything else.

 

But at its heart, the quest is about sacrifice, hoping it will be rewarded with a vision. Even with the cold and hunger, I knew hadn’t offered enough. I knew I needed something to hone my focus away from that privation. While I wasn’t familiar with Abenaki traditions specifically, with many native people’s that meant an offering of blood.

 

I hadn’t really thought about that part too much but I remembered the Sun Dance of many Plains peoples, which both the Canadian and US governments had outlawed in the nineteenth century. Some stories told of warriors who hung buffalo skulls from rawhide strips laced beneath the skin of their chest before they danced, sometimes for several days. I wasn’t quite ready for that level of commitment. Besides, I didn’t have a ready supply of rawhide or skulls on hand. Possibly poor planning on my part.

 

And yet, the more I meditated, the more it came clear to me that I needed to lay down a similar, if minor, sacrifice to demonstrate my resolve. So, on the third day I took out my razor-sharp belt knife and carved three parallel cuts high on my left forearm. I ensured the cuts were deep enough to transcend all the layers skin but not so deep as to expose muscle or tendon. Even with a sharp knife, that required effort and determination. When I was finished, I let them bleed a bit to help clean the wounds. Then I wrapped them in a cotton handkerchief as a bandage and tied it tightly.

 

And I waited.

 

I thought a lot about my current dissatisfaction and whether it was just ennui. I thought about the incidents in my background and how those jigsaw lines had helped craft the puzzle of who I was. I thought about the choices I’d made that had led me there, and whether I had truly made them for myself or for someone else. I thought about where I wanted to be and where my talents might take me. I thought about what I valued in this life and the things that brought me joy. I thought about the sacrifices that might be necessary to attain the life I’d envisioned.

 

Eventually the cold and hunger and throbbing ache in my arm did what I’d asked of them. I won’t go into details, but that night I got what I had asked for, though perhaps not as dramatically as I’d expected. It was more of a strong feeling of a path forward than an outright vision. But I knew it was all that would be forthcoming. When I finally broke my fast the next morning in preparation to drive home, I had a plan and a vague timeline. The plan that eventually led me to where I am today.

 

Why three cuts? At the time I didn’t know. It felt like the right number. As I thought about them on the drive back, I thought they might symbolize something different. It wasn’t until I was home and fully fed that I recognized what they truly represented.

 

When I was maybe seventeen, my father shared a story with me that I had never heard before. He was annoyed with me for something about my mother, likely for repeating something she’d said or for defending her in some way. Neither of my parents was above using my sister or me as pawns or weapons to settle scores over their longstanding grievances.

 

At any rate, sitting at the table in the breakfast nook of my father’s condo, he proceeded to tell me how on the eve of my kindergarten graduation, my mother had beaten me so badly that my head swelled up. He didn’t say what spawned this, only that when he had got home from work afterwards my mother insisted that we couldn’t go to the graduation ceremony because everyone would see what she had done. As he told the tale, he said to her, “You’re goddamned right they’ll see, Sally. Because we’re going.” And apparently, we did.

 

I don’t remember the beating. I’ve been told I likely blocked it out, which may have been a blessing, although it does leave a disconcerting hole in my developmental history. I do have a memory of something that may have prompted it, me accidentally breaking my father’s favorite liquor bottle in our front hall closet. My mother forced me to call him at work to tell him, which at the time simply wasn’t done. I was incomprehensible from terror on the phone. I didn’t fear his reaction; I feared my mother’s rage. I can’t say with any certainty that this was the incident that prompted his story. But I do have a vague recollection of that kindergarten graduation ceremony, of tottering down the aisle as ecstatic at being there as only a little kid can be.

 

That gave his story at least some credibility with me. But as I said in "Choices” earlier this year, I am an applied scientist at heart. From hard won experience, I look for evidence to confirm or refute what I’ve been told. That comes from growing up in an unstable, sometimes Machiavellian environment. Trust nothing you can’t verify. Everyone has an agenda.

 

The thing is, I never caught my father in an outright lie. My mother plenty of times. Her memory seemed completely malleable to her desire. But my father, no.

 

A year or two before this story, he had told me about my mother’s suicide attempt when I was still a toddler, where she slit her wrists during an argument sitting in the driveway of our house. He said this was just a cry for attention (exactly how he would have seen it). He said that because she was a nurse, she knew exactly how to open her veins if she had been serious. I was pretty dubious when he told me that story. But when I surreptitiously looked at my mother’s wrists at some point later, I spied very thin white scars transecting each. Not deep. When I asked her about them, she refused to answer.

 

By then, I had also heard and confirmed that when my parents were getting divorced, my father’s two sisters were ready to stand up in court to ensure he got custody. Or if not him, one of them. In 1974, that meant proving my mother was unfit as a parent. My aunts were fully willing to go to bat to get my sister and I removed from her care one way or another. My father was not. And without his support, nothing could happen. So nothing did.

 

From other things my father said to me much later, he and my mother never should have been married. His heart was never in the marriage or the family it spawned. He thought it was all a societal expectation. He fully believed he had been forced into it (he wasn’t). He certainly made clear to me before he died that I was not the son he wanted, the one he could drink and carouse with. “If you’d been a better kid, maybe I would have done more to help you.”

 

But that quote came more than a decade after this story, which is a story of its own.

 

At the point he shared the story of the beating with me, all I had was his account, supported by all the other incidents I remembered (and I have written about in poetry and a host of essays, including some from this year and last). While I can’t fully attest to exactly what happened in his story, the things I do remember resonate with it as likely truth.

 

Like my sleeping on an unset collarbone that I’d broken while hill-siliding one afternoon when I was eight or nine until my father ordered her to take me to a doctor the next morning. Or her throwing everything my sister and I owned into the middle of the floors of our rooms at least twice around the same time.

 

My mother was volatile and sometimes violent.

 

Taken as a whole, I knew there was something desperately wrong in my family. Things I was still sorting out. Certainly not as wrong as in some other people’s but wrong enough.

 

When I’d headed to the mountains that year, the aftermath of all those events was slowly filtering into place in my now fully-developed adult brain. Sometime after I’d returned with my soon to be scars, I realized I’d laid down three to represent the members of my immediate family: the one who abused me, the one who tried to kill me, and the one who left me to survive the other two. A few years later I added a fourth for Karen’s brother, the one who raped the one I love.

 

It was only after that mark of Bast was complete that I fully understood exactly why I’d crafted it. I needed a physical scar, something I could see and point to, to show that I’d been through something meaningful and survived. Something all four individuals denied or deflected each in different ways. All four of whom remain unrepentant, two until their deaths. I have no real hope for an epiphany from the other two. Nor am I holding my breath.

 

Yeah, kind of messed up but there it is. Psych 101 in all its glory.

 

And yet, seeing those scars every day has helped me, if only to remember, if only not to be gaslighted by what others deny that I recall. Generally, I am the only one who sees them other than my wife. Fortunately, I always wore long sleeves at work so they rarely drew much attention while they were still bold and angry red. I think only one friend ever asked me about them. Maybe a handful of medical professionals when I’ve had to roll up a sleeve. When asked, I usually say I that got them while camping when I was younger, which is absolutely true. I don’t often feel the need to explain. They weren’t meant for anyone but me.

 

From the aftermath of my childhood experiences, I’ve learned that sometimes you have to lay wounds bare to allow them to fully heal. Sometimes that’s the only real way to acknowledge something and leave it behind, which at the time I created them was something I had just started to do. To get where I was going, I had to find a way to acknowledge what had happened, how it impacted me, and leave the worst of it behind. To live for the future, not the past. At least as much as any of us ever can.

 

I am sure no therapist would recommend my particular method but the principle is sound.

 

I’ve thought about those scars a lot during the past four years. I see millions of people in the same position I was in, having survived something extraordinary and sometimes existential that was beyond their control, something often times denied. Millions will bear scars from this failed experiment of an Administration, some full tangible, others invisible. Hundreds if not thousands of children punitively caged away from their parents (who ICE and DHS now claim they cannot find). The relatives of tens of thousands who needless died in a mismanaged pandemic. Tens of thousands more federal employees whose service and oaths to this country and its Constitution have been denigrated. Tens of thousands whose marriages are now threatened with being invalidated. And countless others who continue to suffer from the rabid racism, sexism and homophobia that is not only back in the open but is increasingly back in vogue.

 

A new Administration cannot cure these ills. An election is only palliative. The hard work comes after, should it not be obstructed and stillborn as before. To recover, I believe we require hard reflection, truth and reconciliation. I fear that is unlikely to happen in the current climate.

 

Should we choose not to expose the wounds fully and allow them to heal, in my experience we will continue down a very dangerous path. One we have seen and continue to see of undermining the foundations and institutions critical to the survival of our democracy, a free press, free and fair elections, the rule of law, a peaceful transition of power, regard for science expertise. Instead, we’ve heard hypocrisy, orchestrated lies, propaganda, calls to violence, calls to suspend the Constitution, and a cabinet meeting where declaring martial law to rerun the election was discussed. With silence that echoes complicity.

 

This is not how a healthy democracy survives.

 

The night of the election, I woke up in the early hours of the morning with my heart pounding so savagely that I was afraid I would hear it stop. I had a disorienting feeling like I had done something wrong, just like I had when I was a kid, even though I knew I hadn’t, now as then. Just like four years earlier. Only this time, over the next four days, things turned around as all the legal votes were finally counted and all the claims of massive fraud debunked.

 

Around that time, once again in the middle of the night, I accessed that vision quest from so long ago and felt something I haven’t felt in a very long time. As our resident coyotes raised their voices just across the ditch from our sliding glass door, those scars flared back to life and I once again tapped into their power. The power that saw me write this essay faster than any other this year. The power of knowing I had survived. Again.

 

That calmed me in a way I cannot fully put in words. Once again, I found myself looking forward not back.

 

When I started this year’s essays, it was with the expressed purpose of reflecting on the past four years. Not to dwell on them, rather to influence people, if only by providing some insight that might make them think. Because I saw a stark choice that stood before us.

 

Five years ago, I swore to myself I would never again use my memories as the basis for essays. At the time, I thought they had become too bound up in other people’s entertainment which somehow felt wrong and unhelpful. So, I stopped writing them.

 

I changed my mind this year because the situation I saw unfolding was too important for me to let my own discomfort stand in the way of doing what I thought was right, even if it meant lacing my flesh with new, unseen scars. I was too disconcerted by what I’d seen unfold for four full years. I valued what I knew needed change too much.

 

Despite my desire, I doubt I accomplished much other than revealing a few more difficult experiences in my life. Most of the essays were painful to write because they were painful to relive. Although I have gotten a handful of emphatic thank yous, there have been more awkward silences, some defensive commentary, a few stunningly insensitive statements, and a little mocking of what I see and believe. I knew all that was likely walking in, but am still somewhat disappointed. I can only hope my words have helped someone reading them along the way, whether to consider a new perspective or just to understand on some deeper level that they were not alone.

 

Either way, it’s time to lay aside these burdens as we prepare to set fire to the candles to mark the Winter Solstice. With their light we defy this longest night along with all the tragedy and suffering the year has wrought. Knowing in our hearts that our days will only get brighter from here as we resolutely march toward spring.

 

 

© 2020 Edward P. Morgan III

Choices – Samhain 2020

 

Back in June when the first of the Black Lives Matter protests kicked off, a friend of mine reminded me of an incident that happened between high school and college. At the beginning of the year, I hadn’t intended to write about this one. In June, I committed myself to adding it to the queue.

 

As you might remember from “Homelessness”, that summer I was living on my own in an apartment, paying my own way with the suddenly full-time fast food job I had. I’d worked in that restaurant part-time for over two years.

 

My work history started when I was 16. A friend convinced me he could get me a job as a dishwasher at a local steakhouse where he was a busboy. It paid minimum wage. I wasn’t cut out for kitchen work. I lasted three weeks. I can still smell the miasma of wasted food piled in the thirty-gallon trash can set next to my station. I still feel the scalding plates burning my damp, uncalloused hands. I don’t know how another friend held down that same job for several years, but all due respect to anyone who can.

 

I quickly moved on to a local fast food restaurant where many of the students from my high school worked. That job was less strenuous and physically demanding. Somehow, I managed to score a position as a cashier rather than a cook, which was more than unusual. This was the early 80s. Girls worked up front, boys in back. I guess I was nonthreatening to the customers.

 

In general, I wasn’t bad at it. I showed up for my shift on time and worked when there was work to do. I could keep track of orders and could count out proper change. When things got slow, I looked for things to keep me busy, like cleaning windows in the dining room, which no one ever did. I was good enough that I eventually worked the drive-thru, which was reserved for only the best and fastest frontline crew.

 

The biggest drawbacks were that I earned a special “student” wage (below minimum) and that I came home smelling like grease. But otherwise, not the worst job I’ve ever had. In fact, other than unpredictable lunch and dinner rushes, and the occasional batch of buses that rolled through, it was a pretty easy gig, at least nights and weekends.

 

Easy enough in fact that some rainy nights we struggled for things to do even after our shift supervisors had sent home any extraneous crew. One of those nights, one when the owner’s son wasn’t working, after we’d done all the cleaning and pre-closing prep we could, an interesting conversation ensued with a supervisor. I’ll call her K.

 

I have no recollection of how it started. I just remember her saying to a number of us standing around, “Have you ever noticed we don’t have many black people working here? Ever wonder why that is?”

 

Sadly, I really hadn’t. There was one black guy from my neighborhood who usually worked frontline, just like me. Tall, about the same thin build. Non-offensive. But he was the only black person I worked with regularly.

 

One of my coworkers offered, because they don’t really eat here.

 

Which was and wasn’t true. Our cliental was predominately white but our restaurant was situated just across the tracks from the black community where two friends lived. We had black customers, just not as many as that proximity might indicate.

 

Another coworker piped up, because none of them apply?

 

That earned a dark glare from K. Oh they apply all right. I take their applications all the time.

 

Maybe they just aren’t qualified, someone said.

 

K sneered. Like what unique and essential skills do a bunch of high school students like us have? Scooping fries? Counting change? We were all teenagers. I think by this time K was out of high school but only just.

 

So, are you saying the owner is prejudiced, someone asked pointedly?

 

A kind of hush fell as we awaited her response. The owner was a city councilman and community business leader. Ours wasn’t a city where open racism was tolerated. This could be a pretty serious allegation. One that might cost a job.

 

K hesitated. I’m saying he keeps three sets of files for applications. Three very separate files.

 

Come on, I said. Really? Not sure if I believed or disbelieved.

 

In Florida, in the 70s and 80s it was hard not to encounter someone who was prejudiced. But my classmates and I had grown up in integrated schools. Sure, we had bussing and racial tensions, but this seemed like a throwback to a much different time from the 60s, which to a seventeen-year-old was ancient history.

 

At that point, K let the conversation drop. I could tell she was agitated that we hadn’t believed her, that we didn’t immediately see what she had seen. She also seemed cautious that she might have said too much. But later that night, just before we closed, she hauled me and another coworker into the office. Because she opened and closed the restaurant, she had keys. All the keys.

 

Close the door, she said. Which was a trick because this was a tiny office, barely big enough for a classic gunmetal grey office desk with drawers, a file cabinet and a chair. One of us did.

 

She unlocked and pulled open the built-in file drawer in the desk. She fished out three sets of file folders filled with applications and laid them on the desk, one from the front, middle and back of the drawer.

 

She opened the first set. These are the applications of people he would definitely hire. Take a look at them.

 

We did, not sure what we were supposed to see. One of us said that.

 

Look at the addresses, K said.

 

Then it stood out. Most of them from my neighborhood or the one right next to it.

 

She nodded, then opened the second file. Ok, these are people he might hire if he needs to but won’t if any of the people in the first file are still available.

 

We looked at them. Addresses from various neighborhoods all over the city.

 

Finally, she opened the third file. These are the people he will never hire.

 

My coworker looked at the addresses and didn’t recognize any of them.

 

I did, almost every one of them, and said so. As I mentioned in “The 2 O’clock News”, the Public Housing Authority had an unimaginative streak, naming streets and avenues for letters of the alphabet or numbers. Another handful of streets were named for flowers.

 

K asked us pointedly, what does that tell you?

 

I wasn’t sure what it told me. My mind tried to concoct scenarios that would justify what I was seeing, but I didn’t quite believe them. At the same time, I didn’t want to believe K either. I liked working here. I liked the people I worked with, although the owner was intimidating. I didn’t want anything to spoil that. And yet, seeing it right there in ink on paper made an impression.

 

K put the files away and relocked the desk drawer.

 

If you think he’s prejudiced, why do you work here, my coworker asked.

 

Because I need this job, she said.

 

Which confused me even more. Then why point it out, I wondered. K was clearly upset by what she’d noticed and needed to share it. I’m still not sure exactly why.

 

As far as I know, that conversation was never repeated again. I didn’t talk to anyone else about it. I just filed the information away and began looking at work interactions with a new set of eyes. At heart, I am an engineer, an applied scientist. I had suspicions but I wanted proof. So I watched and waited.

 

Fast forward an indeterminate number of months to the end of the summer I described in “Homelessness”. As I said, by then I was living in my own apartment, paying my own bills based on working days full-time, in the kitchen now, at this minimum wage job. Lunch was where the restaurant made its money. That and the recently added breakfast menu after a new fast food chain had bought our previous chain out. Forty hours a week of this work was both mind-numbing and much harder, especially working backline because the frontline supervisor, now the owner’s wife, didn’t cotton to males working her registers. At this point, I didn’t have much choice.

 

Toward the end of the summer my best friend, who lived in public housing, started complaining that his busboy job at the steakhouse I’d worked at before had started to go south. He’d asked to train as a waiter but the manager had refused. I think they’d also tried to restructure the way tips were shared by the wait staff with the busboys (which was supposed to be 10% of their tips but rarely was). Without those tips, the job didn’t make much economic sense as base wages were $2.01/hour. Like me, my friend needed the job, in his case to help support his household and pay for college.

 

One of the few advantages of working at this fast food joint was that a recommendation went a long way. If you were a marginally competent employee, it was trivial to get your friends hired.

 

So, I told him, if you need a job, I can get you a job where I work. We need people right now.

 

Really?

 

Sure, no problem. Just put me on the application as a reference. That’s the way it works.

 

He stopped in the restaurant the next evening and submitted an application to the night manager, who looked it over and took it noncommittally. We’ll let you know.

 

The owner did all his own interviews. Honestly, I don’t remember if he asked me about my recommendation. If he did, I know I reinforced it with as much positive information as I could.

 

Either way, my friend got a call for an interview. This should have been pro forma. The interview I had been through certainly was, as had every other one I’d heard of. It was basically a meet and greet followed by when can you start.

 

Or so I thought.

 

As it turned out, when my friend showed up, I had been just sent on break. Or I might have just finished my shift if I’d opened, as I often did at that point. Either way, I’d grabbed something to eat, so I was sitting out front at a small table about ten feet away from the booth where my friend and the owner talked. Not so close as to be able to hear every word, but close enough to witness what transpired.

 

As I ate, I kept stealing glances at their table. The owner’s back was to the counter so he couldn’t really see me. My friend could but he wasn’t looking. He was focused on the interview. Because I couldn’t hear, I was trying to read his body language to gauge how it was going.

 

At first, things seemed to be going well enough. Questions were asked and answered, the application consulted, more questions. My friend looked calm and poised, ready and capable. I started to relax. It would be really cool to work with him, and maybe have a schedule where we might get to do more together when we had time off.

 

Somewhere in there, my attention must have wandered. The next thing I knew, the owner shot up from his seat, yelling “Don’t tell me how to run my business!” And stormed off into the back. I looked at my friend. He looked just as stunned as I was. Like the few customers in the dining room were. Like all the counter help was. We were all like what the hell was that. None of us had ever witnessed anything like it. I certainly hadn’t in the two years I’d worked there.

 

I went over to the table where my friend was slowly gathering up his things. I asked him what happened?

 

He thought the interview had been going well. Then, the owner had asked him a pretty standard interview question. What do you bring to the business? That was a question I definitely don’t remember being asked, or hearing about anyone who was. But my friend was prepared and had done his homework, so it hadn’t thrown him. He was in the process of answering it when… Boom.

 

I’d seen his defeated expression on too many occasions, somewhere between crestfallen and resignation. At school, at businesses we frequented, by then at bars, where the black guy with the white guy was singled out for a little special attention, hassled for some minor thing. When the Rockledge cops would stop us and ask us what we were doing when we walked in my neighborhood at night. The time someone had rear-ended his car, driving us into the car in front of him, then hit and run. It took a nice white couple who had chased the car and returned with a partial license plate number to convince the officers that we’d been rammed into the car in front of us by the impact that gave us both whiplash and totaled his car. Or the time the deputy had pulled him over and told him in no uncertain terms to get “this piece of shit car off my road” when my friend was on his way to work. Or the time I’d gotten berated by my own father when I had brought a number of friends to his place to visit, at his encouragement, but failed to disclose that one of them was black. Or a year later, when my by then former girlfriend’s father told my friend that if he was coming around alone to see his daughter, he’d have to knock at the back door.

 

Imagine having that ore worse directed at you every day. No matter what you accomplish or who you become. No matter how much you prove yourself. (It is not a contest, Sadly, I know plenty of women and other people who could share similar or more horrific stories based on similar uncontrollable personal characteristics).

 

There was always context and subtext to these encounters, but I knew what was going on with all of them. If nothing else, because I listened to things that were said when my friend wasn’t around.

 

He didn’t have to say another word. I understood what had happened, too. I just hadn’t wanted to quite believe it because I liked this place and a lot of the people in it. But I did.

 

That late-night conversation with K in the office with the three sets of files came flooding back. As did every other troubling behavior I had noted since. The jokes, the looks, the postures and attitudes, and the tolerance of it in others. I’d been exposed to more of it on days than nights and weekends. As I said, you couldn’t grow up in Florida from the mid-60s to the early 80s and not encounter people who were prejudiced, even flat-out racist, no matter how hard they tried to disguise it. In that short time I’d never seen anything quite so crystal clear. I’d seen the teenaged equivalent of derelicts and degenerates hired on no more than an employee’s recommendation, without a twenty questions interview. White teenaged derelicts and degenerates.

 

One word sprang to mind that seemed to capture my boss’s interpretation of the situation. A word I’d heard many times before although never directed at me, because why would it be. But I wonder if it had been directed at K, or at least its implication, based on her assertiveness and her gender, not her race.

 

Uppity.

 

Ok, there’s a second word following that one in this case, but I’ll leave it to your experience or imagination to fill that one in.

 

I saw red. Deep, bloody, raging, aortic red.

 

I told my friend I would catch up with him later. I might have even seen him to the door. When I turned back to the employees’ entrance, I am sure my face was set. I knew what I had to do. I ignored the questioning looks from my coworkers behind the register. I marched straight back to the office when the owner was standing at his desk, annoyed at my interruption as I appeared in his doorway.

 

“Consider this my two-week notice,” was all I said.

 

He nodded perfunctorily like he was expecting it. And yet he was obviously still irritated as he shuffled applications on his desk.

 

I started to turn away without another word. Then he glared up at me, clearly feeling the need to say something.

 

“I’m not racist, you know,” he stated pointedly. An assertion, not a question.

 

No, I didn’t know. And I hadn’t brought it up. I guess I didn’t need to. It struck me then as now as an unintended confession. But I didn’t say anything. I just leveled an unbelieving gaze at him and left.

 

As I said earlier, I needed this job. I had bills to pay. But I didn’t need it bad enough to lay it on someone else’s back. Not like this.

 

I finished out the next two weeks, avoiding the owner where I could. The last morning that I was supposed to go in I just blew off. I was eighteen and didn’t figure I owed him. Petty revenge, but there it was. I still knew people on the night shift who would hand me my final check without question. Which they did.

 

The odd thing was, I didn’t feel good about quitting, I didn’t feel proud of it. I didn’t even feel like it was the right decision. For me, it hadn’t been a decision at all. It’s what I did because it’s what you do. Because it was right. Because there are times in the face of blatant wrongs like that, you have to stand up to be counted. And you sort out the consequences later.

 

It wasn’t a decision; it was a choice.

 

But I can’t say I wasn’t angry for having to do it. Not angry because my friend or the world put that expectation on me, because they clearly hadn’t. Angry at being put in the situation by other people’s unenlightened, benighted bigotry. Angry at a society that continued to allow it to exist. Angry that most people claimed we’d gotten past that and had moved on. Clearly not.

 

That anger stayed with me through my engineering career through the late 90s as I watched minorities and women treated with sometimes equal contempt, though by then more passive-aggressive and better disguised. But present nonetheless, sometimes in official corporate policy. Part of the reason I left engineering when I had the chance was that I couldn’t take the predominantly Neolithic attitudes in defense contracting.

 

But it wasn’t only there. In the 80s and the 90s I had micro-aggressions directed at me personally, both purposefully, mistakenly and inadvertently, at both work and school. In the early-2000s I ran across distinct anti-Semitism from an unexpected quarter, not disguised at all. Thankfully, it wasn’t as virulent as the first time I ran across it, twenty-five years earlier. It was just the first I’d heard it that direct in a long time. Which shouldn’t have surprised me much with the more subtle racism and sexism sometimes overlaid with it. Or in the 20-tweens when I had someone defend and justify using the n-word to me.

 

None of which is meant to say I am flawless. As I said, I grew up in the South, though at the time in a more moderate county (although perhaps not now). I made my mistakes and had to learn from them. There are distinct actions and attitudes that I am not proud of. I am certain I have contributed to other people’s pain. All I can say is that I’ve tried to learn from the experiences. Learn and listen.

 

Everything I’ve written so far might seem like ancient history. In writing these essays, I draw on my own experiences to make them relatable. Those I can speak to the accuracy of where as more contemporary events, I cannot always. But I can use my experiences to weigh them.

 

Let’s fast forward again to June this year when my friend reminded me of this incident. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten about it. I’ve told the story a handful of times before. I just hadn’t intended to write about it this year. What I think spurred me most was that my friend’s own brother hadn’t heard about this incident, though I might hazard a guess he knows about it now. The sad thing that says to me is that this incident might not have cracked my friend’s top ten so might not have been worth sharing, though it was worth his remembering nearly forty years later.

 

And in truth, he and his brother and his mother taught me more about their world than I could ever repay directly. They granted me a glimpse inside their lives, with patience and understanding. One small piece of a larger puzzle. An experience not everyone is fortunate enough to get. All I can do is pay the insight forward. Or try.

 

Here’s the thing. When people are as hurt and angry, as wounded as they’ve been during the recent demonstrations and protests, if you choose to refuse to consider their grievances, if you choose not to listen to why, if you choose to let their emotion overwhelm your empathy, you do so at your peril. That anger isn’t going to go away, not until the situation changes. And the situation absolutely must change. It’s what equality, equity and equanimity demand.

 

Now you can choose to believe things have changed since, say, the 60s or 70s, which some of you may not remember. Even since the 80s when this incident took place. They have, but likely not to the degree you would like to think. Don’t pat yourself on the back and say the work is done. It isn’t. Don’t rest on your laurels unless you never intend to open your eyes again.

 

Especially in the past four years as naked racism, misogyny, antisemitism, homo- and xenophobia built upon a well laid and layered anti-diversity, anti-immigrant foundation has come back into vogue. In truth, that culture of hate never went away. It was just barely suppressed enough to where our society might show some modicum of disgrace when it reared its ugly head in public. We as a nation, as a united people, have chosen to no longer feel that sense of shame.

 

When a sitting President dog-whistles to white supremacists very publicly, not once but twice and then denies knowing who they are, when he calls out the regular military to clear protesters from a public park for a photo-op, when he and his Administration promote and support a vigilante who murdered protesters, when armed militias who are his direct supporters twice shut down a state legislature that was in session after his “Liberate” message, when the President threatens to have the leaders of the opposition party indicted, when he will not commit to a peaceful transition of power, when his allies and party leaders largely remain silent out of political expediency, we take one step closer to another Tulsa, another Rosewood, another Dozier School for Boys.

 

Preventing that comes down to the choices we each make in this life. Or in three days, the choices we will make. If not for yourself or your family and friends of color then for your wives and daughters, your children and grandchildren, for anyone else you know in situations of unequal, institutional power. Make your choice as if their lives depend on it. Because sadly, they just might.

 

 

© 2020 Edward P. Morgan III

Leadership - Fall Equinox 2020

 

 

I started this year’s essays talking about leadership. As the year slowly loses light, we shift our focus to who we want to lead us and where we want to go.

 

Twice in my life, I’ve been put in the position to either rebuild an organization or oversee its dismantling. Both times I chose to attempt the former. And both times, while I was elected to the position, in reality, no one else wanted the responsibility. I am just the kind of special idiot who volunteers when no one else steps up.

 

The first time I was in Boy Scouts as a teenager. Unlike most of my peers, I’d come to the organization late. I’d never been a Cub Scout. I’d only lasted a few months as a Webelo as I’d gotten bored because we didn’t do anything except attend meetings without much else in sight. I’d been spoiled by the brief time my father and I had spent in an organization called Indian Guides where we actually did things like camping. But by then, my father was out of the picture. He still lived locally but had made it clear that his life and mine would only intersect every other weekend at best. Less after he left for Spain.

 

Of course, my lack of commitment to Webelos meant that by the time my middle school friends introduced me to Boy Scouts, my mother was reluctant to let me join. But once she learned that she wouldn’t be responsible for getting me to the meetings and that every few months I would disappear for a weekend, she was onboard.

 

Our Boy Scout troop was somewhat bipolar. Because it served a geographic area, its neighborhoods were half sleepy middle-class bedroom communities and half old-school Florida crackers. In my subdivision, Boy Scouts were seen as leading to a single goal: Eagle Scout. It was a box you checked. It was the American Dream writ small. If you studied hard, showed discipline, accumulated the right awards and leadership roles, you would eventually be rewarded with opportunities down the road. If nothing else, it looked great on a college application. Today, we would call that privilege.

 

Not so much on the other side of the boulevard. The rednecks in our troop were more interested in practical skills than academics. Our fathers were mostly white collar, theirs were blue-collar as well as hunters and boaters and fishermen. While we were interested in merit badges like Fingerprinting and Citizenship in the Community, they wanted to learn how to camp and cook and shoot, be it a bow or a gun. In general, it came down to us wanting to learn things and them wanting to do things.

 

All of which meant on our side, activities could get pretty academic and individual. While my friends were suburbanites, I found my interests aligned more with the rednecks. I quickly discovered their side had more fun.

 

Like the space program our city largely served, our troop went through boom and bust. Shortly after I joined, the troop expanded to six then eight patrols, our fundamental grouping similar to teams. We actively considered spitting the troop in two but ended up encouraging people to join the struggling troop just north of us to relieve the pressure. Which only cast it a short-term lifeline before it eventually folded and we inherited their remnants.

 

By then we’d fallen onto hard times of our own. In the time I had gone from a member to a patrol leader to troop librarian, our troop had begun struggling, too. Through new rounds of layoffs at the Cape and general disinterest, our numbers were more than cut in half. We barely had enough attendance to justify meetings. When annual elections for the youth leadership came up, our Senior Patrol leader could no longer dedicate the bandwidth. Like many other suburbanite boys, other activities and organizations, like band and baseball, placed greater demands on his time.

 

But for me, camping had become a sanctuary. I found more peace in nature than I ever could have at home. To avoid the chaos there, I often spent whole Saturdays or Sundays with a book and a BB gun in the woods. Full weekends away were much needed respites.

 

So, before a minimum quorum, I threw my hat in the ring and won easily. I encouraged a friend who was a year younger to run as my assistant. He picked that up with ease. I knew with him to help we could turn the troop around. At the time we had several existential issues facing us.

 

First, the church where we met had become a bit disenchanted with us. We usually met in one of their side rooms but our boisterous nature had begun to clash with their restrained Methodist sensibilities, especially with our proximity to their sanctuary. But we needed a sponsor, be it a church or a school or some other organization. I remembered when we’d gone camping, we’d often met outside a little plywood shack tucked in the back of the church lot. I asked who that belonged to. Well, it was on church property but our troop had built it sometime before any of the current members remembered. Nobody had been in there in years. No one had a key. But it’s ours, right? Checking with the church, we confirmed it was. If we met there, would the church still be willing to continue sponsoring us? Reluctantly, they agreed.

 

We met one Saturday to check it out. Someone brought bolt cutters for the padlock, which we cut then replaced. Inside, the space was larger than it appeared. It was divided into two areas, a larger room, equipped with folding chairs no one knew we had. Once we cleaned it up, we found it would easily meet our needs. We discovered a number of old merit badge booklets, enough to start a real troop library, along with miscellaneous camping supplies no one knew existed. We set most of that aside to distribute to the patrols as needed.

 

The second, smaller area was a small storage room, stuffed with tents and even surplus army cots. No one knew we owned any of that. Our leaders thought the canvas was likely all dry rotted so we left it for another day. But I didn’t forget about it.

 

Now that we had a place to meet, we faced a second existential problem: Adult leadership. In order to maintain our charter, we needed a minimum of three adult leaders to sign the paperwork. At the time I took over, that was a huge problem. The sons of two of our three adult leaders were no longer active in the troop. Naturally, they were no longer interested in donating their time. The third leader had hoped to step aside as well, although his youngest son had just come of age to join. We targeted him first. Reluctantly, he agreed to stay on if we could find two more leaders. Next we managed to convince my assistant’s father, a college history professor, to sign on, a role he never envisioned himself in but gamely tried on. Which still left us one short.

 

Problem was, this was the late 70s. Like most communities, the divorce rate in our city ran about 50%. Which meant a lot of our scouts didn’t have fathers around to volunteer. My own was in Spain or California by this point. Even if he’d been local, I doubt he would have volunteered. We targeted every father around could find. No luck. We even looked into trying to get a female leader. A one or two mothers were willing. National said absolutely no way. Women could lead a Cub Scout den not a Boy Scout troop. They’d rather let the troop fold than change, which given their more recent problems should surprise no one.

 

As the paperwork deadline loomed, we went the desperation route. We approached one of our former leaders with an arrangement. If he signed on to the paperwork, we would make sure he wouldn’t have to participate. We were confident given time we could find a replacement and swap him out. Reluctantly, he agreed. It was either that or watch the troop cease to exist. He had too much attachment from his son’s time with us, and his previous leadership, to let that happen. As it turned out, before the year was up, an old member of the troop who had been away in the military returned and stepped up.

 

Having cleared that hurdle, I turned to membership. Our troop had become a shell of its former self. As I mentioned, soon after I’d joined, we’d had to split patrols, the smallest level of our organization, just to keep things manageable for the boys leading them. But those eight patrols had dwindled to barely four, maybe three of which were functional with minimal membership. If we didn’t attract more members, adult leadership would no longer be a problem.

 

For that we needed something to draw them in. I had a pretty good idea of what that might be. Up to now, our leadership had been focused on creating Eagle Scouts as one of its primary goals. While that served half of our community, for the other half it just wasn’t a big concern. As I said, ours was somewhat of a redneck troop. They were more interested in doing than learning. Not that those two things were mutually exclusive. But the approach made all the difference.

 

So, I came up with a plan, something I could sell to both halves of our community. I sketched it in my mind then approached our leaders. I said I wanted one major activity each month in addition to our meetings. A camping trip, local or distant, a canoe trip, a hike, a camporee. Something, anything I could point to that was fun. While I had ideas, I needed help with the logistics, reservations, driving rotations, contacts, etc., which at the time were beyond my ken.

 

When I laid out my agenda to our leaders, they were skeptical and a bit daunted. I tried to ease their minds. There were two major camporees our troop attended every year. That left ten more events. Summer camp, either in FL or every few years in North Carolina, were annual activities, so I counted that as another. Nine more. For campouts, I reminded them of several locations I remembered we’d visited before, one in the far north of the county, one in the far south and several in between, plus the campground of our summer camp. Add in a few other full-day trips, and we were in business.

 

My enthusiasm must have been infectious. They started adding in their own ideas. One of our leaders had a boat, as did some other fathers. Previously, we’d camped out on islands in the Indian River, which were free. Someone threw in inner-tubing down any of Florida’s numerous spring-fed rivers.  In the end, the leaders said the plan was ambitious, yet agreed to give it a try. Why not. Even as they signed off, I think they thought there were enough obstacles that it might never happen. But they were willing to feed me some rope to see what I did with it.

 

The moment I got their buy-in, I started a recruitment campaign. I began with former members who’d fallen away, boys who were still the right age and might be interested. I talked to a dozen or so former members, some older, some younger. asking why they’d fallen out of the troop. Almost universally, I got the answer that the meetings were boring and we didn’t do anything fun. So, I laid my plan before them and told them the leadership had agreed. As a sweetener, I added that after each meeting, we would reimplement some sort of game like the ones we used to play. Capture the flag was always a favorite. I got the sense many of them didn’t believe me. Why not show up for a while and see?  

 

I didn’t stop there. I knew we couldn’t survive on returning former members alone. So, I knocked on a few doors of a few friends and acquaintances who I thought might be interested but had never joined. Guys who used to run around in the same woods I did. Guys in ROTC. I talked up our proposed activities along with the current and likely returning former members they might know.  Again, I told them, give it a try. If you like it, sign on. If not, what do you lose but a little time?

 

Within a month, our meeting room was full with boys who wanted to see if I was for real. I was. We immediately started planning our first camping trip. That’s when one of our leaders pulled me aside. He counselled me on another aspect of our troop I hadn’t had to think about before. A number of our newly reconstituted patrols were filled with boys who came from neighborhoods where there wasn’t a lot of money. Unlike boys from my neighborhood, they didn’t have the fundamental supplies for camping, especially tents. And they couldn’t just tap their parents to buy them. Those were big purchases, mostly reserved for Christmas and then on layaway. Some of these kids didn’t have sleeping bags. Some used blankets, or quilts their mothers made. He advised I might need to modify my plans.

 

I didn’t. Remember when I said there was a store room in our meeting house? I said, ok, I understand. But before we scale back and lose the kids we just got, let’s check out what’s in there and see if it’s of any use. So, the first troop activity we scheduled was go through that store room. This leader tried his best to temper my expectations. As I mentioned, the tents we’d seen were canvas. He’d been in the Army. He knew dry rot was a real issue, especially in Florida, especially if any of them had been put away damp however long ago.

 

That Saturday we started pulling out tents, unrolling them and setting them up. Four-man frames, two-man pups, and one really interesting three-man version. They had some stains and smelled a little musty, but amazingly, all of them had poles and stakes. The first one we set up had dry rot in a corner at one stake loop where a pole rested. We set that one aside, forging on, now preparing for disappointment. In fact, while I directed others to keep going, I examined that one to see if there was anything to be salvaged. I spent the next half hour hand-stitching a repair with canvas thread and a needle-point needle I pressed into service, fashioning an adequate and durable if not elegant repair. As I did, report after report got called over my way. “This one’s good.” “This one, too.” “No problem here.” “Here, either.”

 

In the end, all but a couple tents we pulled out were either fine, or, like the one I nursed, needed just minor repair. A few didn’t have all the right poles or stakes but we cannibalized those from the others. By the end of the morning, we had enough tents to outfit two to three patrols as long as some didn’t mind sharing a four-man tent. All we had to do was divvy them up.

 

That led to a bit of conflict as every patrol thought they should get at least one of the big ones. I shook my head and explained. Those were going to the patrols that needed them, the ones without, not the ones that thought they would be cool but already had their own. We dedicated the pup tents to any patrol that ended up needing them on an ad hoc basis. A few kids didn’t like it, but everyone pretty much agreed it was fair.

 

But I did claim the three-man pup tent as a leadership tent for my assistant and me, which no one had a problem with, especially when I stressed the next set of leaders would get it, too. It became a kind of status symbol, exactly as I’d hoped.

 

So how did my first experiment in leadership work out? Well, that first year, we had events in ten out of twelve months, including a three-day canoe trip down almost the entirety of the St. John’s River, and a ten-mile hike into a local ranch. Not quite my goal but easily double the highest number of events we’d ever pulled off before. As well, we used each trip as an opportunity to earn merit badges and other awards that helped with our advancement.

 

At the end of that year, I said I would step aside as leader, which had always been my plan. I encouraged my assistant to take it for himself with my support. He was more than capable and ready. To assuage any fears, I said I would stay on as his assistant if he wanted, so he could rely on me if he needed to. Basically, switching positions so our overall leadership team remained intact. We were both re-elected without serious opposition. And the troop rolled on. The next year, we might have slipped to nine events. But we still had a lot of advancement in rank. Everyone was happy or at least content.

 

I score that as a win.

 

Five or so years later, I had an opportunity to put those skills to work again. At college, I’d become an off and on member of the campus Society for Science Fiction and Fantasy (FITSSFF). I’d encountered them at some point in my first couple years, and was attending meetings somewhat regularly by my sophomore year. Much like my old Boy Scout troop, I could see they were struggling. Membership hemorrhaged as the year progressed. There was a core group who were a somewhat boisterous lot that tended to put new members off. Mostly, again, as a club, we didn’t really do anything but meet and cut up. No real events, no real discussions or activities. Just kind of hanging out. Given we were all in college with science and engineering majors, most people had better places to dedicate their time.

 

By the end of spring semester, that apathy and ambivalence had begun to show. We’d started the year with maybe fifteen people showing up to meetings, including some seniors who would be graduating. We ended with five. Barely enough to qualify as a club. And even getting that many to the final meeting had been a struggle. What I didn’t know at the time was that the club president had already written a very creative club obituary to post in the campus newsletter if our final meeting came out as he expected.

 

To keep our status, we had to hold elections for club president and vice president for the next year so we could submit their names along with our current membership with our renewal forms. The problem was, of the five of us there, three refused to run, which our president knew in advance, hence the obit. Of the remaining two, which included me, this was the other guy’s first meeting. When the president opened up nominations for the next year, I looked around and said, if no one else wants it, I’ll take it. Our president looked surprised, stunned even. Done. Unanimous. The other guy took Veep. We’d survive another year. Or at least the summer.

 

This time around, I better knew what needed to be done. But unlike with Boy Scouts, I didn’t have adult leadership (I was the adult now), or a reliable second to help me (the guy we elected Veep didn’t return after the summer). But that didn’t matter. I did have our former president, now a senior, offering his help, which I gladly accepted.

 

That summer, because I was local, I crafted a plan. The first thing I wanted to do was start the year off with a bang. Every year, FITSSFF like most clubs, manned a table during freshman orientation to recruit new members. I knew it was a somewhat ineffective process. I’d skipped my freshmen orientation (much to several people’s consternation). Even if I hadn’t, I wasn’t the type of person to cruise tables looking for activities. I wanted deeds not words.

 

So, I talked to a few working engineers I knew who could put me in touch with a liaison at NASA (we were twenty miles from Cape Canaveral). I told them who I was and that I was hoping to get a speaker for my college. Ok, exactly what are you looking for? I was hoping for a subject along the lines of science fiction to science fact, which I sketched out. Let me look into it was the official reply. Eventually, they put me in touch with an engineer who said he’d be happy to speak. He just needed a projector, a microphone and a screen.

 

I scheduled the main auditorium, which seated around 300 plus (on a campus of 7000), not knowing how many people would show up. Me and the former president drew up flyers that the school activities department printed. Who knew as a club we had a standing budget with them for that? Not us until we talked to them. We crafted and hung a banner across the main thoroughfare from the dorms to the classrooms advertising it.

 

I didn’t have much hope for turnout. So I was more than astounded when I met our speaker backstage to agree on his introduction. The auditorium was well over half full. A hundred and fifty people, only a dozen of whom were former club members. Wow. That exceeded my expectations. Sadly, the speaker did not. It became apparent after he went through his first few slides that there had been a grave miscommunication somewhere. He was talking about the art on the covers of his classic pulp science fiction magazine collection. Not at all what we’d advertised. Which showed as the audience began to slowly hemorrhage as the evening wore on. By the time he’d finished, one fifty had dwindled down to fifty.

 

As he closed his talk, I stepped back to the microphone and asked people to hang out for a couple minutes. I put on a good face to hide my disappointment (and annoyance), thanking our speaker and seeing him off. Instead of returning to the microphone, I sat on the edge of the stage and addressed people directly. I am not a great public speaker, but I can do it. Somewhere in introducing myself, I stumbled over something I said, which drew a laugh, but one that I got the sense put people at ease. Laughing with me not at me. I told them who we were, gave a brief pitch off the cuff and said if they were interested to come check us out at our first meeting, giving them a time and place.

 

Again, after what I thought was a debacle of an event, I didn’t have much hope for turnout for that first meeting of the year. Once again, I was surprised when I arrived just a little early and it was standing room only. Our regular crew had ensconced themselves in the back row and began chanting my nickname as I walked in. Generalissimo! Generalissimo! Generalissimo! Our first meeting was when campus activities insisted that we take club photos, so I’d dressed the part in a fatigue jacket and a foreign legion cap with a revolutionary beard. I know I made an impression on at least one redhead in the room. But not enough of one to be first or even second in line. Dammit.

 

After a group picture, somehow, I got the meeting under control. First order of business was the remainder of our deferred elections, the results of which we had to submit with our membership list along with the club picture. By then we knew we needed a VP as well as a treasurer and secretary. A rather chaotic election ensued. Our new VP wanted to be called Il Duce. Our treasurer got elected unanimously when he came in late wearing a suit because he’d just gotten off work. He turned out to be more reliable, with more of a can-do attitude than our Veep, which worked out. I honestly don’t remember our secretary.

 

Even with all the weirdness and miscues, by the end of the night fifty people had signed the attendance list. Better than any of us had a right to expect. But I didn’t rely on sheer numbers to hold the club together. We needed to keep people coming back.

 

My first goal was to organize a mini-gaming convention once each quarter, roleplaying and wargames. When I glanced through the club’s scant archives, I found we had hosted similar ten years before. I knew we had a lot of gamers on campus and in the club so it seemed a perfect fit. Each time I never ran a game, and only managed to sit in on one due to learning crisis management, schedule adaptation and game promo on the fly. Despite none of us ever having done anything like it before, we pulled off all three, mostly based on my experience attending a couple Gen Con Souths in Jacksonville and organizing some small, informal events for my high school gaming group. All three were wildly successful judging by attendance and enthusiasm, as well as the decent attendance of our meetings. That served as a foundation.

 

We also invited members to give reviews for whatever science fiction/fantasy books they were reading after meetings. We informally discussed books and movies, and gave each other recommendations. We ended up consulting with the club’s adviser, who taught a course on science fiction, on restructuring her reading list, which necessitated a research trip to the local public library for ideas after we’d worked through very limited options in the college library. We got together informally and watched science fiction/fantasy movies that we (usually I and other officers) rented. We organized trips to the theater when new science fiction/fantasy films came around. When one of my dormmates had a meltdown and handed me all his gaming books, wargames and science fiction books because his Christian faith suddenly told him they were an evil influence on him, I accepted them and started a club library, asking for other donations, and donating every science fiction/fantasy book I read. And of course, we continued our annual ritual of showing the short film the club owned a copy of outright although no one knew how. Hand of Death. 1960s science fiction at its very best (or arguably worst).

 

In short, we did things. Things other students apparently wanted to do. We even managed to attract consistent female membership, no small trick in a genre that isn’t always welcoming or accessible to women on a campus with a 7:1 male to female ratio.

 

All of which meant that by the end of that spring quarter when we had to hold elections for the following year, we had twenty-five members show up, a week before finals.  Quite an improvement from a year earlier. Once again, I stepped aside and convinced a friend to take over. He kept things moving forward for my senior year. After I graduated, I learned the club library I’d started had grown to a point where two presidents after him got it allocated its own storeroom on campus. From humble beginnings.

 

When I looked up both organizations twenty plus years later, both had not only survived but thrived. I am sure in the intervening years each faced other crises forcing someone new to step up. I fundamentally believe that without good leadership in that critical moment, whether mine or someone else’s, either organization easily could have failed. I know in my heart that my stepping up gave them that opportunity to flourish. Because I valued them.

 

Like I currently value science, evidence, facts and truth.

 

Now, in the previous paragraphs, you read a lot of “I”. The truth is in both cases this was all a major group effort. In the first, without our adult leaders, who handled most of the logistics, without an eager, more than competent assistant, without the other patrol leaders, older mentors and rank-and-file boys willing to put in the effort, it never would have worked. FITSSFF was much the same. A lot of people chipped in with their time and effort. Without the other people in the club and one other solid officer, things wouldn’t have gotten done.

 

I don’t claim full credit for either outcome, just for having the imagination, motivation and problem-solving tenacity to convince others we could get it done. Together. And get it done we did. Sometimes people just need to be shown the way. In fact, there are a number of things I don’t remember exactly how they got done, likely because I didn’t do them. At times, things happen around me. People take up tasks that need doing, contribute contacts, attend to details I’ve missed, put out fires I never see.

 

All of which helped me when I reluctantly took on a leadership role in my engineering career. But once I did, I quickly rose from a team lead to being slated to lead multiple teams with over two dozen members and oversee a multi-million-dollar budget. And still helps me today, when I organize something as simple as a Kitten*Con.

 

Which is a long way of saying, I know a little bit about leadership and rebuilding.

 

When you lead an organization or a team, you first seek to preserve and protect it. You look out for all its members, not just the ones you like or the ones who agree with you. Not just your family, friends or base.

 

And yet, right now, we as a nation are entering a struggle for the kind of leadership we wish to see. I don’t mean that in the normal sense of a quadrennial election.

 

Although perhaps our current struggle isn’t really over leadership per se. On one side, we have someone who, while not likely to be a great leader, still wants to protect and serve the overarching organization he seeks to lead. On the other side, we have someone who, while charismatic, is a disrupter and destroyer. His record on those points is clear, at least to anyone without motes and scales obscuring their vision, purposefully or otherwise.

 

Most of my point here seems obvious, at least to me. So obvious that it’s difficult to put into words without belaboring it or sounding pedantic. By the nature of our current Orwellian environment where black is white and up down, anything I say is likely to be twisted and turned as a weapon against the idea itself by apologists and propagandists. I use those words advisedly.

 

Imagine for a moment that I had adopted that second style with either of the organizations I’d led. Now imagine I’d made it plain that I didn’t value either of those organizations at all. Imagine if instead of putting up ideas for how they could change and improve to benefit more people, all I had done was rely on pandering to a vocal few. Or imagine I’d treated the people around me the same way I’d experience in “Switching Sides”. Imagine working in that environment, with leadership who embraced it. Would either organization have survived?

 

That question might seem rhetorical or hyperbolic. And yet, I can point to interviews from decades ago outlining that this is where someone wanted us to be, with a group or party actively exploiting low voter turnout, or suppressing it, to gain a series of positions to build resumes so they could get elected to the highest offices with the expressed purpose of dismantling huge portions of the organizations they purported to lead, from local school boards to state legislatures to the federal Executive branch.

 

It was a brilliant and effective, if deeply cynical and anti-democratic, strategy. But that roadmap led to exactly where we are.

 

Back when I was a systems engineer, we tested the secure communication system our project had designed. We found that the most potent threat to its operation didn’t come from an external jammer, it was another unit in the network acting erratically. Which made sense. That errant terminal used all the same frequencies and all the same timing for its signals, it shared all the same resources and algorithms. That inside knowledge allowed it to disrupt an established, functioning communications network superbly, if in our case inadvertently, by spewing nonsense data that interfered with the otherwise orderly distribution of information.

 

The easiest way to destroy and dismantle an organization is from the inside. Which is to a large extent what we are seeing. People in power purposefully using every resource and lever within government agencies to suppress and distort the dissemination of vital information to the public, as they slowly, perhaps irrevocably, undermine and damage valued institutions central to our nation’s democratic principles, things like national security, the nonpolitical independence of scientific research, civil rights, justice, and the rule of law.

 

This is not leadership. And leadership, even merely competent leadership, is what we need to rebuild the public trust in those valued institutions and change the course we are on. And if we choose not to, may the gods of history have mercy on our souls.

 

  

© 2020 Edward P. Morgan III