2004 - Jury Duty

My last jury duty, so far, wasn't so bad. I got to use all of my jury skills declaring this fool guilty of stupidity.

2004 – Jury Duty

The jury members were 100% certain we were witnessing the prosecution of a sexual pervert…and we were prepared to do what we needed to do – convict. Of course I didn’t know this until we had all been retired to the jury room for deliberations.

A couple of days before, we had all survived jury selection and were now safely ensconced in our jury box. The first witness was called whom I will refer to as April. She was a young girl, around 14 years old. She appeared somewhat intelligent but the arrogance of a 14-year old was clearly present. Her testimony revealed that almost daily, after school, she rode her bicycle to a bus stop where a copse of bushes and small trees across the street from the bus stop allowed her to hide her bicycle until later in the evening when her grandfather would drop her off to ride her bike home. The bus ride to her grandparents’ house took about 10 minutes.

On the day in question she stepped into the bushes and out of sight of the road or sidewalk. In the spot she usually stashed her bicycle sat a young man in his early 20’s. His pants were half off and he had his arm deeply down one of the legs. He had no underwear on so his naked butt sat on the undergrowth and fallen leaves and debris that made up the surface of this tiny hidden clearing.

“He told me to get out of there.” She testified.

“And what did you do?” Asked the prosecution.

“I grabbed my bike and left.”

“What happened then?”

“I waited a few minutes so he could get dressed and went back to stash my bike.”

“And what did you find when you went back to hide your bicycle?”

“He was still there but now his pants were completely off and his head and arm were inside his pants. When I walked up he pulled his head out and he told me to get out again.”

“And what did he do then?”

“He stood up and took a step towards me.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I threw my bike at him and ran. Then I jumped on the bus and when I told my grandpa what happened he called the police. I guess that’s how he got arrested.”

“Thank-you.” He turned toward the defensive table, “Your witness.”

“Thank-you. Now, April, the first time the defendant spoke to you exactly did he say?”

“Exactly?” April looked at the prosecutor and then the judge, “Really?”

“Yes, April.” She looked back at the defensive lawyer. “What were the exact words the defendant used when he told you to get out?”

“He told me to…” she paused, “He told me to ‘get the fuck out of here!’”

“Thank-you, April. And what did he say to you the second time, when he took a step towards you?”

“He said ‘What part of get the fuck outa here don’t you understand?’”

“Then he took a step towards you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he threaten you or touch you?”

“Well I felt threatened! He was walking towards me! He was a naked pervert!”

The judge instructed us to ignore the witnesses’ final sentence saying “The statement of the defendants intentions or April’s opinion of the defendant will be disregarded. His intent and mental status is the subject at hand. It is up to you to determine the state of the defendant’s mind and not this witness.”

“Thank-you, Your Honor. April, did he make any other advances? Did he try to get you to come to him or was he…um…manipulating himself in any way?”

“No, but he was naked and he was threatening me when he tried to get me. The only reason he didn’t get to me was because I threw my bike at him.”

“One last question, April, was your bicycle still there when you returned?”

“Yes.”

“Thank-you. No more questions.” The judge told April she could step down.

The next witness was the grandfather who repeated his part of the story. It was reflective of April’s story. Following his testimony the prosecution rested and the defense was ready to begin. First we broke for lunch.

As we would find out later, at that point we were all pretty well convinced Gregory, the defendant, was guilty of both counts. One was a felony, attempted sexual advances to a minor, and the other count was a misdemeanor of public exposure. Although we didn’t discuss the evidence or even discuss the case we did talk about past jury experiences. Our conversation with the few of us that ate together at lunch revealed that more experienced jurors told us we would probably not hear from the witness as most defendants did not testify as their own testimony might sink the case. The last words were “I don’t think the defense is going to want us to hear from the defendant.”

We were understandably surprised when the defendant was called to the stand. I glanced over toward the juror that had suggested we would not be hearing from the defendant but he didn’t look back. I wondered what tactic could the defense possibly use in defense of this event. I didn’t think there was much that could be said in defense of his actions. After all he had readily admitted to being naked in the bushes and the defense had objected to almost none of the witness statements to this point.

Gregory took the stand.

Our opinion immediately changed. What we had previously seen as an act of perversion was starting to look like an act of possible stupidly. Gregory was asked his full name. He seemed to have trouble with that for just a minute. “My name?”

“Yessir.”

“Umm…Greg.”

“Your full name, sir.”

“I don’t go by my full name. Everyone just calls me Greg.”

“For the record, sir, we need your full name.” Gregory…Greg gave his name correctly.

“Now, Greg, would you please explain, in your own words, what happened that day? First of all, why were you hiding in the bushes?”

“Well…it’s like this.” Greg related. “I had gone to see this guy I knew about buying some weed…”

“Just a minute, Greg, did you say you were buying drugs?”

“Just some weed.”

“Ok, Greg, you were going to buy some ‘weed’. This isn’t what you told the police.”

“Well of course not! They’re the police!”

“So what has changed?”

“I’m in a lot of trouble and…uhh…buying weed didn’t have nothing to do with the charge…besides,” his eyes opened wider, “I swore on the bible.”

“Ok, Greg. So you were buying some marijuana. What happened next?”

“Well…uhhh…the guy I was buying from wouldn’t let me wait in his house when he went to get the weed so I figured I’d wait down the street on the wall that ran into those bushes. I was sitting on the wall when I figured I’d buy me a beer with the $20 I had left over!” Greg began to get excited. “So I looked in my shirt but – no money! So I looked in the pockets of my sweats and…” Greg was getting agitated as he spoke. His hands became more animated and the frustration at not finding the money was plainly etched upon his face. “…When I couldn’t find my money I figured I might have been down the leg of my sweats ‘cause sometimes that where it put it! But when I looked there…no money!” At this point Greg was so animated it was like we was searching for the money that very minute. I was sure; if being in court had not restricted him he would have jumped to his feet before continuing. Greg was almost shouting at this point blinking hard at every other word. “Well, I knew I had the money so I went into the bushes to better look inside my sweats! Nothing! So I looked around and no one could see me so I went to take a better look in my sweats so I sat down to be completely outa view and slid my sweats halfway down when this stupid girl comes into the bushes and says ‘Hey, what’re you doin’?’ So I told her to get the fuck outa here and she ran away! Then I kept lookin’ in my sweats ‘cause I knew the money was there but I couldn’t find it so, finally, I took the pants off ‘cause I knew my $20 was in there! About then the same stupid girl comes back and says what are you doin’ but I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but lookin’ for my money so I said ‘What part of get the fuck outa here don’t you understand...and she just stood there lookin’ at me so I said ‘Hey, get the fuck outa here’ and I jumped to my feet to chase her away! Geez…I was naked, almost, but she was just standing there! She needed to go! So then she pushed her bike over and ran away I figured I was ok!” Greg calmed a bit and sat for a few seconds breathing heavily. The defensive attorney opened her mouth to speak but Greg continued before she could speak. “I thought everything was ok but the next thing I know the cops have me and they put me in handcuffs and took me downtown to jail! I was just tryin’ to buy some beer!”

“So, Greg…calm down a bit…here.” She handed him a glass of water that he drank completely dry. “Ok, Greg, did you intend to threaten the little girl or make sexual suggestions in any way?”

“Hell no! She was a little girl! What kinda perv do you think I am?” He stopped as though he suddenly realized that was exactly why he was here. He looked down and said softly, “I’m not weird like that. That’s just wrong!”

We soon retired to the jury room to deliberate but within about 15 minutes we were released for the evening and instructed to be back the next morning to continue our deliberations. The next morning it took less than an hour to determine Greg’s worst crime was stupidity – which isn’t a crime at all. We let Greg go on the felony, he didn’t intend to hurt or threaten anyone, he was just being stupid. We convicted him on the misdemeanor for which he was destined to do naught but get a severe warning from the judge and a fine of under $100.

Stupidity is NOT a crime. But, sometimes, don’t you wish stupid hurt a little so you knew when you were doing it?

Greg could’ve certainly used some pain to tell him: Stupid, dude, stupid.

1972 - When I Was In The Mental Hospital

In ’72 I gave up driving a cab to take a Nursing Aide position at Downey Hospital which I was told was the largest mental health facility in the US. There were a few stories from that year but one of the first things I learned to say when I prefaced any story was “When I worked at the mental hospital...” instead of...


1972 – When I Was In The Mental Hospital

“No!! Get away!!” Mr. Harris shouted, waving his arms around his head as though he was being attacked by a flock of birds. “No!!” He leaned back and closed his eyes, striking out with a wild right-handed roundhouse. He was a slight, tiny man about 5’2” with snow-white hair and dressed in his usual too-big pants held up by suspenders with his slippers peeking out from under his dragging cuffs. Likewise the shirt was just a little too big but Mr. Harris usually wore these ill-fitting clothes with dignity that reflected a completely different life before he took up residence in the hospital. Although, normally, he could barely shuffle down the hallway to the ward cafeteria he was now showing more energy and mobility than I had seen him display previously. “Stop!!” He shouted to the air.

There was no one there.

Approaching from behind I gently took Mr. Harris by the shoulders, being careful to keep my eye out for any wild swings. “We’ve got soup today, Mr. Harris.” I moved around so he could clearly see me. His wild eyes focused on my face and he immediately calmed.

“Ohh…G’soup t’day.” He said, his recent hallucination already forgotten. He sat and Mrs. Turner, the dietician served him a bowl of broth.

“Here ‘yago Mr. Harris! I have a nice bowl of soup for you today!” She looked lovingly at Mr. Harris. She looked up at me and smiled. She had known Mr. Harris for several years now and cared for each and every one of her patients. “G’soup t’day?”

Mr. Harris looked down at his bowl, “G’soup t’day!” said Mr. Harris.

Mrs. Turner was a very round and very dark woman with a boundless smile and a caring personality topped by a professional attitude and a lifetime of experience. She bustled her hardy 5’5” inch frame around the room assuring every special diet was accounted for and assured no one was stealing from a table-mates’ plate where the food may have been solid instead of creamed (yuck) or include bread or potatoes or something else which would be restricted from some diets. She supervised her kitchen staff well, demanding service, accuracy and quality with a gentle but firm hand. The aides stood off to the side at various places in the cafeteria. We stayed out-of-the-way while still remaining available if an event occurred that required our assistance. I glanced over at Anita, engrossed in conversation with Anne. Marty stood near the door primping his hair and straightening his creases.

Marty, had shown up that morning in a nurses uniform and had just gotten back from going home to change. I guess management didn’t have the same sense of humor the rest of us did when it came to Marty…but then you had to know Marty.

I believe Marty was the darkest person I have ever known. There was almost a void in space where his body resided…man, he was black…and as big and bright as the Las Vegas Strip. He had a bright orange/blond shock of hair that was straightened and cut short with the intent that it should lie down but his hair fought against this condition as soon as Marty left the mirror, spiking out in random places all over his head. Marty wasn’t just flaming – Marty was the sun…Marty was a welders spark…Marty was the core of a Nova. Marty was just a little gay – which is like saying the sun is a little warm as Marty was OUT THERE…and a great friend. Marty wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone that “When I was a Marine I got more tail than anyone else.” I didn’t ask for details. Marty and I started the same day and went through all of our training together. When we were finally assigned to a ward we wound up on the same floor of the same building.

Anne and ‘Nita were also black Americans and wonderful people with huge hearts truly caring for the patients like they were their own. Anne was the “old hand” on the ward although she was only in her early 40’s, but she had worked a Downey for most of her adult life and had known most of her patients for a large part of that time. Anne was the “mother” to us all and led the aides with humor and a fierce determination to do what was best for her patients.

Our ward was a Geriatrics ward where residence was not determined by age but condition and the doubt that they would ever return home – they would not. Bob was the youngest patient on the ward and was barely 40-years old. Bob, like everyone else in the building would not be returning home for any length of time. He had been in a auto accident in Germany while he was in the Army and sustained brain damage that made him extremely simple but extremely lovable – kinda like a big puppy-dog. And he was a big guy. He was the 2nd tallest person on the ward and only surpassed by Mr. Vannich who was hospitalized with Tourettes Disease who wandered up and down the ward all day holding his cancerous throat groaning out obscenities and nonsensical utterances. Where Bob was like a puppy-dog Mr. Vannich was more like an unfriendly giant. Although he didn’t fight when he was physically directed toward which ever activity the ward was involved in, whether Swimming Therapy or Occupational Therapy, he also didn’t bend over backwards to cooperate. On one occasion he became very resistant and I was forced to “pull rank” on him.

Pulling Rank was actually very easy as we aides were graphically set apart from the patients as the patients dressed in street clothes – aides dressed in a white uniform with a big set of keys at the end of a long chain. The guy with the key had the power – they all knew it and our advantages, both physical and mental was illustrated by this uniform.

On the day in question Mr. Vannich was directed, along with the rest of the patients, to the day-room where they would all get shaven with one of the electric shavers kept on the ward for this purpose. Mr. Vannich didn’t want to go and resisted by doing nothing. He stood next to the door to the dayroom, staring and holding his throat refusing to enter. Eventually he was the last to be shorn and Anne asked me to help move him. Guys in the ward always wielded more power than any of the women which was a result of most patients being from a generation where women didn’t give orders and the fact that most of them could overpower the women easier than the guys, who would fight back. I walked up to Mr. Vannich who towered over my 5’5” by at least a foot and probably much more as he was around 6’9”, and poked my finger into his chest. I looked up and boldly said, “Mr. Vannich it’s time to get a shave! Comeon! Lets go!” He looked over my head, held his neck and said “Why-o God-damn cock-breath mother-er-e-o damn whee-o-why,” and whipped his right arm around toward me. I ducked & heard a violent “SLAM” as his hand contacted the thermostat mounted on the concrete block wall. I looked up from my position crouched just underneath the height of his swing. I saw the thermostat had been pounded into a hole in the concrete block with the single blow of his fist.

There wasn’t even a scratch on his hand.

Mr. Vannich didn’t get a shave that day.

Anita was not much older than me but single with a young son. Anita was a lot of fun and, like almost everyone else on staff, a caring, wonderful person. I met Anita the day I interviewed as I was returning to the same building I had left following my interview 15-minutes before. She and another aide were searching for a patient that had wondered off and were searching along the fence line the hospital shared with Great Lakes Boot Camp. Patients frequently climbed the fence in an effort to escape. They were escaping from a place that had a gate which was never closed or locked and had access to a main road. If they escaped over the fence and into boot camp, there was a gate and guards who were experienced in returning our patients to us. Usually the escape was obvious as the patient often was clothed in pajamas as well as being much older than a Naval Recruit. After leaving my job interview I was walking along the road when I noticed I was overtaking a slow-moving gentleman in pajamas who didn’t really seem to have any purpose or intent…he was just walking. As I came up alongside I gave a cheery “Hello!” and looked into his face. There was no recognition or acknowledgement I was even there. This was, evidently, a patient who had simply walked out the front gate. I slipped my arm into his and, as I stood in place, he pivoted around me until we were headed in the opposite direction. We quietly walked the two-blocks back to the hospital where I met Anita coming around the corner of the building. She thanked me for waking her patient back not knowing I would be working on her ward, in her building and with her within the next couple of weeks.

After just a couple of months I found myself dropping right into the 7/24 life of a Nursing Aide, including my participation with the usual activity every day at 1:00 – Watching the soap opera General Hospital. I had been watching on a regular basis for a couple of weeks when on my day off I heard myself utter these words of terror: “I have to get home for my story.” I could barely grasp the fact that I was hooked on daytime soap opera TV. This had to be dealt with which I did my next work day by retiring to the day-room at the opposite end of the ward. One day-room had 2-TVs and they were turned everyday to the soaps which was where all of the aides and most of the patients hung out. The other dayroom had a TV but it was rarely on. This was where I headed. With 2 pool-tables I figured I would knock some balls around until the soaps were over. During my second day of this Mr. Johnson asked me if he could play with me. He began bragging about how he used to play for a living but it sounded like any one of a dozen stories these guys had that were often more wishful thinking than personal history. Now Mr. Johnson…he had the palsy. He shook violently with every step but managed to still get around although with difficulty. He ambled over to the rack of cues shaking like a wet dog all the way over and while he choose a stick. He pulled one of the sticks off the rack and looked down the shaft although his shaking was so violent I figured this was more of a habit than an actual evaluation of the straightness of the stick. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated over to the table and asked me if I wanted to break. I took a long draw on my stick and hit the balls dead center. They moved a few inches apart and rolled slowly to a stop. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated around the table making almost a complete circuit before he stopped and, waving a shaky, jerking finger at the table he said “3-ball corner-pocket.” As he lifted the point of the cue it shook like a flag in the wind…but as the cue descended towards the table all tremors disappeared and his arms became steady as rocks. He pulled back and BANG – 3-ball corner pocket. He continued his trip around the table still shaking like a high-speed car with a flat tire. 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket. Again the vibrating stick pointed towards the heavens but descended solid as granite – BANG – 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket – AMAZING!!

Mr. Johnson and I played on a regular basis thereafter until he was transferred off ward for a medical problem. We had several months of pleasure before he was taken with an illness and transferred to the medical building.

Ok, this is the hard part – the stuff I don’t often admit – as much as I like people in general and believe myself to be kind in my heart and in my actions…but a year working here changed me. See, there was this directive that an aide might hear on occasion: “It seems he needs some motivational therapy.” This statement often came from a doctor or nurse. No one told us what to do but I was trained by other male aides that this statement meant we had a patient who was refusing to care for themselves. The patients in our ward were long-term patients and many had already been there for decades. These gentlemen knew very well how to work the system. They knew if they didn’t want to feed themselves, we would. They knew if they didn’t want to go to the bathroom in the actual bathroom one of us would clean-up both them and the chair or bed. Then they would get a personal hand-shower and then re-dressing if required. This was not a desirable scenario, not because we didn’t want to work but because the patents were so old and in such bad physical conditions that failure to use their legs, or arms or whatever, that they could soon lose the ability to walk, carry or reach if the muscles weren’t used. We were told the patient needed motivation to help themselves for their own good. This was true, without a doubt, but…

Often motivational therapy meant wrapping our hands in towels and going 3-rounds in the shower room with the old guy in question. This was our way of saying, “You WILL get up and walk to the bathroom when you have to go.” In the beginning I felt really bad about this but soon came to realize this really was a valid method of motivation although something less confrontational could be better, this method was fast and gave the results we needed: get up off of your dead ass and move it or you’ll lose it! I rationalized this behavior and reluctantly participated in a couple of these “training sessions” and eventually became inured to the violence of the act. I realized that the technique was quick and it worked and, although it was not preferred, it was effective and efficient. This motivational therapy was probably the biggest reason for leaving the employ of the hospital when I realized, as I was rolling around on the floor with a 67-year old that had gotten his arms around me: I was looking forward to this kind of confrontation.

I was only 22-years old – something was wrong. I saw the change in myself…I didn’t like the change…I did something about it.

I quit.

Next stop...California.

1998 - Jury Duty II

This was my second opportunity to serve on a jury. Hopefully my argument to overcome our single holdout gave her continued room for thought.

1998 – Jury Duty

“Ok, let’s take another vote.” The jury foreman looked up at us. “We seem to be in the same place we were 2-days ago – but let’s try again.” We each selected a piece of paper from the pile in the middle of the table. I wrote my decision on the page “Not Guilty.” We took a count.

“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty. We still have one holdout.” He continued to look down as he continued, “ I imagine this is the same person who voted guilty 2 ½ days ago.” He looked up. “I know this is a secret ballot but if you reveal yourself we may be able to clear up any reservations you have. Everyone else here believes the defendant to be innocent of the crime.” The crime in question was murder.

We had been selected on Monday from a pool of available jurors. By Wednesday afternoon testimony was over and we were ensconced in the jury room. The case seemed open-and-shut from the start but as the testimony and evidence was presented we expected the prosecution to offer us a surprise that showed firm evidence of the crime. When we retired to the jury room we were still waiting. No one answered the foreman’s appeal so we began, again, to review the evidence we had.

The crime:
A sailor had been partying at the Enlisted-Men’s Club on base until around 10 PM. As he left the club for a cigarette another sailor who was called “Smiley” by one of his acquaintances accosted him and his two friends. One thing led to another, words were exchanged and a fistfight broke out. In very little time the sailor who had been originally accosted punched out his assailant. Thereupon he picked up his attacker and tossed him over the hood of a parked car, leaving him there as he turned and walked back into the club. An hour later when he was leaving for the night he was again met in the parking lot by Smiley who exchanged words and pulled a pistol. As the victim began to argue with Smiley, Smiley pistol-whipped him on the side of the head knocking him to the ground whereupon Smiley stood over him and put 3 bullets into his chest. Smiley took off running and disappeared into the dark of the Naval Base.

The investigation:
The Shore Patrol began investigating the crime that evening by speaking to witnesses who all agreed they had heard the attacker called Smiley by his acquaintances. Each witness also confirmed the above crime by telling the investigative agents as much as they had witnessed. They testified that both the victim and his assaulter were black. Investigators spoke to non-witnesses who were present in the bar but had not seen the confrontation in the parking lot. They obtained one name of a sailor named Smiley but when they went to his ship they found he had been released 2-weeks before. Speaking to his friends they discovered he had fathered a baby in San Diego out of wedlock and had been seen once visiting, since his release, in San Diego. He had told his friends he was there to visit his child and girlfriend intending to propose. They were sure he had left town by the time of the crime but no had seen him get on the plane. The Shore Patrol was positive they had their man so they proceeded to investigate his location in preparation for an arrest. Eventually they found Smiley in Chicago where he lived with his mother while he looked for work. The arrest was made using personnel from the Great Lakes Naval Base and he was eventually escorted back to San Diego for trial.

The defendant:
“Smiley” sat at the table along side his single lawyer. Smiley’s defense team consisted of a prosecutor and 2-assistants. Smiley’s head was shaved bald and he sat in prison blues, which looks a lot like medical scrubs but with a big SD JAIL printed on the back. He was only around 5’6”, and of a slight build, but he strode into the courtroom with a swagger. Looking into his eyes his swagger seemed to be at opposition with his thoughts. His eyes revealed that inside he felt a bit uncertain as to what was happening to his life. I go the sense that much of the swagger was an act for the court and that he was essentially a frightened lad that had done something stupid which resulted in his life spiraling out of control.

The testimony:
One of the first witnesses was the friend of the dead sailor and one of the sailors that had gone to the parking lot for a cigarette with the victim. He thought the defendant looked a lot like the assailant but due to the shadowed parking lot could not be 100% sure. The next 2-witnesses offered similar testimony.

The Shore Patrol was up next. The chief had served as a Shore Patrol Officer for several years and was preparing to retire. He told us this would probably be his last case and he had managed to wrangle a delayed release so he could close this, his last case, before retiring. He told the story we had all heard giving us the information he had from his investigation. He told us no one was able to positively identify the defendant as the perpetrator but from all of the evidence he had gathered, and by dint of his superior experience, he was certain they had their man. The prosecution rested and the defense took over.

There was a series of character endorsements, the first from his mother who had accompanied her son from Chicago. Also there were shipmates, his boss from the job he held before his enlistment as well as the pastor of Smiley’s church. Mom was up first and she wept softly as she testified about the character of her son. “He has always been the one who stood up for the little kids in the neighborhood,” She testified, “there is no way my son could have done this. He is one of the most peaceful people I know.” We were doubtful.

There was next a series of short testimonies from his ex-shipmates, all of whom liked Smiley and found this crime far beyond the behavior of which they believed him capable. They told us Smiley had earned his nickname because he was always happy and had a tendency to always look for the positive side of any person or event. As they were all his buddies, we found this testimony questionable.

Next up was his ex-boss, a plumber, who told us Nelson, Smiley’s real name, had been one of his best employees until he joined the Navy. “He was a quiet lad when I hired him but I soon found out he really worked hard for me when I needed it. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a gentler person with more character than Nelson. He was always steady and sure during stressful times when we were on a deadline and worked his tail off to make any repairs on time. I eventually had to lay him off for a few weeks and he mentioned he would soon be joining the Navy and since I didn’t want to hire a worker who would just have to be replaced in the near future I didn’t ask him back. But he was a hard and loyal worker. I’ve been hoping for an opening soon so I can hire him back.” The character of the witness seemed above reproach and we tended to believe he had found a good employee but didn’t really know “Nelson” as well as he thought. We also began to wonder about a person who could fool so many people into thinking he was a pacifist who preferred the quiet role of peacemaker and negotiator to that of an in-your-face advocate. Either most of his acquaintances were easy to fool or this Smiley was the wrong guy. We figured he might just be an amateur actor.

The pastor of Smiley church was up next. He said he had been one of the first people Smiley had visited upon arrival in his hometown on the Southside of Chicago. The minister testified that Smiley had been volunteering at the church most evenings and weekends and then he dropped the bomb…he had brought along his records of progress on the rebuilding of the Fellowship Hall, a meeting room attached to the church and where receptions, potlucks, neighborhood watch meeting and other neighborhood events were held. These records included volunteers and the time they spent so he could thank them at Sunday services. His records showed that Smiley had left the church only 1-hour before the murder. It was fairly easy for the defense to prove it was logistically impossible for Smiley to have even been in town.

The prosecution had no answer to this presentation and the case rested.

We retired to the jury room in early afternoon and had returned the next day…and the next...to argue the case with one unidentified juror that felt the defendant was guilty. We were going on our third day of deliberations and some members were getting very frustrated at the inability to move the one recalcitrant member. The foreman made his appeal again, “Please, whoever you are, please reveal yourself. We have no way of resolving this unless we know what concerns you about the case. You may have seen something that we missed. Help us.” He looked at each one of individually and said each of our names as his gaze rested upon the individual. We were aligned at the table with 5 jurors along each side with the last 2-mombers distributed one at each end. At this point we all suspected who the holdout was but were still uncertain. As the foreman’s eyes rested on the person at the opposite end of the table we all looked in that direction expectantly. The woman who sat in that seat was a fairly new citizen from a middle-eastern country and had said many times how pleased she was having the opportunity to participate in the justice system of her new country. She was, we suspected, the holdout. Her eyes remained on the table for a few seconds but when the foreman didn’t get a reaction he paused awaiting some sign he had been heard she quickly glanced up and back down. In the split-second she had looked up she saw every eye on her. She mumbled something quietly. We sat silent in pregnant anticipation.

She looked up, “It was me.” She said.

“What are your questions about this case?” The foreman took the lead. “What are your reservations?”

“What if he’s guilty?” She said. “What if he did it? What if he murdered that poor man?”

“But we’re all confident he is not guilty of the crime. What convinces you he might be guilty?”

“In this country the police don’t just arrest somebody because they disagree with a powerful person or because they said the wrong thing to the wrong person. In this country the police only arrest criminals. Why did the police arrest this man if he did not commit the crime? The police here are very good.”

“But they’re not perfect.” The gentleman to my right said. “They make mistakes all the time. Mostly any screw-up is legitimate but sometimes they have an agenda as well. Our police may be better than the ones you’re used to but they are far from perfect.”

“But what if he’s guilty?” She repeated.

The foreman replied, “But no one here, except you, thinks he is guilty!”

“But what if he is?” The room burst into a cacophony of protesting voices.

“Wait,” I said, “You can’t ask that question.” The room quieted.

“What do you mean?” the holdout asked.

“I mean, this is America and in America we can’t ask that question. Here the only question we can ask is “What if he innocent?” In this country the burden of proof is on the prosecution. They have to prove the guilt of the accused beyond any reasonable doubt. In this country if he is not absolutely proven to be guilty it is incumbent upon us to declare him Not Guilty.”

“But what if he’s guilty?”

“You can not ask that question. You must ask ‘but what if he innocent?’”

“Alright. I’m very nervous about this but if this is true then I must change my vote…I vote not guilty.”

“I should also explain just to assure clarity that we have not voted him innocent." I continued, "We have voted him not guilty. These are two different things.” She nodded her head absent-mindedly and smiled. We informed the officer outside our door that we had reached a decision.

2-hours later we were on our way home.

1923 - Jessie

During the reception following my wedding Uncle Willie related most of the following story. Grandma told me about her first trip to Chicago from Alabama but I didn’t have many of these details or understand why the trip was so special until I realized Uncle Willie’s story and her train-trip story were one and the same. She told me about her best friend although I had to supply a name. She also told me about the movie she saw the evening before her trip from the farm and onto Chicago and how her brothers cured her stubbed toe. Ebbie was a real person but I made up the name. Many of the quotes are actual words.

1923 – Jessie (Grandma’s Story)

“Jessie,” said Willie, “come-own ta the picture-show with us.” Jessie wondered why her brothers, usually so mean, were suddenly so nice. “Come-own, I got a extra nickel for ya.” She was suspicious.

She recalled when she was a little girl and had stubbed her toe so hard! Willie and Hosey, her younger brothers, told her the best thing for a stubbed toe was a warm cow-patty and lead her to a fresh one. Her foot hurt so much but she didn’t want to put her foot in it. “Come-own, Jessie, come-own.” She plunged her foot in. She’d never forget how they laughed at her…and the smell! She never forgot that smell. The warm patty did feel good but the sensation was not worth the cost. But today they really had her attention with the offer of a picture-show! She had only seen a very few of them in her 21 years on the farm so a trip to town and the offer of a picture-show was too much to resist. When they were younger Willie was the little brother that she cared for the most. A bit sickly as a baby, he needed a lot of attention but as he grew older and stronger those roles seemed to reverse. Now, even though he was 18 and she was newly 22 Willie was her protector. Of all of her brothers Willie was the one who watched out for her. He was 4 years younger and, even though he was usually as mean as the rest of her siblings, when she needed a protector he had always been there. As they grew older, and after Willie came back from his “adventures traveling,” Willie seemed less mean, but life on the family farm was always full of jibs and jabs and Willie was as active as anyone when it came to jokes and foolishness. Willie had left at 16 to find his fortune but arrived back on the farm 11-months later full of stories of his adventures, some of which took enough out of him to send him back home for a rest.

The tanned face and arms revealed that Jessie had spent most of her life in the fields growing up with the pickaninnys one of whom, Ebbie, was her best friend. Ebbie grew into a fine woman and married 4-years ago and now lived 2-farms over with her husband and 2-little girls. For this reason she rarely saw Ebbie anymore but whenever possible they would steal some time alone if one had excuse to visit. Once when she asked about Ebbie’s husband daddy joked “Ebbie found herseff a good ‘un. He's a fine nigra-man.” Then, as usual, he added, “Jessie is so dang homely we gonna have to buy a man fer her.” This always hurt her feelings but, as her brothers all repeated the same thing she was often glad she spent most of her time in the fields. She was afraid this was true. Jessie had never had a date with a boy and had never been kissed or even held a boy's hand – no one in this town seemed interested in her and she didn’t never go nowhere else. She had very little interest in kitchen work anyway and loved being outdoors.

She agreed to go to the picture-show with her brothers who were nice to her all evening, even buying her a small folded paper of liquorice-twists, her favorite candy. Willie let her ride in the front seat of the wagon all the way home. They, of course, took the horse and wagon to town as the truck was reserved for longer trips to the city. She saw 2-pictures. The pi-ano player was energetic and seemed to be able to anticipate every scene. One picture was about the Great War which was very interesting but also very scary. The second picture was about a young girl who lived in the big-city and her date with a boy her age. They sat at dinner polite and proper. She had very little on her plate and cut each pea in half before spearing it and chewing it. She smiled at the boy and they twittered back and forth about this and that. When she excused herself to the kitchen to check on the next part of the meal, Jessie laughed aloud when she grabbed a big spoon and began shoveling mounds of beans and chicken into her mouth! Then the boy saw her! Oh what fun! Jessie was just so tickled! This was probably just how life in the city was.

They didn’t even get home until the rest of the house was asleep. It was already past 9:30 when they got back to the farm. She fell asleep that night with a smile on her face dreaming of silly boyfriends and the city and cars with big tires, a city with no cows and no cotton fields. Maybe, just maybe, someday she might meet a young man who could love her, too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Wake-up, Jessie.” We have a train to catch!”

She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What about the train?” she sleepily asked yawning big after sleeping so hard after her late night out.

“Ah say-id we have a train to catch! Tom to git up and throw some of yer things in a wrap you kin carry along. Here. Mamma gave me daddys ole bag for ya. It’s yers naow.” Jessie sat up, blinking hard. Had she heard right? Were we taking a train trip? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned this to her?

“Were’r we going?” She asked.

“Were not goin’ ene-were, Jessie. It’s your trip to take alone all the way to Chicaga. Take everthang ya need. Ya won’t be back for awhile”

Jessie stopped dressing for a moment, “Why am Ah going all alone…and why Chicaga? That’s way up north.” Jessie had ridden a train only once before to visit the city with daddy when he went all the way to Montgomery for feed-supplies. She often rode the old horse-wagon to pick up supplies from town but only saw the big city once with it’s crowds of people, horses and latest automobiles.

“Jes get yur thangs together,” Willie paused as though he had something to say but, instead turned and said as he left her to dress, “I’ll till you waa on the why.”

She finished packing, throwing enough clothes for almost a week into the carpet-bag Willie had brought. She was thrilled to be riding the train but a bit apprehensive in taking this trip all alone. Jessie was 22-years old and would soon be 23 but, having spent most of her time on the farm and in the fields she didn’t have many reasons to take a trip and had no experience taking a trip like this on her own.

In a few minutes she had packed everything she could fit into the oversized bag and walked to the truck with Willie and Hosey, both of her younger brothers. Willie turned the crank as she held the button that advanced the spark – or that’s what Willie said she was doing. The truck started up with a big cloud of smoke and began the cacophony of noise that told everyone anywhere around that the truck was running…and running good. She had told everyone in the family goodbye, expecting to be back as soon as the errand, she still didn’t understand, was completed. Mamma cried and daddy looked down at his boots, none of her brothers said anything except goodbye. No one seemed to want to look her in the eye. She bit her lip wanting to ask what the trip was about but until the old truck was well underway it would rattle and shake most of the way to town so any thought of conversation was lost to the wind. As they got closer to town the road was better maintained and smoothed out to the point she and Willie could talk. She asked why she was going to Chicago. Her brother replied, “Well, Jessie, ya know a few weeks ago me and yer brothers was a-talkin’ with daddy and ya know you never had no boyfriend. We figgered as shy as you are and as homely as a dawg you probably wasn’t gonna fin’ a husban’ so we got one fer ya.” Willie turned to her and grinned, “We foun’ a husban’ fer ya, Jessie.” She didn’t smile back. Willie tried to keep a good face but his big smile soon gave away to a frown as he noticed Jessie had not reacted as well as he had hoped…she had reacted more as he had expected. Jessie began to cry quietly. She thought of her dreams last night, and then she thought of Ebbie.

“I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Ebbie.” Ebalene had been her best friend since they were girls together. Ebbie was a dark as the day was long but when she was born in one of the breezy old shacks out back Jessie had seen the birth herself. She was only 4-years old but when momma was called to help with what had become a difficult birth. Jessie had gone along. Mamma said she would have to know these things one day and “There weren’t no time lik the pres-i-dent.” Ebbie was a difficult birth and often Jessie couldn’t get the terrifying memories out of her mind, but as she got older Jessie started to help with watching Ebbie when Ebbie’s mamma was working in the fields like all of the other nigras. They just got to be closer and closer until Jessie couldn’t do anything without wondering if Ebbie would like it, too. Sometimes, as little girls they would play all day until Ebbie turned 7 and started to work with her Aunt Patsy in the house. Jessie went to school by then as she was already 11 years old, but she already worked most of her summer as well as planting and harvest right alongside Ebbie’s mamma. She left school half-way through her 6th year to spend more time in the fields where she really loved to be anyway. She missed her classmates but no girls went to school much past 10 so she wasn’t surprised when it was announced she would no longer be schooled as “There was plen’y of work rot here.”

Her daddy sometimes talked about how different it was today compared to when all of the nigras were his granddaddy’s property. When he inherited the farm from his daddy the field hands stayed, each owning their own little plot of land for a garden out-back of one of the shacks in which many of the older hands had lived when they were very little. Ole John even remembered when slavery still existed. Because of this the farm wasn’t as large as it had been when her daddy was a-growing up but as daddy said “That’s juss haow laf is. It ain’t always what yew wish it was.”

Jessie didn’t really understand exactly what slavery was but she knew Ebbie thought not being a slave was important so Jessie thought it was, too. Jessie would never see Ebbie again and would continue to think of her often throughout her life. She thought of Ebbie and mamma and daddy. “Why would daddy do this to me?” She choked back the words as she asked, “Don’t he love me no more?” She sobbed to herself, putting her head down and covering her face with her hands. “Why?”

“Well ya know, Jessie, you caan’t live on the farm fer-ever. You spend all yer time in the fields working and you don’t even like the kitchen work…how’er ya ever gonna find a main? Don’t cry, Jessie. We foun’ you a good main. He has a passel of childrens that just lost their mamma and he needs a good wife to help raise ‘em. His name is Herman and he’s a profess’nl carpenter and a good God-Fearing man.” Jessie sat crying in silence until they arrived at the train station.

Willie bought the one-way ticket to Chicago with the money daddy had given him for this and sat down on a bench next to Jessie. Jessie sat staring at her shoes, crying gently. Willie put his arms around her. “Jess, you know we all love you. You’ll be my big sister forev’r, but sometimes laaf just has to change. Ahm gonna miss you most of all but I promise when I can I’ll come to visit. Bertie-Ann and me is thinking of getting married and we been thinkin’ of moving somewhere away from here anyway.” Willie had met Bertie-Ann while he was on the road and after a visit to Florida had drawn him to stay in that state for a few months where he met his wife-to-be. A letter from daddy had drawn him back to Alabama and the farm but he wrote Bertie almost every day and he knew he wasn’t destined to live the farm life. “Maybe we’ll jus move to Ill-i-noise someday.” She didn’t know it now but one day Willie would keep his promise and move just a few miles away from her new home in Northen Illinois.

Jessie put her forehead against the cool window waving a long goodbye to Willie until after he was out of sight. She sat alone on the bench-seat in a car with very few other passengers. After a while she softly began to cry which continued until she cried herself to sleep.

Jessie arrived in Chicago. Her new husband waited with 2 of his eldest children, Charles and Aaron were there to greet her at platform of the huge train station. The buildings and the crowds were like nothing she had experienced or even imagined before. This city was much bigger than Montgomery. Herman looked a foot taller than her but, then, she was a slight woman and he didn’t seem any bigger than anyone else except in her mind where she watched him, wondering what her life was to become. He was a burley built man with wide shoulders and crystal clear eyes that seemed to see beyond the horizon. He was self-confident and well dressed but was almost as old as daddy and more than twice her age. They departed in a relatively new automobile and drove the 3-hours to their new home in Zion. They married in just a couple of days and she moved her few things into Herman's house. Although he was putting the finishing touches on a lovely little house it was sometime before they settled into their life together in the home she would live in for much of the rest of her life and where her only daughter was born. Eventually, at the age of 67 Herman added a second story, the income from upstairs boarders helped pay the bills as Herman aged more and worked less.

As mentioned, they were married within a couple of days by one of the ministers, and officers of the church, in which Herman was a deacon and a well respected professional. Although she was surrounded by friends and acquaintances of her new husband she was slightly uncomfortable being surrounded by this many people, many of them important people in this small town and none of whom she knew. Jessie withdrew for awhile until she made friends with some of her neighbors and managed to find a church in which she felt the closeness to God that she required. Having been raised in the Southern Baptist tradition it was awhile before she found a church that felt right to her and, although it wasn’t quite Southern Baptist the Pentecostal energy she felt when she attended these services brought her closer to God and offered her the comfort of familiarity.

She found Zion to be a small town of small businesses with a couple of them showing the potential of becoming big operations. Although she didn’t begin working until after the children were grown, eventually she would work as a seamstress at one of those businesses: the curtain factory, retiring only a few years before it burned to the ground along with much of Zion’s business district. She learned her husband had been instrumental in building one of the largest buildings she had ever seen: The Zion Hotel. Slowly Jessie began to make friends and acquaintances through both Herman’s friends and with those sympathetic souls at church.

Some time after she moved into Herman’s and her home she received a letter from Willie saying he would soon be joining her soon with Bertie-Ann. Willie and Herman became as close as brothers. Willie and his new wife moved to Zion but soon moved to a small community, Kenosha, which was several miles away, in Wisconsin, but close enough to comfort her as she still saw her big-brother almost weekly at church and grew quickly to know and love Bertie. Although she only visited daddy and momma twice in the coming years the closeness of Willie and Bertie was great comfort for the rest of her life.

Eventually Jessie gave birth to Darlene, her only child. Darlene was, for awhile, a young wife but in 1949 she began her life as a young mother when she gave birth to the 1st of 5 boys, of which, I am the eldest.

The grandson of a mail-order bride.

1974 - Workin' With The Pros

Those rock n'roll days playing music were a lot of fun but I actually had more opportunities to play with the well-known professionals as a sound engineer and roadie. aka: Problem Solver.

1974 – Workin’ With The Pros

The concert had been in a small venue but the band was great. We had been hired to do sound for a small lunchtime concert at UCSD on the lawn. It was a good opportunity for a small local sound-company to make a few bucks as well as an opportunity to get more public exposure, as the band playing this small-time concert was The Marshall Tucker Band. We were mentioned on the few posters we found sparsely distributed all over town and Dennis, the owner of the sound company, was hoping this gig would lead to bigger and better jobs. He already had a bid in to do a Big Mother Concert and Lightshow following a Padres game and another concert a few weeks later. We were destined to lose the Mother’s Day concert but the 2nd one we nailed and had a successful event, but that was still some months in the future and none of us had any idea of the size to which the company would grow or it’s fast drop to the bottom and out-of-business. For now we were still trying to build a name to which ends this concert could be a major influence.

We arrived early in the AM while dew was still on the lawn. A handful of sleepy students wandered around the campus. There were frequent questions as we set up as, apparently, the advertising for the event was not well distributed on campus and most students that inquired about the event were surprised a big-name group was appearing. We had spread tarps under our equipment to protect it from the wet grass which made moving the gear that much more difficult. There was more than one trip and fall but eventually we got the speakers set-up and were running our snake from the stage to the sound-board when we discovered 3 broken lines which were 3 of the 4 channels used on the drums. Wayne and I quickly rolled the line up and headed out for our base of operations a few miles away. We would need to build 3 new lines and connectors and we figured, with drive time and set-up when we arrived back at site, we had a window of about 15 minutes to build a new cable.

Dennis had called ahead to Rappy who had soldering equipment out and warmed up. He had pulled cable out and measured and cut the appropriate lengths. He had located 3 connectors for the stage end but we were short a connector at the sound-board end. We quickly disassembled a similar, but somewhat shorter cable and salvaged the connector from the bitter end. After I slid shrink-wrap onto the cable lengths Wayne began to solder the connectors. As he finished the soldering I slid the shrink into place and held a lighter underneath to shrink the tubing into place. I now realize there is heating equipment designed to do this job but we didn’t have any of this available so we carefully shrank the tubing using our traditional direct-flame method. We wrapped this operation up with only a couple of minutes to spare and, throwing a thank-you over our shoulders to Rappy, ran for the truck. Tossing the repaired cord in the back we headed out for the school.

Wayne remarked about how this kind of emergency wasn’t uncommon in live music remembering the concert we had worked a few weeks before for George Benson. We were able to get into the San Diego Civic Center early and everything had gone like clockwork. After setting-up all of our equipment, we had time to kill so we checked & re-checked the system. The concert was to start around 7:30 so we still had plenty of time to perform sound checks when the musicians showed up around 6:00. The roadies had set the band equipment up an hour or so before the musicians arrived so we had plenty of time…or so we thought. The musicians, like most musicians, had not turned their actual instruments over to the roadies but carried them with their personal belongings. As they plugged in and began tuning up one of the roadies ran over to me where I stood with Dennis. Out of breath he related that someone had left Phil Upchurch’s guitar behind at the last gig…in Santa Barbara. A couple of calls confirmed its presence at the last stop but it didn’t solve the immediate problem – the second guitarist…had…no…guitar. He played an expensive hollow-body Gibson for which we started a replacement search.

Every music shop in town was closed at this hour and appeals to Greene Music and APEX Music made no inroads. Guitar Center was closed, as was every private store or local guitar-making business (there are a couple of custom builders in town.) We were in trouble.

Bill was working this gig but was adamant that he wasn’t going to allow anyone but himself to play his brand-new Stratocaster. As the only other musician working the sound gig they appealed to me. I play bass. This is a completely different instrument with fewer strings and much lower octaves up and down the neck. The only guitar I owned was an old Wards-brand classic, which was my “collector’s” guitar. This particular model of guitar was designed and built by the people that, a year later, started Guild guitars and my axe was several steps above the product Wards Department Stores would sell in the future. Knowing this I resisted allowing anyone but me to play my “baby” but, as this was an emergency, I relented.

Leaving the rest of the crew to perform sound checks Bill and I hopped into my van and headed out for home and my old guitar. After a quick retrieval we reversed course and headed back to the Civic Center. As sound checks were done and the crowd was taking seats I offered my guitar to Phil. He cocked an eyebrow as I handed it to him, looking very skeptical. Running through a few chords and a couple of quick lines he frowned to himself and nodded his head in satisfaction saying, “Looks like garbage but it sure feels good. Nice neck! Let’s see how she sounds.” He plugged the guitar into a small amp kept backstage for tuning after re-stringing. He again ran through some chords and notes announcing, “Not the best I’ve ever used but it’ll do. Surprisingly good action.” He turned to George, “It’ll do.” They headed for the stage.

We wrapped our conversation about the George Benson concert as we arrived at the school with the new snake. We ran through the parking lot and to the stage. We were met with a great deal of relief. Wayne attached the various connectors on stage while I ran the snake to the soundboard. We had learned some time ago to number the connectors on each end and we both had a “map” of which mic would cover which instrument. Dennis began hooking up the soundboard as I covered the heavy snake for safety and assisted Bill in checking to assure the mics were live. There would be no sound check but, as this was an outside venue, assuming there were no problems with other equipment, the environment would be fairly forgiving while we got a handle on the mix and volume.

A small crowd had already gathered doing homework and eating early lunches. They looked on with curiosity but stayed, pretty much, out of the way. The band arrived a few minutes later from a dressing room somewhere. As soon as they struck their first note of Fire On The Mountain the music was recognized and began to draw a small crowd of 100 or so people. I was surprised how small the crowd was but it seemed everyone that that arrived was as surprised as me to find the event occurring. I believe I mentioned advertising was less than desired. The Marshall Tucker Band played Can’t You See next and then continued to play the songs for which they were famous and got a smattering of applause or what sounded like a smattering from a small crowd in the open air. The attendees were actually quite supportive in their applause but, as mentioned, outside with a crowd of under a hundred people appreciative applause still sounds like a mere smattering. The band was a bit disappointed with the venue and the entire job as they had looked forward to playing a vacation spot like San Diego but the letdown, and their disappointment, was palatable. Dennis, the owner of the sound company conversed with the band as we all packed equipment and loaded the trucks. We motioned to Dennis and he came over, jumping into the passenger seat of the truck. He announced, “Band’s coming over to the house. Drive slow so they can keep up.” We headed out.

We arrived at our home base, which was also the house in which many of lived. My bedroom was in the basement, which was also part of the recording studio we had built. As it was in the basement we had no trouble soundproofing the studio preventing the sound from escaping to disturb the neighbors. This soundproofing did not extend to my bedroom. (See 1974 – It’s A Wonderful Life) We sat for a while talking and partying but eventually the bass-player asked about “this studio Dennis told us about.” We soon retired to the studio, which was also laid out with amplifiers, keyboards and a drum kit. It took no time at all for the band to start playing their familiar tunes but after just a couple of numbers their playing changed substantially as the lead-guitarist, Toy Caldwell, began playing some very tasty, and very jazzy, guitar leads. His speed and accuracy was only matched by his ability to find the right notes, with the right attitude at the right time. The rest of the band kept up admirably. They obviously played together like this often. As most of the musicians that worked with the sound company, and consequently in attendance, were self-confessed jazz musicians we were immediately impressed and began to lobby for an opportunity to jam with the members of Marshall Tucker. Toy admitted, “…as much as we love to play this music we know who our audience is.“

With Jeff on the drums, Rappy on bass and Toy on guitar they launched into a basic blues riff which evolved into a rocky, and somewhat faster jam that continued for the next 15 minutes eventually with both Bill and Toy exchanging riffs and leads. It was a delight! Soon thereafter I took my turn on bass jammin' the night away. Great fun! And, in fact, a great time was had by all.

Eventually there was a late plane to catch and rides to the airport which brought an end to the evening. The memory of jammin’ with these professionals resides in my mental collection of some of my greatest days.

1956 - My Brother

After all...what are little brothers for?
...Heh...heh...heh...

1956 – My Brother

“Steve!” Dad shouted, “Get down here!”

Steve came running. Dad sounded upset but he hadn’t gotten in any trouble today so he wasn’t concerned in the least. “What, Daddy?”

Dad turned toward the basement wall and made a sweeping gesture with his arm, “Did you do this?” It was obvious to anyone looking that this was Steve’s handwriting. It said “Steve.” It was uneven and went up hill and downhill. The S and one e was written backwards. Steve was only 4 ½ years old and was just learning to write his name.

“But, I didn’t do this!” He whined. “Larry did this!”

“Come-on, Steve. This is obviously your name and your handwriting. It couldn’t be Larry, he writes much smoother and your mother certainly didn’t do this. Who else could it be?” This was true. My still-younger brother, Wayne, was still a babe in arms so it was pretty clear he wasn’t the culprit here. I clearly remember covering pages and pages of heavily lined paper in circles and swirls as our teacher had instructed us in penmanship class, part of our English studies. Sometimes it was a page of individual circles and sometimes a continuous line of circle upon circle upon circle continuing from left to right on each line on the paper. Pages of “waves” or c upon c upon c covered the pages as well as pages of circling e’s and pages of w’s that looked like flocks of seagulls. My spelling was atrocious but it always looked good even if spelled completely wrong. I’m not sure if Steve’s teacher had given his class this task as his letters were a series of individual choppy lines that, together, made up each individual letter. It looked choppy and his letters were still consistently backwards and occasionally even upside-down. Years later we would hear about dyslexia but for now this was just a symptom of a kid having trouble learning to write. The most common symptoms of his handwriting was the backwards S & e. The uphill/downhill part was my idea…

MY idea? What could I possibly have to do with Steve’s name being plastered over the basement wall? What could I possibly have to do with the bucket of green paint that still sat with one of the brushes soaking in the paint with the top of the can lying a couple of feet away. It sat lying upside down with a lovely paint-can sized green circle that was revealed upon its retrieval. When discovered, Steve had the other brush in his hand where he held it ready to help his big brother with the task at hand…his big brother was nowhere around…

We now move on to 2001. Mom and her husband Gene are living in Tucson and my wife and I are visiting. They have invited an additional couple to dinner with us and we sit in casual conversation. I’m involved in a conversation with Gene when I hear out of the corner of my ear: “Oh, Larry loved all of his little brothers so much. He always stood up for his little brother, Steve, when he was still very little and Steve wasn’t even in school, yet.” This caught my attention because…well I heard my name mentioned. Mom was relating stories to the two other women. She proceeded, “There was one time when his appeals were so desperate that he actually talked us out of punishing Steve.” As this was news to me, my ears perked up. Mom began relating the previous story. As she wrapped it up I couldn’t contain my laughter any longer.

“How long have you been telling this story?” I asked.

“Oh this is one of my favorite stories about you and Steve. I’ve been telling this since you were about 6. I think that when it happened.”

“Well the timing is right mom, but the story may be a little different than you know. Didn’t I ever straighten this incident out?”

“No,” said mom a tentative tone creeping into her voice, “I thought I had it right.”

“Well pretty close, mom, but not exactly as you remember it…”

“Well,” I started. “Steve didn’t actually write his name on the wall.” I winced awaiting the reaction.

Mom looked at me calmly. If her glasses had been on she would have been looking over the top of them. As it was, she simply looked askance, and in a low tone offered “And?”

I looked towards the ceiling offering a comical expression to the Gods to which I generously added a rolling of my eyes.

“But I remember this so well, myself. I caught Steve with the brush in his hands. I think he had paint on his shoes, too. I remember when your dad got home I told him and he went to the basement to check. He actually thought it was kinds of funny as he was getting ready to paint that wall but he knew, after the mess on the floor and all over Steve’s clothes…” She interrupted herself, “…I think it was in his hair, too.” She stopped for a second examining her memory. “When your dad went to get his belt, you started pleading with him not to punish Steve. You kept it up and complained in support of your brother so long we eventually didn’t punish Steve because we could tell how upset you were getting from the punishment of your little brother.”

I blew my breath out. “Oh, he was playing in the paint alright but it wasn’t exactly his fault.”

Mom looked at me expectantly. As I looked up I noticed that somehow I now had the attention of the entire table.

My eyebrows went up and I blew my breath out from puffed cheeks. “Ok,” I said “Hmmm…where to start…” I took a deep breath. “See, I, too, remember this incident. It’s probably the first time I tried something diabolical that actually worked. There was actually a clue at the time that I was surprised no one picked up on.”

This time mom interrupted me, “But you kept saying Steve was too little to know what he was doing and…” she stopped, “…hmmm…oh…” It was a little “Oh” but it said so much – I think mom had just gotten it. “You were feeling guilty.”

“Bingo!” I said.

“But you always had such good penmanship and this was so messy. It looked just like Steve’s writing.”

“Yep, I planned it that way. That was part of what you missed. Steve did make his S’s and his e’s backwards so I made sure to use this clue to point the guilt at him. I just didn’t know I would feel so guilty when it came time for blame. The part you missed was Steve always wrote in a straight line. Even when it was uphill it was straight uphill…I purposely wrote the letters up and down and realized as soon as I was done that this was the thing that would probably give me away.” I took a breath. “In fact if I remember correctly I kept waiting for that to come up but no one but me must have noticed this fact.”

“Then why didn’t you confess…?”

“If I remember correctly I was about to give in and confess everything when you guys gave in.”

“But, you loved your little brother so much why…” She stopped.

“Why confess when the judge has thrown the case out of court.” I remarked. “No one was getting punished. Why would I volunteer for a punishment that was going unused? I thought you guys had this one figured out years ago.”

“I wonder what else we don’t have a clue about.” Mom mused.

I looked back with an innocent look. Mom shot me a look that clearly displayed her doubt.

“Well,” I started, “Did you guys ever figure out how that big hole appeared in the living room wall…the one just about the size of Walter's Head?”

1987 - Jury Duty I

I’ve served on 3 jury trials and have found each of them unique and interesting. I have found every citizen takes this particular responsibility very seriously. Every jury upon which I have had the honor to serve has dispatched the case with droll seriousness and not once have I found a juror to be frivolous or casual in their attitude towards this task.

1987 – Jury Duty I

“Give all of your money.” The little guy, whom I’ll call Jose, blanched at the prick of something sharp poked against his back. He had just stepped into a small shadowed alcove in the front façade of the little chapel. His assailant was invisible to him.

“Si, Senior, Si.” Jose answered. In Spanish he said, “This is all of my money. I’ll have nothing for my family, for my new…”

“Silencio. I don’t care about your family. Gimme your money and shut up.” His assailant was still in the dark and Jose couldn’t see anything but the shadow of the young lady he had accompanied to this location and the streetlight on the corner which mostly served to make the shadows behind him that much deeper. The person with the blade in his back evidently spoke Spanish but was clearly more comfortable in English. “This all you got?”

“Si, Senior. I have nothing else.”

“Gimme your wallet.”

Jose barely understood English. “Pardon?” He looked quizzical but fear still reigned on his face.

“I said gimme your wallet – wallet – wallet, geez…your ATM card-i-o. Comeon, comeon.” Jose understood ATM and reached for his back left pocket. His assailant slapped his hand, “I’ll get it…” The crook stood in silence leafing through Jose’s wallet while Jose noticed his legs were shaking. He had never been involved in anything like this before and was scared stiff. “Ok, I got it. This ATM card – uh…where’s your bank?”

“Nothing in bank.” Jose said. “Nada.”

“Don’t gimme any problems.” Jose felt the point of the blade in his back. He stiffened. “Lets go see how much you got.” With the young lady blocking the blade from sight the trio walked the 2-blocks to the closest ATM. Upon arrival the assailant said “Ok, gimme all your money.”

Jose inserted his card. “ATM only for $20.” He said.

“Then gimme 20.”

“Only have $17.”

“Then gimme 17.”

“ATM only for $20.” Jose repeated.

“Then gimme 20.”

“Only have $17.”

“Then gimme 17.” This conversation continued in front of the ATM machine for the next couple of minutes.


Next scene: Downtown San Diego’s Court House. 2nd floor courtroom and there I sit in the jury box. Jose is on the stand. A translator stands near him repeating his testimony in English for those of us that speak no Spanish.

“Jose, After you were robbed at knifepoint why did you drop the charges?”

“I was afraid the bad-man would go after me.”

“Did your assailant know where you lived?”

“No.”

“Did he know you from somewhere else?”

“No.”

“You testified that he threw your wallet and all identification except your ATM card away. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then how would he go after you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jose, the next testimony will be by the young lady that was charged in this case as well. She has been convicted and is currently serving time as a guest of the state. Do you know what she will tell us?”

“No.”

“Well, Jose. We will see. Isn’t it true that you have a new baby in your family and, in fact, on the particular day in question you were feeling somewhat neglected at home due to the new baby?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Jose? Remember you are under oath here. You must tell the truth.” Jose looked around the room obviously searching for a face he didn’t find. “Are you sure you didn’t have a little extra money in your pocket that week, we understand you worked some overtime and had a few extra dollars in your hand. Jose, didn’t you feel neglected at home and didn’t you attempt to hire John’s friend to perform sexual favors for a price?”

“No.” Jose looked around, turned red and looked at the floor.

“Jose, when the next testimony is made we know this is what she will testify. She has already been convicted of this crime and is serving time for it. She has no reason to lie…so I ask you again, Jose, did you hire a woman to perform sexual favors for you.”

Jose stared at this shoes wishing they were somewhere else. In a very small voice he said “Si.” The translator shook her head and the prosecutor responded to Jose, “Louder, Jose.”

“Si.”

“Ok. So, Jose, after making an arrangement with this woman at the El Cajon Boulevard Bus Stop at the 805 exit, you continued down El Cajon Boulevard towards Park Avenue where there is a small chapel. Is this correct?”

“Si.”

“What happened when you arrived at the chapel?”

Jose, related the above tale and was released with a “Thank-you, Jose,” from the prosecutor. After a few ineffectual questions from the defense Jose was told by the judge he could step down, but to stay available for additional questioning.

“Call your next witness.” The prosecution called upon a young woman who entered from the front of the court-room. She was nicely dressed although her clothes were somewhat worn. She seemed small and drawn-in upon herself and was accompanied by a uniformed attendant.

“Laura, Is it true you were recently convicted of a crime for which you are serving time as a guest of California?”

“Yes’m.”

“Was this crime committed by you, alone, or did you have an accomplice?”

“Someone was with me.”

“Do you see that person in the courtroom today?”

“Yes’m”

“Would you point to that person?” Laura pointed towards the defendants table. “Would the court please note the witness has indicated the defendant. Now, Laura, what was your relationship with the defendant?”

“He was my boyfriend…” She paused and looked down. Just as the prosecutor opened her mouth to ask the next question, the witness offered,”…or he said he was my boyfriend but after just a few days he started loaning me to his friends,” a tear appeared in the corner of her right eye. She continued looking at the floor and mumbled something intelligible.

“What was that, Laura?”

Her head shot up. “I said he turned me into a whore!” Laura began to cry softly.

The prosecutor retrieved a tissue from the bailiff’s desk. “So this was the first time you had done this?”

“No. There were lotsa times.” Laura sobbed, as she continued to cry quietly.

“Can we take a short recess, Your Honor? I think the witness needs some time to contain her emotions.”

“It’s almost lunchtime anyway. Ok, Court will be recessed until 1:30. The jury is instructed to be back in this court room and in your seats before that time.” He rapped his gavel twice and the bailiff instructed the attendants to stand as the judge left the room. We re-sat until the witness and defendant had been escorted through the door at the front of the room. The bailiff repeated the judges’ instructions and released us for lunch.

At 1:35 the case continued. After a couple of short questions Laura was released back to her attendant and she departed back through the door through which she had arrived. The prosecutor then entered a series of foggy photographs as evidence. They were just a few of the photographs that sat in a 4” pile of photos that sat on the prosecutor’s desk. In each one a small part of figure appeared to be threatening someone who looked a lot like Jose. In several of the pictures, although foggy and heavily shadowed, over the breadth of the series several physical characteristics of the people in the photos became clearer. One was a small-statured person that was most certainly Jose. The other figure was featured in several close-ups evidently taken from a security camera of some kind. His facial tattoos, including cheek decorations and three tattoo tears that dripped from his eye, were apparent. His front top teeth were missing in a gap that must have included at least 6 teeth and perhaps more. The defendant was called to the stand without protest from the defense. He stated his full name for the record. We know him as John.

“John, you have been attendant here and have witnessed the testimony against you. That testimony is pretty strong. Do you want to change your plea?”

“No, I didn’t do nothin’”

“John, please turn to face the jury.” She turned towards the jury box. “I’d like to draw your attention the photographs, designated as evidence, numbers 17 through 29…please note the placement of the facial tattoos in the photographs and compare these with the tattoos on the defendant’s face.” She turned back towards the defendant. “John, are those teeth removable?”

“Yes.”

“Please remove them.” The defendant reached up to his mouth and, grasping his front top teeth he pulled downward. The dental bridge came out smoothly and sat in the palm of his hand. As he performed this task the prosecutor retrieved a tissue from the bailiff and placed it on the lip of the short wall that surrounded the defendant on three-sides.

“Please place your bridge on the tissue in front of you.” He did. “Using your fingers please reveal the gap in your mouth resulting from these missing teeth.” The defendant stuck 2-fingers from each hand into the sides of his mouth and, pulling open and to the side, revealed the obvious front gap. It looked suspiciously like the gap in the mouth of the assailant in the photographs. “Thank-you, John.” She turned towards the judge. “No more questions, Your Honor.”

“Questions?” The judge looked at the defense attorney who shook his head indicating a negative answer. The judge glanced at the witness. “The witness is dismissed.”

“Prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

Following a half-hour of ineffectual defense testimony by 2 witnesses who were guests of the state and who gave a minimum of testimony. None of their testimony threw a different light on the case. The jury retired to the jury room where we spent the rest of that day and the next day before appearing in the courtroom to convict the defendant.

This, my first experience with the jury system, was a fascinating experience which reinforced the dynamics of the system which I found to be adequate if not superior to most other systems of justice. I found every single person took this job very seriously and there was, at no time, a hint of considering anything but the evidence and the instructions given to us by the judge.

It certainly reinforced my belief in the American system of justice which may not be perfect, but then, when dealing with people who are, admittedly, each different and unique in their personal philosophies and behaviors, I’m not sure a “perfect” system is even possible.

Either way – this guy was gone.

1964 - Picked On

I wrote this some time ago but for some reason hesitated to publish. Comments?

1964 – Let’s Examine The Question: Was I Really Picked On As A Kid?

When playing pool I usually take the shot where the ball is directly in front of the pocket. This is an easy target and a logical choice. The guy with big ears, the guy with an upturned nose, the girl with hairy arms or the girl who is taller than all of the boys are also easy targets when a joker is looking for an easy laugh. The individual of either sex that is the first of their peers to develop adult physical characteristics is an obvious target. Sometimes a particular individual only targets the easy target occasionally. Unfortunately when several individuals only poke fun once in a while it can still seem like a steady message of abuse to the frequent target. There is no way to condone the incident at Columbine…but it is not impossible to understand.

This has always been a question about which I have mixed feelings. I’m pretty sure a lot of kids’ feel they are “picked on” but how much of that is personal insecurity and how much is actual bullying?

After attending a recent 40-year class reunion I realized that much of my perception had been colored by my personal insecurities and, perhaps, a few small incidents that had been blown out-of-proportion by my youthful insecurities or years-old memories. So how much of this was valid? I DON’T REMEMBER, for instance, being stuffed into my locker. I DON’T REMEMBER being tied naked to a tree in the schoolyard, I DON’T REMEMBER being beaten senseless by classmates…so where did feelings of victimization come from? What exactly DO I remember? Let’s examine some of my memories and perhaps some reasons for my insecurities.

I am not large of stature but I like to think I’m well adjusted so that the fact is simply an accepted condition. I take after my dad. Dad was always a bit insecure about his height, which caused him to slump a bit. On frequent occasions, dad would discuss or tell stories about how he had arm-wrestled one of the biggest guys at work or how he had overcome some event that had been colored by his small stature. Both of us accepted the need to often stand on something that would give us the required boost. My admiration for my dad is boundless but his insecurities regarding his size have always been an obvious issue. My best friends are all quite tall but as far as I can tell we are eye-to-eye when we stand together. It is mostly in pictures where I notice the difference. I suppose, internally somewhere, my size is a big issue but to my conscience world it is a consideration, but, normally, a minor consideration. But when I was younger and had to deal with a less-mature world than the one I currently inhabit size may have been a larger issue – let’s see:

In my early years I really don’t remember any negative incidents until, around the age of 8 the minister’s kids de-pantsed me and ran my jeans up the school flagpole. While I was being held securely by the twins, Wayne and Duane, both a year younger than me but comparatively my size, their older brother Ray, 2 years my elder and much bigger, pulled my pants off and ran like the wind toward the grade school which was handily located next door to his house and across the street from my own. I pursued in my underwear with single-minded concentration. I was not really concerned about my exposure to the outside world as embarrassed by being so easily abused and concerned about retrieving my new pants. We were not in a situation to replace them so these would be my new jeans and would have to last until they were outgrown. Mom would be very upset if they were lost so, not knowing Ray’s ultimate goal was a flagpole I ran as fast as I could to catch him. As he began running the pants up the pole I reached him and grabbed for the line. As I reached my hand out my feet were swept away and I found myself under the twins who were doing everything they could to keep me away from their big brother. I barely felt the skin scrape off of my knees as I hit the concrete pad surrounding the flagpole. After successfully running my pants to the top of the pole Ray attempted to tie the rope off well above my head. Luckily he could not find a good spot for this and he was reduced to winding the rope a couple of times around the pole and tying it off. It immediately came undone with no effort and I was able to retrieve my apparel. The other boys had run off and were standing across the street laughing at my predicament while I redressed and headed back to play. I was a bit irritated at my impotency to deal with kids that were bigger and whom had me outnumbered. I accepted my fate philosophically and rejoined the group laughing along with the joke although not feeling as carefree as I acted.

A year later Westfield opened and all classes over 4th grade transferred to that location. School was now several blocks away and no longer right across the street. It was not very long before someone I had considered a distant friend had grown to be quite bigger than me and for some reason began to take advantage of that condition. For ease of storytelling I’ll call him Art. Art and I had recently cooperated in an English class where we were all asked to write a creative story. After Art had read his story aloud to the class the teacher noted that his story and mine were both about medieval adventures and seemed to have a lot in common. Soon thereafter we put our 2 stories together and bound them in cardboard tied with a shoelace. I still have that “book.” He and I had never been too close but we had years in classes together and although I had always considered him a classmate that was more of an acquaintance than a friend, there had never been any friction between us and at times we worked together well when we were teamed together. When he called me over during recess one day I responded to the call with a short run to his location near one of the little saplings that were still struggling to grow after their transplanting just a few months or weeks before. For reasons still not understood he decided it would be great fun to tie me to the tree. Despite my lack of cooperation he and his cohort had removed my belt, tied my hands together behind my back and around the young sapling with that belt and proceeded to pummel me in the chest and stomach with their fists. They left me there to struggle out of my bonds and back to class late. I recall I got sent to the principal for being late to class and, although I complained, there were no witnesses and I was warned not to make up stories as excuses for my tardiness. I didn’t see the bruises myself until I undressed that evening, my brother being the only witness to these wounds.

The summer between my 7th and 8th grade years I shaved for the first time. Mom cried. I took this in stride expecting that it was about time I became more mature. My voice began to change from tenor to baritone. Unfortunately I was the first classmate to develop in other ways having pubic hair as well as significantly increasing certain physical attributes. In my embarrassment I would change in a corner of the locker room with my back to the other boys until my somewhat obvious changes were noticed by a classmate who was somewhat taller than me and one of the big “jocks” of the school. Today I would hardly be embarrassed by the comments made to me, but as an 8th grader, jokes about going out for the pole vault or having trouble walking upright with all of the extra weight or comments regarding extra-large jockstraps or the increase in the cost of haircuts “because there was so much more to cut” were less than appreciated. It was just one more way I was different form everyone around me. I understand girls that develop early have similar experiences as, I am sure, many an “early developer” has. That doesn’t make the personal experience any easier.

My 8th grade year I decided I wanted to play football and I went out for the team…and was immediately cut following the first practice. When I stopped the coach in the hallway right outside the library and spoke to him regarding this he replied offhandedly, glancing towards the library, that such a little guy should go out for something more to my size “Like a librarian.” I was devastated and, although I’m sure he didn’t give his comment a second thought I obviously have remembered that remark for years afterward. With determination I joined the intramural football team from which a team member could not be cut. Although I could not be cut I didn’t see much playtime, which is why I was available to converse with a friend who happened to be on the opposing team. My team was winning by a touchdown and when I mentioned this fact he disagreed with some anger and punched me in the stomach. I went down like a sack of potatoes but immediately jumped to my feet answering in anger that he should look at the scoreboard and not to blame me for the score. I said something like “Blame your teammates!” Wham! I went down again this time to a sock in the jaw. Before I had a chance to recover he was on me. Boney legs (did I mention he was tall and skinny?) on my upper arms, sitting on my chest pummeling my face with boney hands and knuckles yelling, “Take it back! Take it back!” He was suddenly pulled to his feet by Mr. Bush, the intramural coach, and held immobile by the back of his shirt collar. As I tried to rise I found myself in the same position. “You’re both off the team for fighting! Get out of here!” Mr. Bush shouted. He turned his back and walked away refusing to listen to my protests. This may be one of the 1 or 2 fights I’ve ever had, of course excepting fights with my brothers. Now the outcome was not to my liking and, to me unfair. Now my opponent was much bigger than me, but despite that this incident does not fell like being picked on– just one of those things that happen between boys. Even though I didn’t necessarily agree to the fight or participate willingly it was still a legitimate disagreement and misunderstanding and not an incidence of being picked upon.

Coach’s comment was thoughtless and uncalled for. It took a very long time to outgrow, as it was the opinion of an adult and not the behavior of a kid whom I could ignore as ignorant.

In grade school I had a friend, classmate and fellow scout who was approximately my size and yet he insisted in humor that consisted, to a great extent, of put-downs at my expense and occasionally slapping me on the cheek, which he saw as the height of humor. I didn’t feel the same…but I never objected strongly either. I am essentially shy and although secure in my philosophy feel less than secure when it comes to physical conflict.

As I examine these little acts I wonder if these incidents happened because I am short or because I am a passive person. Before I had a personal philosophy my MO was simply to avoid conflict of any kind. Nowadays I prefer to confront the conflict and eliminate it while it is still fresh and before it has built or expanded. I don’t relish conflict and avoid it by facing any potential conflict early. You know…like an adult. I learned long ago that conflict is often unavoidable but dealing with the early fall-out has proven to be easier than ignoring the problem, letting it explode into to bigger issue or allowing inaction support the reasoning of someone who dislikes a certain course of action because they don’t understand the decision-making process. This does not always result in eliminating conflict but I am sure reduces the amount of conflict in my life.

As a freshman in High School an unnamed classmate insisted on stealing my briefcase every day at lunchtime (yes, I was a bit of a geek, despite my terrible grades) and flushing the briefcase in the boy’s room toilet. This persisted daily until, finally fed up with this behavior and his refusal to listen to reason, I snapped as I saw him approach. I waited for the briefcase to disappear. I had previously tried a tug-of-war over the bag but had not succeeded in overcoming his superior leverage and strength…it was obvious this didn’t work. This time I waited until the case disappeared and waited a beat for the lad to turn his back after which I followed only a few feet behind. As he bent to flush the toilet and insert the case I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and forced him to continue in the direction he had been bending trying to force his head into the toilet. I tried to secure the case from him but was unable to wrest it from his hand only succeeding in pulling it aside and out of the toilet leaving a clear path for his head which I continued to forced down as quickly as possible. He released his grip on the case and placed his hands each on the rim of the commode holding his head desperately above the bowl. Giving one last shove I released him expecting a fight on my hands. Instead one hand slipped off the rim and his arm splashed into the water as I released his neck and turned to go. Holding my briefcase I ran for the door pausing just inside to peer back around in preparation of a defensive stance only to see my tormentor looking close to tears and shaking his hand violently. He was paying no attention to me. Although he never mentioned the incident it was the last time he picked on me in that manner. It solved the problem but I have been embarrassed that I could not find a better solution.

My sophomore year a group of tuffs, guys I knew but didn’t hang with as they were all football buddies and teammates, none of with whom I socialized, managed to do the gym-shorts-drop where someone approaches from behind and, taking advantage of the elastic waistline, sweeping the shorts to the knees or beyond. I was then summarily picked up and thrown into the girls’ locker room. To both my relief and disappointment there was no one in the locker room at the time although I could hear them approaching through the closed entrance to the “Girls’ Gym.” I shot back through the door to find my tormentors all disappeared and my shorts lying on the floor. I didn’t report the incident as I took it as juvenile playfulness although I still didn’t enjoy being the subject of these little jests.

Although I don’t approve, of course…I do understand how the stress has caused some recent and past students to breakdown mentally and to do violence on classmates and teachers. Like I say I don’t approve – but I kinda understand. An insidious history of victimization by a number of people looks a lot different to the frequent victim than it does to the occasional bully.

Today I stand tall for equal rights for everyone including blacks, women, gays, etc. Am I, today, a bit overly sensitive to verbal jabs and unjust statements toward others and has this feeling of personal victimization had a lot to do with this attitude?

Probably.

But I am also proud of being mostly pacifist as I have a firm belief that most disagreements can be overcome with negotiation and education. I do believe in standing up for the underdog, physically if necessary and there have been times I had to solve a problem with the threat of fisticuffs but it has rarely come to that conclusion. I make every attempt to not make false accusations and to keep an open mind when there is disagreement as there are 2-sides to almost every story. Realistically, I do not believe all of this is 100% attainable as some people or organizations will adamantly refuse to listen to reason and in some cases, like the tale of the old mule and the 2 X 4, you just have to get their attention first…but overall I agree with the quote by Carlos Santana:

“If you try to solve a problem with hate,
You are part of the problem.
If you try to solve a problem with love,
You are part of the solution.”

As far as my being picked on as a kid – get over it!