Momentary Solitons
Unlike the wave soliton in physics that can travel long distances upstream seemingly unaffected by the direction of all the other waves, a momentary soliton has no movement, it just appears-- and never leaves. It is an unique event: perhaps a chance comment by someone that didn't seem unusual at the time, perhaps some innocuous quirk in someone's personality, maybe just a group of unrelated events that happen to occur in the same place and time and seem to combine for an instant into something different. The separate elements go their way, but the something different stays in your memory. These moments might lie quiescent in some hidden nook of your brain for years. Then a smell, or a color, or a sound, or even apparently at random they suddenly come charging through your ambient brain wave patterns and burst into your consciousness--- and they are real again. They are not always hidden even though you may never tell anyone about them, or even keep them in your conscious thoughts, but they remain a part of all you do. Here are some of mine. They deserve a permanent cenotaph in cybertown.
Unlike the wave soliton in physics that can travel long distances upstream seemingly unaffected by the direction of all the other waves, a momentary soliton has no movement, it just appears-- and never leaves. It is an unique event: perhaps a chance comment by someone that didn't seem unusual at the time, perhaps some innocuous quirk in someone's personality, maybe just a group of unrelated events that happen to occur in the same place and time and seem to combine for an instant into something different. The separate elements go their way, but the something different stays in your memory. These moments might lie quiescent in some hidden nook of your brain for years. Then a smell, or a color, or a sound, or even apparently at random they suddenly come charging through your ambient brain wave patterns and burst into your consciousness--- and they are real again. They are not always hidden even though you may never tell anyone about them, or even keep them in your conscious thoughts, but they remain a part of all you do. Here are some of mine. They deserve a permanent cenotaph in cybertown.
Three steps to racial maturity.
I was raised a redneck, not a KKK one, but a more polite "colored people" one. My grandmother died, and I had traveled from Chattanooga to attend her funeral. I was walking down the street in Greer, South Carolina, and noticed an African American lady approaching me. Just before we met, she stepped off the sidewalk and stood there. Something broke. I am not sure I had ever given it any consideration, but without thinking I turned to tell her she did not need to step off the sidewalk because of me. She raised her arm to ward off the blow she expected.
My first roommate in the permanent party barracks at Lackland AFB was an African American. He was the first black person I ever hung out with, and he introduced me to jive talk. When greeted with the standard "how you doing", he would always reply "ain't nothing shaking but the bacon, and that's taken".
I was chatting with another African American student at a table in the Alfred Packer grill at the University of Colorado. The subject of LSD came up, and I was being very polite so as not to appear condescending. I was filling him in on the latest acid gossip when he started talking about the chemical process of making LSD. That was the third step. I suddenly realized that his knowledge was way over my head, and I didn't understand what the hell he was talking about.
I was raised a redneck, not a KKK one, but a more polite "colored people" one. My grandmother died, and I had traveled from Chattanooga to attend her funeral. I was walking down the street in Greer, South Carolina, and noticed an African American lady approaching me. Just before we met, she stepped off the sidewalk and stood there. Something broke. I am not sure I had ever given it any consideration, but without thinking I turned to tell her she did not need to step off the sidewalk because of me. She raised her arm to ward off the blow she expected.
My first roommate in the permanent party barracks at Lackland AFB was an African American. He was the first black person I ever hung out with, and he introduced me to jive talk. When greeted with the standard "how you doing", he would always reply "ain't nothing shaking but the bacon, and that's taken".
I was chatting with another African American student at a table in the Alfred Packer grill at the University of Colorado. The subject of LSD came up, and I was being very polite so as not to appear condescending. I was filling him in on the latest acid gossip when he started talking about the chemical process of making LSD. That was the third step. I suddenly realized that his knowledge was way over my head, and I didn't understand what the hell he was talking about.
Two People That Deserve to be remembered.
During my FSBJF phase I attended Tennessee Temple College on a Bible School work scholarship. I was assigned to the Union Gospel Rescue Mission in Chattanooga, Tennessee. On a typical evening, we would open the doors to the street people and herd them into the chapel where we attempted to put the fear of eternal damnation into their souls before we fed them. Back then almost the only people on the street were middle aged and old men, or young men who looked middle aged or old. There were no young kids, and about the only women that showed up in that part of town were hookers. After dinner the men could sleep in the bunk beds we had in the dorm. Rules were that they had to take a shower and we locked up their clothes and belongings. Worse yet, after they were bedded down, we locked them in the dorm. Apparently there were not enough lawyers in those days to make us realize we had a death trap had there been a fire. Anyway, it was my pleasant task to supervise them. Thinking back, it must have been weird to handle those filthy clothes and watch those naked street bums scrub the grime off, but I don't recall any details of that part, or whether we had gowns or pajamas for them to sleep in. But I do recall my first MS Honoree, I forgot his name, I will call him Phillip.
Phillip.
One reason he stood out from the crowd was that he was a clean cut, personable young man about the same age I was. I remember that for a bed roll he had meticulously sewn a canvas tarpaulin to an army blanket. Tooth brushing was not required, but he brushed his until his gums bled--- a lot. He was a very bright fellow so we talked more than usual. He told me he had been in a seminary studying to become a priest. He had not been able to overcome his carnal nature, and masturbated frequently. He of course confessed to that and he was told that he must either stop or leave the priesthood ( or whatever his student status was called). He could not stop. One afternoon he left the seminary and rented a room nearby where he proceeded to castrate himself with a razor blade. As he told me the story he lifted up his penis and slapped himself in the groin. No balls there. The landlady heard him screaming and called an ambulance. When he got out of the hospital he reported back to the seminary, but they expelled him because he no longer had the temptation to overcome. What an ungodly waste.
John.
If ever there was a quintessential hillbilly, it was John. He was tall and lanky; dumb as a post and slow as molasses. On Sunday mornings we would take the fellows who wanted to get cleaned up and go to church to the Highland Park Baptist Church. It was always a little hectic getting everyone clean enough for the gentry, and John was always the last to get ready. I don't remember the time period but I think the goal we set for John to finish shaving was fifteen minutes. He never made it. When he came into the mission for evening services, I would always lead the group singing In The Sweet By and By. It was John's favorite song. He would sing the high part in a voice as clear and melodious as any I have ever heard. And the look on his face when he sang was pure joy. I can never remember him without smiling.
During my FSBJF phase I attended Tennessee Temple College on a Bible School work scholarship. I was assigned to the Union Gospel Rescue Mission in Chattanooga, Tennessee. On a typical evening, we would open the doors to the street people and herd them into the chapel where we attempted to put the fear of eternal damnation into their souls before we fed them. Back then almost the only people on the street were middle aged and old men, or young men who looked middle aged or old. There were no young kids, and about the only women that showed up in that part of town were hookers. After dinner the men could sleep in the bunk beds we had in the dorm. Rules were that they had to take a shower and we locked up their clothes and belongings. Worse yet, after they were bedded down, we locked them in the dorm. Apparently there were not enough lawyers in those days to make us realize we had a death trap had there been a fire. Anyway, it was my pleasant task to supervise them. Thinking back, it must have been weird to handle those filthy clothes and watch those naked street bums scrub the grime off, but I don't recall any details of that part, or whether we had gowns or pajamas for them to sleep in. But I do recall my first MS Honoree, I forgot his name, I will call him Phillip.
Phillip.
One reason he stood out from the crowd was that he was a clean cut, personable young man about the same age I was. I remember that for a bed roll he had meticulously sewn a canvas tarpaulin to an army blanket. Tooth brushing was not required, but he brushed his until his gums bled--- a lot. He was a very bright fellow so we talked more than usual. He told me he had been in a seminary studying to become a priest. He had not been able to overcome his carnal nature, and masturbated frequently. He of course confessed to that and he was told that he must either stop or leave the priesthood ( or whatever his student status was called). He could not stop. One afternoon he left the seminary and rented a room nearby where he proceeded to castrate himself with a razor blade. As he told me the story he lifted up his penis and slapped himself in the groin. No balls there. The landlady heard him screaming and called an ambulance. When he got out of the hospital he reported back to the seminary, but they expelled him because he no longer had the temptation to overcome. What an ungodly waste.
John.
If ever there was a quintessential hillbilly, it was John. He was tall and lanky; dumb as a post and slow as molasses. On Sunday mornings we would take the fellows who wanted to get cleaned up and go to church to the Highland Park Baptist Church. It was always a little hectic getting everyone clean enough for the gentry, and John was always the last to get ready. I don't remember the time period but I think the goal we set for John to finish shaving was fifteen minutes. He never made it. When he came into the mission for evening services, I would always lead the group singing In The Sweet By and By. It was John's favorite song. He would sing the high part in a voice as clear and melodious as any I have ever heard. And the look on his face when he sang was pure joy. I can never remember him without smiling.
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