The 4th Of July–An Afterthought

July 4th, 2019  |   

Kudos For President Trump

At the risk of losing some of my readers, who can’t imagine me giving any bouquets to President Trump, I shall write what I shall write anyway. I have a penchant for taking risks, and these words have found me, so I am compelled to let them see the light of day.

I applaud the President for having lifted the veil that hangs over the Fourth of July celebrations. Of course I love the harmony that gathers momentum around hot dogs, watermelon, flag decorated cakes, ice cream, and fireworks. With no hesitation, I can be moved by one of Sousa’s Marches, and the skin tingling brass of Aaron Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man is powerful. A reading from the writings of Walt Whitman or Frederick Douglass goeth down sweetly and satisfieth my thirsty soul. But there is more at stake than my soul. It is vital for all of us to see the full force of the militaristic power that drives our economy and, therefore, our nation into war. President Trump made that visible.

So we were forced to attention, because this Commander in Chief is a master of political hocus-pocus. He has all the elements of violence, all the instruments of war, up his sleeve. His political legerdemain is remarkable.

Alone this evening, with a slice of kielbasa, a salad, and a bowl of ice cream, I broke a vow I had made earlier, not to watch the President’s attention-getting fiasco in front of the Lincoln Memorial. I turned the damn thing on. And I saw the troops being used as fashionable props in a political arena, wrapped in military history. Spit-polished Marines from their Eighth and Eye Barracks, military brass, and the eye-catching aircraft, “flying high into the sky” became the advance campaign forerunners for our National Entertainer President’s reelection run in 2020.

One of the ironies present during the Trump presidency deserves our utmost attention. Fogged-in when it comes to informational transparency, we are left stumbling around in the land of lies. And yet, the Commander in Chief, on the Fourth of July, has filled the sky over Washington, and paraded the streets with the symbolic evidence of a traditional imperial killing-force the likes of which the world has never seen. What Eisenhower called “the military industrial complex” is even more gargantuan now, more prone to war as a military industrial, politically infused, entertainment-saturated complex.

Three Jeers For The Red White And Blue Bikini?

Since March 27^th, American flags have had front-and-center attention. Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue, from Memorial Day to D-Day to Flag Day, and now, Independence Day.

In this, the 83^rd year of my life, the Fourth of July, 2019, I have given thought to my relationship with the American flag. I have, as a United State Marine, saluted it; faced it while our National Anthem is sung at the ballpark; seen athletes with it sewed on their uniforms; watched it folded properly and handed to a veteran’s family at a graveside; observed it worn as a lapel pin; seen it tattooed on various body parts; driven behind flag-bearing license plates and bumper stickers tagged with it; and seen Old Glory flown on flag poles and porches everywhere I have lived.

And then there are the legions of advertisements that sport a flag. Flags sell merchandise. How’s this for a moneymaking piece of beachwear? An American Flag Bikini advertised as “a great way to show your American pride, especially during Fourth of July pool parties…conforms to your figure…outfitted with elastic for a snug fit”

Novelist Tom Wolfe has written: “That flag is a symbol we attach our emotions to, but it isn’t the emotion itself and it isn’t the thing we really care about. Sometimes we don’t even realize what we really care about, because we get so distracted by the symbols.” I won’t attempt to analyze Wolfe’s observation when it comes to the subject of a bikini. But I will say that covering our flag with lies or hiding it behind  ignorance will inevitably result in a patriotism that sings the National Anthem off key.

From Smedley Butler To Smedley Butler, Then Home Again

I had to be extra careful. Vomit was everywhere, making the ship’s passageways and ladders, from the Main Deck to the Mess Deck, literally, stinking slippery.

That was the situation in late January 1960 as I watched the San Diego harbor drift out of sight. Our troopship was carrying a reinforced Marine battalion on a long trip across the Pacific Ocean. We were the proud Fifth Marines, an infantry unit prepared to do battle in Southeast Asia, if and when situations called for it.

At that time, there were only a reported 900 American troops in Vietnam. Our mission was to be battle-ready to fight in Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam.

California lights extinguished, the sea turned angry, and troop stomachs followed suit. For a goodly number of Marines, food that had left San Diego in Marine stomachs was deposited on board and overboard. Yes indeed, we were proud but sick, even sad.

I designate that day as one of the saddest days of my life. Judy was in Batavia, New York, living with her parents, and our son Stephen, born 10 days before I left San Diego.

On board that ship, sailing into the night, bound for our base in northern Okinawa, was another Marine who had left his wife, Kathy, back home, pregnant and ready to give birth to their first child. Sam and Kathy, Judy and I, had been through basic training in Quantico Virginia, and then lived next door to one another for a year in California while preparing for our departure overseas.

Of note is the fact that we had begun our training at camp Butler in Quantico, named after General Smedley D. Butler, and arrived at Camp Smedley D. Butler, a collection of camp facilities and satellite installations scattered throughout Okinawa. Butler was a 34 year Marine veteran who earned two Congressional Medals of Honor while fighting in the Spanish-American War, WW I, and numerous battles in Central America. He was lauded as an American hero, and then shunned when he spoke out about war.

“I spent thirty-three years and four months in active military service as a member of this country’s most agile military force, the Marine Corps. I served in all commissioned ranks from Second Lieutenant to Major General. And during that period, I spent most of my time being a high-class muscle-man for Big Business, for Wall Street and for the Bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism.”

Two weeks ago I received word that Kathy had died. I called Sam to gather the details of her difficult death and to share our common sorrow. St. Paul writes, “Nothing can separate us from the love of God.” I could well say the same for this friendship that was sealed in our early years when we moved from Smedley Butler to Smedley Butler, and back home again.   

Hiding From “Gooks” In His Bathtub

Thinking about Sam, the “Leatherneck” Marine, who went back to fight in Vietnam, brings to mind an old story that involves a late night telephone call that involved a young Vietnam veteran. It sticks in my mind like a bloodstain on a garment. In fact it involved blood and a garment.

Leo (a substitute for his real name) came to my office, full of torturous memories, exacerbated by drug addiction he’d acquired from his tour of duty in Vietnam. His wife accompanied him. She was the one on the phone, a call close to midnight that catapulted me out of bed, into the car, and down the road to their mobile home. I can still remember the bright moon that illuminated the Martinsburg hillside.

The first sight of blood was on the hallway floor. It marked a trail right into the bathroom. Leo was standing in the tub staring at me. His right arm was stitched with cuts, a whole string of self-inflicted bloody cuts from a razor blade that lay on the tiled floor.

Joining him in the tub, I held both arms, looked into his glazed eyes and said, “Leo, it’s me, Jim.” But I was no longer Jim because he screamed repeatedly, “You gook, you gook, you gook…” the derogatory name given the Vietnamese enemies.

What happened then took place outside the tub. Wrestling Leo to the hallway floor, I held him down until his wife called Judy, who then called a doctor in the parish. In what seemed like an interminable stretch of time, a rescue squad guy showed up. Leo, strapped to a carrier, then loaded into a van, his wife and I tailed the vehicle as it traveled the road to the VA Hospital, no more than 15 minutes down the road.

Arriving in the emergency room, a doctor looked down at Leo, still strapped to the carrier. At that point, I was no longer the gook. The Asian-American doctor became the enemy. As if caught in a jungle firefight, Leo exploded, firing loud and steady rounds of gook-scream at the white-jacketed doctor.

Back home, I shed my mustard-colored, blood soaked jacket. Getting into bed, Judy asked me if I was okay. I lied. A simple “I’m okay” was all I could give her. In the morning, she discovered the truth when she saw my jacket on the kitchen floor.

Give Me A Candidate I Can Vote For

The morning after the second Democratic Party debate, on my walk downtown, a friend, once a Republican, now a Democrat, pulled his car over to the curb and it wasn’t long before he asked me, “When are you Democrats going to give me a candidate I can vote for?”

Well, to begin with, as he is no longer a Republican, I am no longer a Democrat, and quite frankly, picking a candidate right now is like picking the winner of a horse race when the field of horses is just out of the starting gate. Furthermore, I have seen more than one jump-to-lead horse fizzle out, then cross the distant finish line far behind the winner. Politicians imitate race horses, so as of now, quite frankly, I am disinterested.

Don’t get me wrong; I am paying attention. I keep up with the swarm of candidates, and the political issues, but have weaned myself from what had become excessive cable TV news coverage. Anyone who knows me, or has followed my writing over the years, is aware that I keep my eyes on politics, connecting what goes on in Sunday worship with the political and social turmoil outside the church doors. Politics and piety, faith and activism, liturgy and life, a church altar and a voting booth are inextricably linked. 

Leonard Bernstein’s “Mass: A Theater Piece for Singers, Dancers, and Players” is one of my favorite scores. Performed for the opening of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in 1971, it spoke in a controversial way that linked protest and praise amidst the political turmoil that raged at that time. The Vietnam War, AIDS, drugs, and the shadow of a possible impending impeachment trial of a fiercely unhinged president in the White House made Bernstein’s Mass an important piece of theater for that moment. It could very well be that moment again.

“Half of the people are stoned/And the other half are waiting for the next election.” Those lines, written by Paul Simon for Bernstein’s “Mass,” have a contemporary feel to them. I agree with Kevin McCabe, who writes about Christian theology and ethics, when he says “The piece ends on a note of hope in the face of despair. It is the kind of new life that is only possible after the breaking of one’s heart and the dismantling of worldly idols.”

I can only ask: How many stoned hearts have to be broken, body’s as well, and how much more dismantling of this capitalist system is required before our nation gets to a rock-bottom point where new growth can take place? 

A Final Thought Before I Go To Bed

On my third floor, finishing this piece, I have heard the fireworks from the downtown levee on the Kanawha River. The day after the Fourth of July has already begun. It’s past my bedtime, and I must crawl into bed. But not before I offer one closing thought, stark but hopeful.

The Fourth of July extravaganza, I do believe, has strengthened President Trump’s bid for another term in the White House. That’s because he has linked military strength, war, and patriotism in a romantic, exuberant, celebratory way. The mislabeled “liberal media” will be hard-pressed to address what took place yesterday. And in answer to my car-stopping friend’s search for someone to vote for, I can only reply: “You will get one when the Democratic Party, or a third party no longer hesitant to claim the word Socialist, is willing to recognize, speak out, and organize around the message that war is the underlying issue that affects everything.

 

Entry Filed under: Fig Tree Notes Archives